Lucius Annaeus Seneca→Lucilius Junior|c. 64 AD|Seneca the Younger|From Southern Italy (regional)|To Sicily (regional)|AI-assisted
[1] I am just now returning from a ride in my litter, no less tired than if I had walked the whole distance I sat for; for it is real labor to be carried for a long time too, and perhaps all the greater because it runs counter to nature, who gave us feet so that we might walk on our own, and eyes so that we might see on our own. Our indulgences have decreed weakness upon us, and what we long refused to do, we have lost the power to do. [2] For me, however, it was necessary to give my body a thorough shaking, so that, whether bile had settled in my throat, it might be dislodged, or whether the very breath within me had for some reason grown thicker, the jolting might thin it out, an effect I felt did me good. So I kept on riding longer than usual, the shore itself inviting me, the one that curves between Cumae and the villa of Servilius Vatia and is shut in like a narrow passage, by the sea on one side and the lake on the other. It was, moreover, packed firm from the recent storm; for the surf, as you know, when frequent and driven, levels the sand, while a longer spell of calm loosens it, since the moisture, which binds the sands together, has withdrawn.
[3] As is my custom, however, I began to look around to see whether I might find anything there that could do me good, and I turned my eyes toward the villa that had once belonged to Vatia. In it that wealthy ex-praetor [a former holder of the praetorship, a senior Roman magistracy], famous for nothing but his leisure, grew old, and for this one thing he was reckoned fortunate. For whenever friendship with Asinius Gallus, whenever first the hatred and then the favor of Sejanus had drowned some men - since it was equally dangerous to have offended him as to have loved him - people would cry out, 'O Vatia, you alone know how to live!' [4] But what he knew was how to hide, not how to live; and it makes a great difference whether your life is one of leisure or one of idleness. Never, while Vatia was alive, did I pass this villa without saying, 'Here lies Vatia.' But to such a degree, my dear Lucilius, is philosophy something sacred and venerable that even what merely resembles it pleases us, though falsely. For the crowd reckons that a man is at leisure when he has withdrawn, is free from care, content with himself, living for himself - none of which can fall to anyone except the wise man. He alone knows how to live for himself; for he, which is the first thing, knows how to live. [5] For the man who flees affairs and people, whom the wretchedness of his own desires has banished, who could not bear to see others happier than himself, who has hidden away through fear like some timid and sluggish creature - that man does not live for himself, but, what is most disgraceful, for his belly, his sleep, his lust; the man who lives for no one does not thereby live for himself. Yet steadfastness and perseverance in one's purpose are so great a thing that even stubborn idleness carries a certain authority.
[6] About the villa itself I can write you nothing for certain; for I know only its frontage and the parts on display, which it shows even to those passing by. There are two grottoes, works of great labor, each the equal of any spacious hall, made by hand: one of them does not admit the sun, the other holds it right up until sunset. A grove of plane-trees is divided down the middle by a stream, fed both from the sea and from Lake Acheron and channeled like a canal, ample enough for raising fish even though it is drawn upon constantly. But the fish are spared when the sea lies open; when a storm has granted the fishermen a holiday, the hand reaches out to the ready supply. [7] This, however, is the most convenient thing about the villa: that it has Baiae just across the wall. It is free from the drawbacks of that place, yet enjoys its pleasures. These merits of it I myself know: I believe it is suited to the whole year, for it faces the west wind and so receives it that it denies it to Baiae. Vatia seems to have chosen no foolishly when he picked this spot in which to bestow his leisure, idle now and aged.
