Letter 56

[1] May I perish if silence is as necessary as it seems for a man who has secluded himself for his studies. Look: a tangle of noise crashes around me from every side. I live right above a bathhouse. So picture to yourself every kind of sound that can drive your ears to hatred: when the more vigorous types work out and hurl their hands weighted with lead, when they are straining or imitating someone straining, I hear their grunts; and whenever they let out the breath they had been holding, I hear hissing and the harshest gasps. When I come upon some lazy fellow content with a cheap, common rubdown, I hear the slap of the hand striking against his shoulders, which changes its sound depending on whether it lands flat or cupped. And if a ball-player turns up too and starts counting his throws, it is all over. [2] Add to this the brawler, the thief caught in the act, and the man who likes the sound of his own voice in the bath; add also those who leap into the pool with an enormous splash of churned-up water. Besides these, whose voices are at least straight ones, if nothing else, picture the armpit-plucker forever forcing out his thin, shrill voice to make himself more conspicuous, never silent except while he plucks the armpits and makes someone else shout in his place; and then the drink-seller's varied cries, and the sausage-man and the pastry-man and all the cookshop hawkers selling their wares each with his own distinctive, marked-out tune. [3] "Oh, you must be made of iron," you say, "or be deaf, if your mind holds steady amid so many noises, so varied and so discordant, when the constant round of morning greetings drives our friend Chrysippus [the Stoic philosopher] to his death." But by Hercules, I no more mind that uproar than I would the surge of the sea or the crash of falling water - although I have heard that for one people this was the single reason they moved their city, because they could not endure the roar of the falling Nile. [4] A voice seems to distract me more than mere noise does; for a voice draws the mind toward it, whereas noise only fills the ears and beats against them. Among the things that din around me without distracting me I count the carriages racing past, the carpenter who is my fellow lodger, the saw-sharpener next door, and the man at the Meta Sudans [a conical fountain near the Colosseum] who tries out his little pipes and flutes, and does not sing but bawls. [5] Even now I find a sound that keeps breaking off more troublesome than one that goes on without a pause. But by now I have so hardened myself against all of these that I could endure even the boatswain calling the stroke to his oarsmen in his harshest voice. For I compel my mind to be intent upon itself and not to be drawn off to outside things; let everything outdoors resound, so long as there is no tumult within, so long as desire and fear are not quarreling with each other, so long as greed and extravagance are not at odds, neither one harassing the other. For what good is silence over a whole region if the passions are roaring? [6] It is a falsehood: there is no peaceful rest except the rest that reason has composed; night displays our troubles, it does not remove them, and it merely changes our anxieties. For even the dreams of sleepers are as turbulent as their days: the only true tranquillity is that into which a sound mind unfolds itself. [7] Look at the man who seeks his sleep in the silence of a spacious house, whose ears no sound is allowed to disturb, for whom the whole crowd of slaves has fallen silent and the footstep of anyone coming near is set down with held breath: still he turns this way and that, snatching at a light sleep amid his miseries; and the sounds he does not hear he complains of having heard. [8] What do you suppose is the cause of this? His mind is making the din against him. This is what must be calmed, this is the rebellion that must be put down; you have no reason to think it at peace if the body lies still: sometimes rest is restless. And so we must be roused to the doing of things and kept occupied with the practice of the good arts, whenever idleness, impatient with itself, makes us ill at ease. [9] Great commanders, when they see their soldiers obeying badly, hold them in check with some labor and keep them busy with expeditions: men with their hands full never have time for wantonness, and nothing is more certain than that the vices of leisure are dispelled by occupation. Often we appear to have withdrawn out of weariness with public affairs and regret at our unhappy and thankless post; yet in that hiding place into which fear and exhaustion have driven us, ambition sometimes flares up again. For it has not been cut out and so disappeared, but only wearied, or even put out of temper because matters have yielded to it too little. [10] I say the same of extravagance, which sometimes seems to have given way, and then troubles men who have professed frugality, and in the very midst of thrift goes after pleasures it has not condemned but merely abandoned - and indeed all the more violently the