Letter 86

I write this to you as I lie in the very country house of Scipio Africanus, having paid my respects to his shade and to an altar that I suspect is the tomb of that great man. That his soul has indeed returned to the heaven from which it came, I am convinced—not because he led great armies (for Cambyses too commanded these, a madman who used his madness with success), but on account of his extraordinary moderation and devotion, which I judge more admirable in him when he abandoned his homeland than when he defended it. Either Scipio had to remain at Rome, or Rome had to remain in freedom. "I wish," he said, "to take nothing away from the laws, nothing from our institutions; let there be equal justice among all citizens. Make use of my benefaction, my homeland, but without me. I was the cause of your liberty, and I shall now be its proof: I depart, if I have grown greater than is in your interest." Why should I not admire this greatness of soul, by which he withdrew into voluntary exile and relieved the state of its burden? Things had reached the point where either liberty must do an injury to Scipio, or Scipio to liberty. Neither was lawful in heaven's sight; and so he gave way to the laws and withdrew to Liternum, intending to charge the state with his own exile no less than with Hannibal's. I have seen the house built of squared stone, the wall thrown around the woodland, the towers too raised on both sides as a defense for the house, the cistern set beneath the buildings and the gardens, large enough to supply even an army's use, and the bathroom—narrow and gloomy in the old manner: for to our ancestors no bath seemed hot unless it was dark. A great pleasure therefore came over me as I contemplated the ways of Scipio and our own: in this little corner that "terror of Carthage," to whom Rome owes the fact that she was captured only once, used to wash a body wearied by the labors of the countryside. For he kept himself busy with work and (as was the custom of the men of old) tilled the soil with his own hands. Under this roof, so squalid, he stood; this pavement, so cheap, bore him up: but who is there now who could bear to bathe like that? A man thinks himself poor and squalid unless the walls gleam with great and costly discs of marble, unless Alexandrian marbles are set off with inlays of Numidian stone, unless an elaborate border, varied on every side in the manner of a painting, is laid all around them, unless the ceiling is hidden under glass, unless Thasian stone—once a rare spectacle to be seen in some one temple—encircles our pools, into which we lower bodies drained dry by much sweating, unless silver taps have poured out the water. And so far I am speaking of the plumbing of the common sort: what shall I say when I come to the baths of the freedmen? What a number of statues, what a number of columns supporting nothing but set up for ornament, for the sake of the expense! What a mass of water tumbling down over the steps with a roar! We have reached such a pitch of self-indulgence that we are unwilling to tread on anything but precious stones. In this bath of Scipio's there are tiny cracks, rather than windows, cut out of the stone wall so as to admit light without harm to the fortification; but nowadays people call baths fit only for moths if they are not arranged in such a way as to take in the whole day's sun through the widest windows, unless men are bathed and tanned at the same time, unless from the tub they look out over fields and seas. And so the baths that had drawn crowds and admiration when they were first dedicated are cast back into the rank of antiques as soon as luxury has devised something new with which to bury itself. But in the old days baths were both few and adorned with no refinement: for why should a thing costing a quarter-as, found out for use and not for delight, be embellished? No water was poured over the bather, nor did it always run fresh as if from a hot spring, nor did they think it mattered into what crystal-clear water they deposited their filth. But, good gods, what a pleasure it is to enter those baths—dark, and coated with a common plaster—which you knew that Cato as aedile, or Fabius Maximus, or one of the Cornelii had regulated with his own hand! For the most noble aediles too used to perform this duty of entering the places that received the public and of demanding cleanliness and a useful, healthful temperature—not the kind recently invented, like a conflagration, so hot indeed that a slave convicted of some crime ought to be bathed alive in it. It seems to me there is now no difference whether a bath is on fire or merely warm. How great is the rusticity for which some now condemn Scipio because he did not let the daylight into his hot room through broad panes, because he