[8] But the place contributes little to tranquillity: it is the mind that makes all things agreeable to itself. I have seen gloomy men in a cheerful and pleasant villa; I have seen, in the midst of solitude, men who looked as busy as if engaged in business. So there is no reason for you to suppose that you are too poorly settled because you are not in Campania. And why are you not? Send your thoughts all the way here. [9] One may keep company with absent friends, and indeed as often as you wish, for as long as you wish. We enjoy this pleasure, which is the greatest, all the more while we are apart; for being present makes us fastidious, and because we sometimes talk together, walk together, sit together, when we have been separated we give no thought to those we have just seen. [10] And for this reason we ought to bear absence with an even mind, since no one fails to be much absent even from those who are present. Set down here first the nights spent apart, then the occupations that differ for each of us, then our private studies and our trips outside the city: you will see that travel abroad does not snatch much away from us. [11] A friend must be possessed in the mind; and there he is never absent; whomever he wishes, he sees every day. So study with me, dine with me, walk with me: we would be living in cramped quarters if anything were closed off to our thoughts. I see you, my dear Lucilius; at this very moment I hear you; I am so much with you that I wonder whether I should begin to write you not letters but little notes. Farewell.
I have just returned from a ride in my litter; and I am as weary as if I had walked the distance, instead of being seated. Even to be carried for any length of time is hard work, perhaps all the more so because it is an unnatural exercise; for Nature gave us legs with which to do our own walking, and eyes with which to do our own seeing. Our luxuries have condemned us to weakness; we have ceased to be able to do that which we have long declined to do. Nevertheless, I found it necessary to give my body a shaking up, in order that the bile which had gathered in my throat, if that was my trouble, might be shaken out, or, if the very breath within me had become, for some reason, too thick, that the jolting, which I have felt was a good thing for me, might make it thinner. So I insisted on being carried longer than usual, along an attractive beach, which bends between Cumae and Servilius Vatia’s country-house, shut in by the sea on one side and the lake on the other, just like a narrow path. It was packed firm under foot, because of a recent storm; since, as you know, the waves, when they beat upon the beach hard and fast, level it out; but a continuous period of fair weather loosens it, when the sand, which is kept firm by the water, loses its moisture.
As my habit is, I began to look about for something there that might be of service to me, when my eyes fell upon the villa which had once belonged to Vatia. So this was the place where that famous praetorian millionaire passed his old age! He was famed for nothing else than his life of leisure, and he was regarded as lucky only for that reason. For whenever men were ruined by their friendship with Asinius Gallus whenever others were ruined by their hatred of Sejanus, and later by their intimacy with him,—for it was no more dangerous to have offended him than to have loved him,—people used to cry out: “O Vatia, you alone know how to live!” But what he knew was how to hide, not how to live; and it makes a great deal of difference whether your life be one of leisure or one of idleness. So I never drove past his country-place during Vatia’s lifetime without saying to myself: “Here lies Vatia!”
But, my dear Lucilius, philosophy is a thing of holiness, something to be worshipped, so much so that the very counterfeit pleases. For the mass of mankind consider that a person is at leisure who has withdrawn from society, is free from care, self-sufficient, and lives for himself; but these privileges can be the reward only of the wise man. Does he who is a victim of anxiety know how to live for himself? What? Does he even know (and that is of first importance) how to live at all? For the man who has fled from affairs and from men, who has been banished to seclusion by the unhappiness which his own desires have brought upon him, who cannot see his neighbour more happy than himself, who through fear has taken to concealment, like a frightened and sluggish animal,—this person is not living for himself; he is living for his belly, his sleep, and his lust,—and that is the most shameful thing in the world. He who lives for no one does not necessarily live for himself. Nevertheless, there is so much in steadfastness and adherence to one’s purpose that even sluggishness, if stubbornly maintained, assumes an air of authority with us.
I could not describe the villa accurately; for I am familiar only with the front of the house, and with the parts which are in public view and can be seen by the mere passer-by. There are two grottoes, which cost a great deal of labour, as big as the most spacious hall, made by hand. One of these does not admit the rays of the sun, while the other keeps them until the sun sets. There is also a stream running through a grove of plane-trees, which draws for its supply both on the sea and on Lake Acheron; it intersects the grove just like a race-way, and is large enough to support fish, although its waters are continually being drawn off. When the sea is calm, however, they do not use the stream, only touching the well-stocked waters when the storms give the fishermen a forced holiday. But the most convenient thing about the villa is the fact that Baiae is next door, it is free from all the inconveniences of that resort, and yet enjoys its pleasures. I myself understand these attractions, and I believe that it is a villa suited to every season of the year. It fronts the west wind, which it intercepts in such a way that Baiae is denied it. So it seems that Vatia was no fool when he selected this place as the best in which to spend his leisure when it was already unfruitful and decrepit.