more secretly it does so. For all vices are milder when out in the open; diseases too begin to turn toward health when they break out from their hiding place and bring forth their full force. So you may be sure that greed, and ambition, and the other ills of the human mind are most destructive when they subside behind a pretended soundness. [11] We appear to be at leisure, and we are not. For if we are so in good faith, if we have sounded the retreat, if we have despised the things of show, then - as I was saying a moment ago - no thing will distract us, no chorus of men or of birds will interrupt our thoughts once they are good, solid, and now sure. [12] That mind is shallow and has not yet drawn itself back inside which rouses itself at a voice and at chance events; it has something of anxiety within, and it has some conceived dread that makes it restless, as our Vergil says: [13] [...] [The Latin source quotes Vergil here, but the verses themselves are not present in this text - the 19th-century edition supplies, from Aeneid 2.726-729, lines to the effect: "I, whom of old no flying spears could move, nor crowded lines of Greeks arrayed against me, now start at every breath, and fear the air, both for my child and for the burden I bear."] That man in his earlier state is the wise one, whom neither quivering missiles, nor arms clashed together within the close-packed ranks of the column, nor the crash of a stormed city can terrify; this other is the ignorant one, who fears for his own affairs, panicking at every sound, whom any single voice mistaken for a battle-cry casts down, whom the slightest movements leave breathless: it is his burdens that make him timid. [14] Take whomever you please from among those favored men, who drag along many things and carry many things, and you will see him "afraid for his companion and for his load." Then, therefore, know that you are composed when no shout reaches you, when no voice shakes you out of yourself - not if it flatters, not if it threatens, not if it clamors all around you with empty, hollow sound. [15] "What then? Is it not sometimes more convenient simply to be free of the racket?" I admit it; and so I will move away from this place. I wanted to test and to train myself: why need I be tormented any longer, when Ulysses found so easy a remedy for his comrades even against the Sirens? Farewell.

Beshrew me if I think anything more requisite than silence for a man who secludes himself in order to study! Imagine what a variety of noises reverberates about my ears! I have lodgings right over a bathing establishment. So picture to yourself the assortment of sounds, which are strong enough to make me hate my very powers of hearing! When your strenuous gentleman, for example, is exercising himself by flourishing leaden weights; when he is working hard, or else pretends to be working hard, I can hear him grunt; and whenever he releases his imprisoned breath, I can hear him panting in wheezy and high-pitched tones. Or perhaps I notice some lazy fellow, content with a cheap rubdown, and hear the crack of the pummeling hand on his shoulder, varying in sound according as the hand is laid on flat or hollow. Then, perhaps, a professional comes along, shouting out the score; that is the finishing touch. Add to this the arresting of an occasional roysterer or pickpocket, the racket of the man who always likes to hear his own voice in the bathroom, or the enthusiast who plunges into the swimming-tank with unconscionable noise and splashing. Besides all those whose voices, if nothing else, are good, imagine the hair-plucker with his penetrating, shrill voice,—for purposes of advertisement,—continually giving it vent and never holding his tongue except when he is plucking the armpits and making his victim yell instead. Then the cake-seller with his varied cries, the sausageman, the confectioner, and all the vendors of food hawking their wares, each with his own distinctive intonation. So you say: “What iron nerves or deadened ears, you must have, if your mind can hold out amid so many noises, so various and so discordant, when our friend Chrysippus is brought to his death by the continual good-morrows that greet him!” But I assure you that this racket means no more to me than the sound of waves or falling water; although you will remind me that a certain tribe once moved their city merely because they could not endure the din of a Nile cataract. Words seem to distract me more than noises; for words demand attention, but noises merely fill the ears and beat upon them. Among the sounds that din round me without distracting, I include passing carriages, a machinist in the same block, a saw-sharpener near by, or some fellow who is demonstrating with little pipes and flutes at the Trickling Fountain, shouting rather than singing. Furthermore, an intermittent noise upsets me more than a steady one. But by this time I have toughened my nerves against all that sort of thing, so that I can endure even a boatswain marking the time in high-pitched tones for his crew. For I force my mind to concentrate, and