was not stewed in a flood of light and did not wait to be cooked through in the bath! "O wretched man!" they say. "He did not know how to live. He did not bathe in filtered water, but often in water that was muddy and, when it rained harder, almost like mire." Yet it did not matter much to him whether he bathed in this way; for he came to wash off sweat there, not perfume. And what cries do you suppose some men will utter now? "I do not envy Scipio: a man who bathed like that truly lived in exile." Indeed, if you only knew, he did not bathe every day; for, as those who have handed down the ancient customs of the city tell us, men washed their arms and legs daily—the parts, of course, that had gathered dirt from their work—but bathed all over only on market days. At this point someone will say: "It is clear to me that they were filthy beyond measure." What do you suppose they smelled of? Of military service, of toil, of manhood. Once tidy baths were invented, men became dirtier. When Horatius Flaccus set out to describe a man of ill repute, notorious for his excessive indulgences, what does he say? [The verse Seneca quotes is lost from the text here.] Produce a Buccillus now: it would be just as if he reeked of a he-goat; he would take the place of Gargonius, whom the same Horace set against Buccillus. It is too little to apply perfume unless it is renewed twice or three times a day, so that it may not fade away on the body. And what of the fact that they pride themselves on this scent as if it were their own? If these reflections strike you as too gloomy, you shall charge them to the country house, where I learned from Aegialus—a most diligent head of household (for he is now the owner of this estate)—that a planting, however old, can be transplanted. This is a thing necessary for us old men to learn, every one of whom is setting out an olive grove for another; [...] I have seen that grove of trees three and four years old [...] either to put up with fruit one would scorn or to set out [the trees]. You too shall be sheltered by that tree which [the line of Vergil Seneca cites is lost here], as our own Vergil says—who looked not at what could be said most truly but at what could be said most fittingly, and wished not to instruct farmers but to delight readers. For—to pass over everything else—I will add this point, which I happened to catch today: [the Vergilian verses are missing from the text]. Whether these crops should be planted at one and the same time, and whether the sowing of both belongs to the same season, you may judge from this: it is the month of June in which I write to you, already inclining toward July; and on the same day I saw men reaping beans and sowing millet. I shall return to the olive grove, which I saw planted in two ways. The trunks of large trees, with their branches cut back and reduced to a single foot, he transplanted together with their root-ball, the roots themselves having been amputated, only the head left from which they had hung. This, dipped in dung, he lowered into the trench; then he did not merely heap the earth over it, but trod it down and pressed it. He says that nothing is more effective than this packing, as he calls it. Evidently it keeps out the cold and the wind; and besides, the trunk is moved less, and for this reason it allows the nascent roots to come out and take hold of the soil—roots which, being still soft and clinging precariously, even a slight disturbance would necessarily tear away. The root-ball, moreover, he scrapes before he buries it; for, as he says, new roots come out from all the material that has been laid bare. The trunk should project no more than three or four feet above the ground; for it will at once be clothed from the bottom, and no large part of it will be dry and parched, as happens in old olive groves. The other method of planting was this: he set out, in the same way, branches that were strong and not of hard bark, such as those of young trees tend to be. These rise a little more slowly, but, since they have advanced as though from a slip, they have nothing harsh or unsightly about them. This too I have now seen—a vine, grown old in its own plantation, being transplanted; in this case its fibers as well, if it can be done, should be gathered up, and then the vine should be laid down more generously, so that it may take root even from the stock. And I have seen vines set out not only in the month of February but also at the end of March; they hold and have embraced elms that are not their own. But all those trees that are, so to speak, thick-stemmed, he says, should be helped with cistern water; and if that does help, we have rain in our own power. I do not intend to teach you anything more, lest, as Aegialus made me his rival, so I make you mine. Farewell.