The place where one lives, however, can contribute little towards tranquillity; it is the mind which must make everything agreeable to itself. I have seen men despondent in a gay and lovely villa, and I have seen them to all appearance full of business in the midst of a solitude. For this reason you should not refuse to believe that your life is well-placed merely because you are not now in Campania. But why are you not there? Just let your thoughts travel, even to this place. You may hold converse with your friends when they are absent, and indeed as often as you wish and for as long as you wish. For we enjoy this, the greatest of pleasures, all the more when we are absent from one another. For the presence of friends makes us fastidious; and because we can at any time talk or sit together, when once we have parted we give not a thought to those whom we have just beheld. And we ought to bear the absence of friends cheerfully, just because everyone is bound to be often absent from his friends even when they are present. Include among such cases, in the first place, the nights spent apart, then the different engagements which each of two friends has, then the private studies of each and their excursions into the country, and you will see that foreign travel does not rob us of much. A friend should be retained in the spirit; such a friend can never be absent. He can see every day whomsoever he desires to see.
I would therefore have you share your studies with me, your meals, and your walks. We should be living within too narrow limits if anything were barred to our thoughts. I see you, my dear Lucilius, and at this very moment I hear you; I am with you to such an extent that I hesitate whether I should not begin to write you notes instead of letters. Farewell.
[1] A gestatione cum maxime venio, non minus fatigatus quam si tantum ambulassem quantum sedi; labor est enim et diu ferri, ac nescio an eo maior quia contra naturam est, quae pedes dedit ut per nos ambularemus, oculos ut per nos videremus. Debilitatem nobis indixere deliciae, et quod diu noluimus posse desimus. [2] Mihi tamen necessarium erat concutere corpus, ut, sive bilis insederat faucibus, discuteretur, sive ipse ex aliqua causa spiritus densior erat, extenuaret illum iactatio, quam profuisse mihi sensi. Ideo diutius vehi perseveravi invitante ipso litore, quod inter Cumas et Servili Vatiae villam curvatur et hinc mari, illinc lacu velut angustum iter cluditur. Erat autem a recenti tempestate spissum; fluctus enim illud, ut scis, frequens et concitatus exaequat, longior tranquillitas solvit, cum harenis, quae umore alligantur, sucus abscessit.
[3] Ex consuetudine tamen mea circumspicere coepi an aliquid illic invenirem quod mihi posset bono esse, et derexi oculos in villam quae aliquando Vatiae fuit. In hac ille praetorius dives, nulla alia re quam otio notus, consenuit, et ob hoc unum felix habebatur. Nam quotiens aliquos amicitiae Asinii Galli, quotiens Seiani odium, deinde amor merserat - aeque enim offendisse illum quam amasse periculosum fuit -, exclamabant homines, 'o Vatia, solus scis vivere'. [4] At ille latere sciebat, non vivere; multum autem interest utrum vita tua otiosa sit an ignava. Numquam aliter hanc villam Vatia vivo praeteribam quam ut dicerem, 'Vatia hic situs est'. Sed adeo, mi Lucili, philosophia sacrum quiddam est et venerabile ut etiam si quid illi simile est mendacio placeat. Otiosum enim hominem seductum existimat vulgus et securum et se contentum, sibi viventem, quorum nihil ulli contingere nisi sapienti potest. Ille solus scit sibi vivere; ille enim, quod est primum, scit vivere. [5] Nam qui res et homines fugit, quem cupiditatum suarum infelicitas relegavit, qui alios feliciores videre non potuit, qui velut timidum atque iners animal metu oblituit, ille sibi non vivit, sed, quod est turpissimum, ventri, somno, libidini; non continuo sibi vivit qui nemini. Adeo tamen magna res est constantia et in proposito suo perseverantia ut habeat auctoritatem inertia quoque pertinax.