keep it from straying to things outside itself; all outdoors may be bedlam, provided that there is no disturbance within, provided that fear is not wrangling with desire in my breast, provided that meanness and lavishness are not at odds, one harassing the other. For of what benefit is a quiet neighbourhood, if our emotions are in an uproar? ’Twas night, and all the world was lulled to rest. This is not true; for no real rest can be found when reason has not done the lulling. Night brings our troubles to the light, rather than banishes them; it merely changes the form of our worries. For even when we seek slumber, our sleepless moments are as harassing as the daytime. Real tranquillity is the state reached by an unperverted mind when it is relaxed. Think of the unfortunate man who courts sleep by surrendering his spacious mansion to silence, who, that his ear may be disturbed by no sound, bids the whole retinue of his slaves be quiet and that whoever approaches him shall walk on tiptoe; he tosses from this side to that and seeks a fitful slumber amid his frettings! He complains that he has heard sounds, when he has not heard them at all. The reason, you ask? His soul is in an uproar; it must be soothed, and its rebellious murmuring checked. You need not suppose that the soul is at peace when the body is still. Sometimes quiet means disquiet. We must therefore rouse ourselves to action and busy ourselves with interests that are good, as often as we are in the grasp of an uncontrollable sluggishness. Great generals, when they see that their men are mutinous, check them by some sort of labour or keep them busy with small forays. The much occupied man has no time for wantonness, and it is an obvious commonplace that the evils of leisure can be shaken off by hard work. Although people may often have thought that I sought seclusion because I was disgusted with politics and regretted my hapless and thankless position, yet, in the retreat to which apprehension and weariness have driven me, my ambition sometimes develops afresh. For it is not because my ambition was rooted out that it has abated, but because it was wearied or perhaps even put out of temper by the failure of its plans. And so with luxury, also, which sometimes seems to have departed, and then when we have made a profession of frugality, begins to fret us and, amid our economies, seeks the pleasures which we have merely left but not condemned. Indeed, the more stealthily it comes, the greater is its force. For all unconcealed vices are less serious; a disease also is farther on the road to being cured when it breaks forth from concealment and manifests its power. So with greed, ambition, and the other evils of the mind,—you may be sure that they do most harm when they are hidden behind a pretence of soundness. Men think that we are in retirement, and yet we are not. For if we have sincerely retired, and have sounded the signal for retreat, and have scorned outward attractions, then, as I remarked above, no outward thing will distract us; no music of men or of birds can interrupt good thoughts, when they have once become steadfast and sure. The mind which starts at words or at chance sounds is unstable and has not yet withdrawn into itself; it contains within itself an element of anxiety and rooted fear, and this makes one a prey to care, as our Vergil says: I, whom of yore no dart could cause to flee, Nor Greeks, with crowded lines of infantry. Now shake at every sound, and fear the air, Both for my child and for the load I bear. This man in his first state is wise; he blenches neither at the brandished spear, nor at the clashing armour of the serried foe, nor at the din of the stricken city. This man in his second state lacks knowledge fearing for his own concerns, he pales at every sound; any cry is taken for the battle-shout and overthrows him; the slightest disturbance renders him breathless with fear. It is the load that makes him afraid. Select anyone you please from among your favourites of Fortune, trailing their many responsibilities, carrying their many burdens, and you will behold a picture of Vergil’s hero, “fearing both for his child and for the load he bears.” You may therefore be sure that you are at peace with yourself, when no noise reaches you, when no word shakes you out of yourself, whether it be of flattery or of threat, or merely an empty sound buzzing about you with unmeaning din. “What then?” you say, “is it not sometimes a simpler matter just to avoid the uproar?” I admit this. Accordingly, I shall change from my present quarters. I merely wished to test myself and to give myself practice. Why need I be tormented any longer, when Ulysses found so simple a cure for his comrades even against the songs of the Sirens? Farewell.