I am resting at the country-house which once belonged to Scipio Africanus himself; and I write to you after doing reverence to his spirit and to an altar which I am inclined to think is the tomb of that great warrior. That his soul has indeed returned to the skies, whence it came, I am convinced, not because he commanded mighty armies—for Cambyses also had mighty armies, and Cambyses was a madman who made successful use of his madness—but because he showed moderation and a sense of duty to a marvellous extent. I regard this trait in him as more admirable after his withdrawal from his native land than while he was defending her; for there was the alternative: Scipio should remain in Rome, or Rome should remain free. “It is my wish,” said he, “not to infringe in the least upon our laws, or upon our customs; let all Roman citizens have equal rights. O my country, make the most of the good that I have done, but without me. I have been the cause of your freedom, and I shall also be its proof; I go into exile, if it is true that I have grown beyond what is to your advantage!” What can I do but admire this magnanimity, which led him to withdraw into voluntary exile and to relieve the state of its burden? Matters had gone so far that either liberty must work harm to Scipio, or Scipio to liberty. Either of these things was wrong in the sight of heaven. So he gave way to the laws and withdrew to Liternum, thinking to make the state a debtor for his own exile no less than for the exile of Hannibal. I have inspected the house, which is constructed of hewn stone; the wall which encloses a forest; the towers also, buttressed out on both sides for the purpose of defending the house; the well, concealed among buildings and shrubbery, large enough to keep a whole army supplied; and the small bath, buried in darkness according to the old style, for our ancestors did not think that one could have a hot bath except in darkness. It was therefore a great pleasure to me to contrast Scipio’s ways with our own. Think, in this tiny recess the “terror of Carthage,” to whom Rome should offer thanks because she was not captured more than once, used to bathe a body wearied with work in the fields! For he was accustomed to keep himself busy and to cultivate the soil with his own hands, as the good old Romans were wont to do. Beneath this dingy roof he stood; and this floor, mean as it is, bore his weight. But who in these days could bear to bathe in such a fashion? We think ourselves poor and mean if our walls are not resplendent with large and costly mirrors; if our marbles from Alexandria are not set off by mosaics of Numidian stone, if their borders are not faced over on all sides with difficult patterns, arranged in many colours like paintings; if our vaulted ceilings are not buried in glass; if our swimming-pools are not lined with Thasian marble, once a rare and wonderful sight in any temple—pools into which we let down our bodies after they have been drained weak by abundant perspiration; and finally, if the water has not poured from silver spigots. I have so far been speaking of the ordinary bathing-establishments; what shall I say when I come to those of the freedmen? What a vast number of statues, of columns that support nothing, but are built for decoration, merely in order to spend money! And what masses of water that fall crashing from level to level! We have become so luxurious that we will have nothing but precious stones to walk upon. In this bath of Scipio’s there are tiny chinks—you cannot call them windows—cut out of the stone wall in such a way as to admit light without weakening the fortifications; nowadays, however, people regard baths as fit only for moths if they have not been so arranged that they receive the sun all day long through the widest of windows, if men cannot bathe and get a coat of tan at the same time, and if they cannot look out from their bath-tubs over stretches of land and sea. So it goes; the establishments which had drawn crowds and had won admiration when they were first opened are avoided and put back in the category of venerable antiques as soon as luxury has worked out some new device, to her own ultimate undoing. In the early days, however, there were few baths, and they were not fitted out with any display. For why should men elaborately fit out that which, costs a penny only, and was invented for use, not merely for delight? The bathers of those days did not have water poured over them, nor did it always run fresh as if from a hot spring; and they did not believe that it mattered at all how perfectly pure was the water into which they were to leave their dirt. Ye gods, what a pleasure it is to enter that dark bath, covered with a common sort of roof, knowing that therein your hero Cato, as aedile, or Fabius Maximus, or one of the Cornelii, has warmed the water with his own hands! For this also used to be the duty of the noblest aediles—to enter these places to which the populace resorted, and to demand that they be cleaned and warmed to a heat required by considerations of use and health, not the heat that men have recently made fashionable, as great as a conflagration—so much so, indeed, that a slave condemned for some criminal offence now ought to be bathed alive! It seems to me that nowadays there is no difference between “the