[6] De ipsa villa nihil tibi possum certi scribere; frontem enim eius tantum novi et exposita, quae ostendit etiam transeuntibus. Speluncae sunt duae magni operis, cuivis laxo atrio pares, manu factae, quarum altera solem non recipit, altera usque in occidentem tenet. Platanona medius rivus et a mari et ab Acherusio lacu receptus euripi modo dividit, alendis piscibus, etiam si assidue exhauriatur, sufficiens. Sed illi, cum mare patet, parcitur: cum tempestas piscatoribus dedit ferias, manus ad parata porrigitur. [7] Hoc tamen est commodissimum in villa, quod Baias trans parietem habet: incommodis illarum caret, voluptatibus fruitur. Has laudes eius ipse novi: esse illam totius anni credo; occurrit enim Favonio et illum adeo excipit ut Bais neget. Non stulte videtur elegisse hunc locum Vatia in quem otium suum pigrum iam et senile conferret.
[8] Sed non multum ad tranquillitatem locus confert: animus est qui sibi commendet omnia. Vidi ego in villa hilari et amoena maestos, vidi in media solitudine occupatis similes. Quare non est quod existimes ideo parum bene compositum esse te quod in Campania non es. Quare autem non es? huc usque cogitationes tuas mitte. [9] Conversari cum amicis absentibus licet, et quidem quotiens velis, quamdiu velis. Magis hac voluptate, quae maxima est, fruimur dum absumus; praesentia enim nos delicatos facit, ct quia aliquando una loquimur, ambulamus, consedimus, cum diducti sumus nihil de iis quos modo vidimus cogitamus. [10] Et ideo aequo animo ferre debemus absentiam, quia nemo non multum etiam praesentibus abest. Pone hic primum noctes separatas, deinde occupationes utrique diversas, deinde studia secreta, suburbanas profectiones: videbis non multum esse quod nobis peregrinatio eripiat. [11] Amicus animo possidendus est; hic autem numquam abest; quemcumque vult cotidie videt. Itaque mecum stude, mecum cena, mecum ambula: in angusto vivebamus, si quicquam esset cogitationibus clusum. Video te, mi Lucili; cum maxime audio; adeo tecum sum ut dubitem an incipiam non epistulas sed codicellos tibi scribere. Vale.
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[1] I am just now returning from a ride in my litter, no less tired than if I had walked the whole distance I sat for; for it is real labor to be carried for a long time too, and perhaps all the greater because it runs counter to nature, who gave us feet so that we might walk on our own, and eyes so that we might see on our own. Our indulgences have decreed weakness upon us, and what we long refused to do, we have lost the power to do. [2] For me, however, it was necessary to give my body a thorough shaking, so that, whether bile had settled in my throat, it might be dislodged, or whether the very breath within me had for some reason grown thicker, the jolting might thin it out, an effect I felt did me good. So I kept on riding longer than usual, the shore itself inviting me, the one that curves between Cumae and the villa of Servilius Vatia and is shut in like a narrow passage, by the sea on one side and the lake on the other. It was, moreover, packed firm from the recent storm; for the surf, as you know, when frequent and driven, levels the sand, while a longer spell of calm loosens it, since the moisture, which binds the sands together, has withdrawn.