[1] Peream si est tam necessarium quam videtur silentium in studia seposito. Ecce undique me varius clamor circumsonat: supra ipsum balneum habito. Propone nunc tibi omnia genera vocum quae in odium possunt aures adducere: cum fortiores exercentur et manus plumbo graves iactant, cum aut laborant aut laborantem imitantur, gemitus audio, quotiens retentum spiritum remiserunt, sibilos et acerbissimas respirationes; cum in aliquem inertem et hac plebeia unctione contentum incidi, audio crepitum illisae manus umeris, quae prout plana pervenit aut concava, ita sonum mutat. Si vero pilicrepus supervenit et numerare coepit pilas, actum est. [2] Adice nunc scordalum et furem deprensum et illum cui vox sua in balineo placet, adice nunc eos qui in piscinam cum ingenti impulsae aquae sono saliunt. Praeter istos quorum, si nihil aliud, rectae voces sunt, alipilum cogita tenuem et stridulam vocem quo sit notabilior subinde exprimentem nec umquam tacentem nisi dum vellit alas et alium pro se clamare cogit; iam biberari varias exclamationes et botularium et crustularium et omnes popinarum institores mercem sua quadam et insignita modulatione vendentis. [3] 'O te' inquis 'ferreum aut surdum, cui mens inter tot clamores tam varios, tam dissonos constat, cum Chrysippum nostrum assidua salutatio perducat ad mortem.' At mehercules ego istum fremitum non magis curo quam fluctum aut deiectum aquae, quamvis audiam cuidam genti hanc unam fuisse causam urbem suam transferendi, quod fragorem Nili cadentis ferre non potuit. [4] Magis mihi videtur vox avocare quam crepitus; illa enim animum adducit, hic tantum aures implet ac verberat. In his quae me sine avocatione circumstrepunt essedas transcurrentes pono et fabrum inquilinum et serrarium vicinum, aut hunc qui ad Metam Sudantem tubulas experitur et tibias, nec cantat sed exclamat: [5] etiam nunc molestior est mihi sonus qui intermittitur subinde quam qui continuatur. Sed iam me sic ad omnia ista duravi ut audire vel pausarium possim voce acerbissima remigibus modos dantem. Animum enim cogo sibi intentum esse nec avocari ad externa; omnia licet foris resonent, dum intus nihil tumultus sit, dum inter se non rixentur cupiditas et timor, dum avaritia luxuriaque non dissideant nec altera alteram vexet. Nam quid prodest totius regionis silentium, si affectus fremunt? Falsum est: nulla placida est quies nisi quam ratio composuit; nox exhibet molestiam, non tollit, et sollicitudines muta. Nam dormientium quoque insomnia tam turbulenta sunt quam dies: illa tranquillitas vera est in quam bona mens explicatur. [7] Aspice illum cui somnus laxae domus silentio quaeritur, cuius aures ne quis agitet sonus, omnis servorum turba conticuit et suspensum accedentium propius vestigium ponitur: huc nempe versatur atque illuc, somnum inter aegritudines levem captans; quae non audit audisse se queritur. [8] Quid in causa putas esse? Animus illi obstrepit. Hic placandus est, huius compescenda seditio est, quem non est quod existimes placidum, si iacet corpus: interdum quies inquieta est; et ideo ad rerum actus excitandi ac tractatione bonarum artium occupandi sumus, quotiens nos male habet inertia sui impatiens. [9] Magni imperatores, cum male parere militem vident, aliquo labore compescunt et expeditionibus detinent: numquam vacat lascivire districtis, nihilque tam certum est quam otii vitia negotio discuti. Saepe videmur taedio rerum civilium et infelicis atque ingratae stationis paenitentia secessisse; tamen in illa latebra in quam nos timor ac lassitudo coniecit interdum recrudescit ambitio. Non enim excisa desit, sed fatigata aut etiam obirata rebus parum sibi cedentibus. [10] Idem de luxuria dico, quae videtur aliquando cessisse, deinde frugalitatem professos sollicitat atque in media parsimonia voluptates non damnatas sed relictas petit, et quidem eo vehementius quo occultius. Omnia enim vitia in aperto leniora sunt; morbi quoque tunc ad sanitatem inclinant cum ex abdito erumpunt ac vim sui proferunt. Et avaritiam itaque et ambitionem et cetera mala mentis humanae tunc perniciosissima scias esse cum simulata sanitate subsidunt. [11] Otiosi videmur, et non sumus. Nam si bona fide sumus, si receptui cecinimus, si speciosa contempsimus, ut paulo ante dicebam, nulla res nos avocabit, nullus hominum aviumque concentus interrumpet cogitationes bonas, solidasque iam et certas. [12] Leve illud ingenium est nec sese adhuc reduxit introsus quod ad vocem et accidentia erigitur; habet intus aliquid sollicitudinis et habet aliquid concepti pavoris quod illum curiosum facit, ut ait Vergilius noster: [13] Prior ille sapiens est, quem non tela vibrantia, non arietata inter <se> arma agminis densi, non urbis impulsae fragor territat: hic alter imperitus est, rebus suis timet ad omnem crepitum expavescens, quem una quaelibet vox pro fremitu accepta deiecit, quem motus levissimi exanimant; timidum illum sarcinae faciunt. [14] Quemcumque ex istis felicibus elegeris, multa trahentibus, multa portantibus, videbis illum 'comitique onerique timentem'. Tunc ergo te scito esse compositum cum ad te nullus clamor pertinebit, cum te nulla vox tibi excutiet, non si blandietur, non si minabitur, non si inani sono vana circumstrepet. [15] 'Quid ergo? non aliquando commodius est et carere convicio?' Fateor; itaque ego ex hoc loco migrabo. Experiri et exercere me volui: quid necesse est diutius torqueri, cum tam facile remedium Ulixes sociis etiam adversus Sirenas invenerit Vale.