bath is on fire,” and “the bath is warm.” How some persons nowadays condemn Scipio as a boor because he did not let daylight into his perspiring-room through wide windows, or because he did not roast in the strong sunlight and dawdle about until he could stew in the hot water! “Poor fool,” they say, “he did not know how to live! He did not bathe in filtered water; it was often turbid, and after heavy rains almost muddy!” But it did not matter much to Scipio if he had to bathe in that way; he went there to wash off sweat, not ointment. And how do you suppose certain persons will answer me? They will say: “I don’t envy Scipio; that was truly an exile’s life—to put up with baths like those!” Friend, if you were wiser, you would know that Scipio did not bathe every day. It is stated by those who have reported to us the old-time ways of Rome that the Romans washed only their arms and legs daily—because those were the members which gathered dirt in their daily toil—and bathed all over only once a week. Here someone will retort: “Yes; pretty dirty fellows they evidently were! How they must have smelled!” But they smelled of the camp, the farm, and heroism. Now that spick-and-span bathing establishments have been devised, men are really fouler than of yore. What says Horatius Flaccus, when he wishes to describe a scoundrel, one who is notorious for his extreme luxury? He says: “Buccillus smells of perfume.” Show me a Buccillus in these days; his smell would be the veritable goat-smell—he would take the place of the Gargonius with whom Horace in the same passage contrasted him. It is nowadays not enough to use ointment, unless you put on a fresh coat two or three times a day, to keep it from evaporating on the body. But why should a man boast of this perfume as if it were his own? If what I am saying shall seem to you too pessimistic, charge it up against Scipio’s country-house, where I have learned a lesson from Aegialus, a most careful householder and now the owner of this estate; he taught me that a tree can be transplanted, no matter how far gone in years. We old men must learn this precept; for there is none of us who is not planting an olive-yard for his successor. I have seen them bearing fruit in due season after three or four years of unproductiveness. And you too shall be shaded by the tree which Is slow to grow, but bringeth shade to cheer Your grandsons in the far-off years, as our poet Vergil says. Vergil sought, however, not what was nearest to the truth, but what was most appropriate, and aimed, not to teach the farmer, but to please the reader. For example, omitting all other errors of his, I will quote the passage in which it was incumbent upon me to-day to detect a fault: In spring sow beans then, too, O clover plant, Thou’rt welcomed by the crumbling furrows; and The millet calls for yearly care. You may judge by the following incident whether those plants should be set out at the same time, or whether both should be sowed in the spring. It is June at the present writing, and we are well on towards July; and I have seen on this very day farmers harvesting beans and sowing millet. But to return to our olive-yard again. I saw it planted in two ways. If the trees were large, Aegialus took their trunks and cut off the branches to the length of one foot each; he then transplanted along with the ball, after cutting off the roots, leaving only the thick part from which the roots hang. He smeared this with manure, and inserted it in the hole, not only heaping up the earth about it, but stamping and pressing it down. There is nothing, he says, more effective than this packing process; in other words, it keeps out the cold and the wind. Besides, the trunk is not shaken so much, and for this reason the packing makes it possible for the young roots to come out and get a hold in the soil. These are of necessity still soft; they have but a slight hold, and a very little shaking uproots them. This ball, moreover, Aegialus lops clean before he covers it up. For he maintains that new roots spring from all the parts which have been shorn. Moreover, the trunk itself should not stand more than three or four feet out of the ground. For there will thus be at once a thick growth from the bottom, nor will there be a large stump, all dry and withered, as is the case with old olive-yards. The second way of setting them out was the following: he set out in similar fashion branches that were strong and of soft bark, as those of young saplings are wont to be. These grow a little more slowly, but, since they spring from what is practically a cutting, there is no roughness or ugliness in them. This too I have seen recently—an aged vine transplanted from its own plantation. In this case, the fibres also should be gathered together, if possible, and then you should cover up the vine-stem more generously, so that roots may spring up even from the stock. I have seen such plantings made not only in February, but at the very end of March; the plants take hold of and embrace alien elms. But all trees, he declares, which are, so to speak, “thick-stemmed,” should be assisted with tank-water; if we have this help, we are our own rain-makers. I do not intend to tell you any more of these precepts, lest, as Aegialus did with me, I may be training you up to be my competitor. Farewell.