[3] As is my custom, however, I began to look around to see whether I might find anything there that could do me good, and I turned my eyes toward the villa that had once belonged to Vatia. In it that wealthy ex-praetor [a former holder of the praetorship, a senior Roman magistracy], famous for nothing but his leisure, grew old, and for this one thing he was reckoned fortunate. For whenever friendship with Asinius Gallus, whenever first the hatred and then the favor of Sejanus had drowned some men - since it was equally dangerous to have offended him as to have loved him - people would cry out, 'O Vatia, you alone know how to live!' [4] But what he knew was how to hide, not how to live; and it makes a great difference whether your life is one of leisure or one of idleness. Never, while Vatia was alive, did I pass this villa without saying, 'Here lies Vatia.' But to such a degree, my dear Lucilius, is philosophy something sacred and venerable that even what merely resembles it pleases us, though falsely. For the crowd reckons that a man is at leisure when he has withdrawn, is free from care, content with himself, living for himself - none of which can fall to anyone except the wise man. He alone knows how to live for himself; for he, which is the first thing, knows how to live. [5] For the man who flees affairs and people, whom the wretchedness of his own desires has banished, who could not bear to see others happier than himself, who has hidden away through fear like some timid and sluggish creature - that man does not live for himself, but, what is most disgraceful, for his belly, his sleep, his lust; the man who lives for no one does not thereby live for himself. Yet steadfastness and perseverance in one's purpose are so great a thing that even stubborn idleness carries a certain authority.
[6] About the villa itself I can write you nothing for certain; for I know only its frontage and the parts on display, which it shows even to those passing by. There are two grottoes, works of great labor, each the equal of any spacious hall, made by hand: one of them does not admit the sun, the other holds it right up until sunset. A grove of plane-trees is divided down the middle by a stream, fed both from the sea and from Lake Acheron and channeled like a canal, ample enough for raising fish even though it is drawn upon constantly. But the fish are spared when the sea lies open; when a storm has granted the fishermen a holiday, the hand reaches out to the ready supply. [7] This, however, is the most convenient thing about the villa: that it has Baiae just across the wall. It is free from the drawbacks of that place, yet enjoys its pleasures. These merits of it I myself know: I believe it is suited to the whole year, for it faces the west wind and so receives it that it denies it to Baiae. Vatia seems to have chosen no foolishly when he picked this spot in which to bestow his leisure, idle now and aged.
[8] But the place contributes little to tranquillity: it is the mind that makes all things agreeable to itself. I have seen gloomy men in a cheerful and pleasant villa; I have seen, in the midst of solitude, men who looked as busy as if engaged in business. So there is no reason for you to suppose that you are too poorly settled because you are not in Campania. And why are you not? Send your thoughts all the way here. [9] One may keep company with absent friends, and indeed as often as you wish, for as long as you wish. We enjoy this pleasure, which is the greatest, all the more while we are apart; for being present makes us fastidious, and because we sometimes talk together, walk together, sit together, when we have been separated we give no thought to those we have just seen. [10] And for this reason we ought to bear absence with an even mind, since no one fails to be much absent even from those who are present. Set down here first the nights spent apart, then the occupations that differ for each of us, then our private studies and our trips outside the city: you will see that travel abroad does not snatch much away from us. [11] A friend must be possessed in the mind; and there he is never absent; whomever he wishes, he sees every day. So study with me, dine with me, walk with me: we would be living in cramped quarters if anything were closed off to our thoughts. I see you, my dear Lucilius; at this very moment I hear you; I am so much with you that I wonder whether I should begin to write you not letters but little notes. Farewell.
AI-assisted translation - This translation was produced with AI assistance and has not been peer-reviewed. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek below for scholarly use.
Latin / Greek Original
[1] A gestatione cum maxime venio, non minus fatigatus quam si tantum ambulassem quantum sedi; labor est enim et diu ferri, ac nescio an eo maior quia contra naturam est, quae pedes dedit ut per nos ambularemus, oculos ut per nos videremus. Debilitatem nobis indixere deliciae, et quod diu noluimus posse desimus. [2] Mihi tamen necessarium erat concutere corpus, ut, sive bilis insederat faucibus, discuteretur, sive ipse ex aliqua causa spiritus densior erat, extenuaret illum iactatio, quam profuisse mihi sensi. Ideo diutius vehi perseveravi invitante ipso litore, quod inter Cumas et Servili Vatiae villam curvatur et hinc mari, illinc lacu velut angustum iter cluditur. Erat autem a recenti tempestate spissum; fluctus enim illud, ut scis, frequens et concitatus exaequat, longior tranquillitas solvit, cum harenis, quae umore alligantur, sucus abscessit.