[1] In ipsa Scipionis Africani villa iacens haec tibi scribo, adoratis manibus eius et ara, quam sepulchrum esse tanti viri suspicor. Animum quidem eius in caelum ex quo erat redisse persuadeo mihi, non quia magnos exercitus duxit (hos enim et Cambyses furiosus ac furore feliciter usus habuit), sed ob egregiam moderationem pietatemque, quam magis in illo admirabilem iudico cum reliquit patriam quam cum defendit. Aut Scipio Romae esse debebat aut Roma in libertate. [2] 'Nihil' inquit 'volo derogare legibus, nihil institutis; aequum inter omnes cives ius sit. Utere sine me beneficio meo, patria. Causa tibi libertatis fui, ero et argumentum: exeo, si plus quam tibi expedit crevi.' [3] Quidni ego admirer hanc magnitudinem animi, qua in exilium voluntarium secessit et civitatem exoneravit? Eo perducta res erat ut aut libertas Scipioni aut Scipio libertati faceret iniuriam. Neutrum fas erat; itaque locum dedit legibus et se Liternum recepit tam suum exilium rei publicae inputaturus quam Hannibalis. [4] Vidi villam extructam lapide quadrato, murum circumdatum silvae, turres quoque in propugnaculum villae utrimque subrectas, cisternam aedificiis ac viridibus subditam quae sufficere in usum vel exercitus posset, balneolum angustum, tenebricosum ex consuetudine antiqua: non videbatur maioribus nostris caldum nisi obscurum. [5] Magna ergo me voluptas subiit contemplantem mores Scipionis ac nostros: in hoc angulo ille 'Carthaginis horror', cui Roma debet quod tantum semel capta est, abluebat corpus laboribus rusticis fessum. Exercebat enim opere se terramque (ut mos fuit priscis) ipse subigebat. Sub hoc ille tecto tam sordido stetit, hoc illum pavimentum tam vile sustinuit: at nunc quis est qui sic lavari sustineat? [6] Pauper sibi videtur ac sordidus nisi parietes magnis et pretiosis orbibus refulserunt, nisi Alexandrina marmora Numidicis crustis distincta sunt, nisi illis undique operosa et in picturae modum variata circumlitio praetexitur, nisi vitro absconditur camera, nisi Thasius lapis, quondam rarum in aliquo spectaculum templo, piscinas nostras circumdedit, in quas multa sudatione corpora exsaniata demittimus, nisi aquam argentea epitonia fuderunt. [7] Et adhuc plebeias fistulas loquor: quid cum ad balnea libertinorum pervenero? Quantum statuarum, quantum columnarum est nihil sustinentium sed in ornamentum positarum impensae causa! quantum aquarum per gradus cum fragore labentium! Eo deliciarum pervenimus ut nisi gemmas calcare nolimus. [8] In hoc balneo Scipionis minimae sunt rimae magis quam fenestrae muro lapideo exsectae, ut sine iniuria munimenti lumen admitterent; at nunc blattaria vocant balnea, si qua non ita aptata sunt ut totius diei solem fenestris amplissimis recipiant, nisi et lavantur simul et colorantur, nisi ex solio agros ac maria prospiciunt. Itaque quae concursum et admirationem habuerant cum dedicarentur, ea in antiquorum numerum reiciuntur cum aliquid novi luxuria commenta est quo ipsa se obrueret. [9] At olim et pauca erant balnea nec ullo cultu exornata: cur enim exornaretur res quadrantaria et in usum, non in oblectamentum reperta? Non suffundebatur aqua nec recens semper velut ex calido fonte currebat, nec referre credebant in quam perlucida sordes deponerent. [10] Sed, di boni, quam iuvat illa balinea intrare obscura et gregali tectorio inducta, quae scires Catonem tibi aedilem aut Fabium Maximum aut ex Corneliis aliquem manu sua temperasse! Nam hoc quoque nobilissimi aediles fungebantur officio intrandi ea loca quae populum receptabant exigendique munditias et utilem ac salubrem temperaturam, non hanc quae nuper inventa est similis incendio, adeo quidem ut convictum in aliquo scelere servum vivum lavari oporteat. Nihil mihi videtur iam interesse, ardeat balineum an caleat. [11] Quantae nunc aliqui rusticitatis damnant Scipionem quod non in caldarium suum latis specularibus diem admiserat, quod non in multa luce decoquebatur et expectabat ut in balneo concoqueret! O hominem calamitosum! nesciit vivere. Non saccata aqua lavabatur sed saepe turbida et, cum plueret vehementius, paene lutulenta. Nec multum eius intererat an sic lavaretur; veniebat enim ut sudorem illic ablueret, non ut unguentum. [12] Quas nunc quorundam voces futuras credis? 'Non invideo Scipioni: vere in exilio vixit qui sic lavabatur.' Immo, si scias, non cotidie lavabatur; nam, ut aiunt qui priscos mores urbis tradiderunt, brachia et crura cotidie abluebant, quae scilicet sordes opere collegerant, ceterum toti nundinis lavabantur. Hoc loco dicet aliquis: 'liquet mihi inmundissimos fuisse'. Quid putas illos oluisse? militiam, laborem, virum. Postquam munda balnea inventa sunt, spurciores sunt. [13] Descripturus infamem et nimiis notabilem deliciis Horatius Flaccus quid ait? Dares nunc Buccillum: proinde esset ac si hircum oleret, Gargonii loco esset, quem idem Horatius Buccillo opposuit. Parum est sumere unguentum nisi bis die terque renovatur, ne evanescat in corpore. Quid quod hoc odore tamquam suo gloriantur? [14] Haec si tibi nimium tristia videbuntur, villae inputabis, in qua didici ab Aegialo, diligentissimo patre familiae (is enim nunc huius agri possessor est) quamvis vetus arbustum posse transferri. Hoc nobis senibus discere necessarium est, quorum nemo non olivetum alteri ponit, ~quod vidi illud arborum trimum et quadrimum fastidiendi fructus aut deponere.~ [15] Te quoque proteget illa quae ut ait Vergilius noster, qui non quid verissime sed quid decentissime diceretur aspexit, nec agricolas docere voluit sed legentes delectare. [16] Nam, ut alia omnia transeam, hoc quod mihi hodie necesse fuit deprehendere, adscribam: An uno tempore ista ponenda sint et an utriusque verna sit satio, hinc aestimes licet: Iunius mensis est quo tibi scribo, iam proclivis in Iulium: eodem die vidi fabam metentes, milium serentes. [17] Ad olivetum revertar, quod vidi duobus modis positum: magnarum arborum truncos circumcisis ramis et ad unum redactis pedem cum rapo suo transtulit, amputatis radicibus, relicto tantum capite ipso ex quo illae pependerant. Hoc fimo tinctum in scrobem demisit, deinde terram non adgessit tantum, sed calcavit et pressit. [18] Negat quicquam esse hac, ut ait, pisatione efficacius. Videlicet frigus excludit et ventum; minus praeterea movetur et ob hoc nascentes radices prodire patitur ac solum adprendere, quas necesse est cereas adhuc et precario haerentes levis quoque revellat agitatio. Rapum autem arboris antequam obruat radit; ex omni enim materia quae nudata est, ut ait, radices exeunt novae. Non plures autem super terram eminere debet truncus quam tres aut quattuor pedes; statim enim ab imo vestietur nec magna pars eius quemadmodum in olivetis veteribus arida et retorrida erit. [19] Alter ponendi modus hic fuit: ramos fortes nec corticis duri, quales esse novellarum arborum solent, eodem genere deposuit. Hi paulo tardius surgunt, sed cum tamquam a planta processerint, nihil habent in se abhorridum aut triste. [20] Illud etiamnunc vidi, vitem ex arbusto suo annosam transferri; huius capillamenta quoque, si fieri potest, colligenda sunt, deinde liberalius sternenda vitis, ut etiam ex corpore radicescat. Et vidi non tantum mense Februario positas sed etiam Martio exacto; tenent et conplexae sunt non suas ulmos. [21] Omnes autem istas arbores quae, ut ita dicam, grandiscapiae sunt, ait aqua adiuvandas cisternina; quae si prodest, habemus pluviam in nostra potestate. Plura te docere non cogito, ne quemadmodum Aegialus me sibi adversarium paravit, sic ego parem te mihi. Vale.