[3] Ex consuetudine tamen mea circumspicere coepi an aliquid illic invenirem quod mihi posset bono esse, et derexi oculos in villam quae aliquando Vatiae fuit. In hac ille praetorius dives, nulla alia re quam otio notus, consenuit, et ob hoc unum felix habebatur. Nam quotiens aliquos amicitiae Asinii Galli, quotiens Seiani odium, deinde amor merserat - aeque enim offendisse illum quam amasse periculosum fuit -, exclamabant homines, 'o Vatia, solus scis vivere'. [4] At ille latere sciebat, non vivere; multum autem interest utrum vita tua otiosa sit an ignava. Numquam aliter hanc villam Vatia vivo praeteribam quam ut dicerem, 'Vatia hic situs est'. Sed adeo, mi Lucili, philosophia sacrum quiddam est et venerabile ut etiam si quid illi simile est mendacio placeat. Otiosum enim hominem seductum existimat vulgus et securum et se contentum, sibi viventem, quorum nihil ulli contingere nisi sapienti potest. Ille solus scit sibi vivere; ille enim, quod est primum, scit vivere. [5] Nam qui res et homines fugit, quem cupiditatum suarum infelicitas relegavit, qui alios feliciores videre non potuit, qui velut timidum atque iners animal metu oblituit, ille sibi non vivit, sed, quod est turpissimum, ventri, somno, libidini; non continuo sibi vivit qui nemini. Adeo tamen magna res est constantia et in proposito suo perseverantia ut habeat auctoritatem inertia quoque pertinax.
[6] De ipsa villa nihil tibi possum certi scribere; frontem enim eius tantum novi et exposita, quae ostendit etiam transeuntibus. Speluncae sunt duae magni operis, cuivis laxo atrio pares, manu factae, quarum altera solem non recipit, altera usque in occidentem tenet. Platanona medius rivus et a mari et ab Acherusio lacu receptus euripi modo dividit, alendis piscibus, etiam si assidue exhauriatur, sufficiens. Sed illi, cum mare patet, parcitur: cum tempestas piscatoribus dedit ferias, manus ad parata porrigitur. [7] Hoc tamen est commodissimum in villa, quod Baias trans parietem habet: incommodis illarum caret, voluptatibus fruitur. Has laudes eius ipse novi: esse illam totius anni credo; occurrit enim Favonio et illum adeo excipit ut Bais neget. Non stulte videtur elegisse hunc locum Vatia in quem otium suum pigrum iam et senile conferret.
[8] Sed non multum ad tranquillitatem locus confert: animus est qui sibi commendet omnia. Vidi ego in villa hilari et amoena maestos, vidi in media solitudine occupatis similes. Quare non est quod existimes ideo parum bene compositum esse te quod in Campania non es. Quare autem non es? huc usque cogitationes tuas mitte. [9] Conversari cum amicis absentibus licet, et quidem quotiens velis, quamdiu velis. Magis hac voluptate, quae maxima est, fruimur dum absumus; praesentia enim nos delicatos facit, ct quia aliquando una loquimur, ambulamus, consedimus, cum diducti sumus nihil de iis quos modo vidimus cogitamus. [10] Et ideo aequo animo ferre debemus absentiam, quia nemo non multum etiam praesentibus abest. Pone hic primum noctes separatas, deinde occupationes utrique diversas, deinde studia secreta, suburbanas profectiones: videbis non multum esse quod nobis peregrinatio eripiat. [11] Amicus animo possidendus est; hic autem numquam abest; quemcumque vult cotidie videt. Itaque mecum stude, mecum cena, mecum ambula: in angusto vivebamus, si quicquam esset cogitationibus clusum. Video te, mi Lucili; cum maxime audio; adeo tecum sum ut dubitem an incipiam non epistulas sed codicellos tibi scribere. Vale.