1. To Septicius Clarus
You have often urged me to collect and publish any letters of mine which were composed with some care. I have now made a collection, not keeping to the original order as I was not writing history, but taking them as they came to my hand. It remains for you not to regret having made die suggestion and for me not to regret following it; for then I shall set about recovering any letters which have hitherto been put away and forgotten, and I shall not suppress any which I may write in future.
2. To Maturus Arrianus
I see that your arrival is going to be later than I expected, so I am sending you the speech which I promised you in my last letter. Please read and correct it as you always do, and the more so because I don’t think I have written before with quite so much spirit. I have tried to model myself on Demosthenes, as you always do, and this time on Calvus1 too, though only in figures of speech; for the fire of great men like these can only be caught by ‘the favoured few’.2 If I may venture to say so, the subject-matter actually encouraged my ambitious effort; for I had to fight my way most of the time, and this shook me out of my usual lazy habits, as far as anything can shake up a man like me. However, I didn’t altogether abandon die ‘lavish colouring’3 of our master Cicero whenever I felt like making a pleasant deviation from my main path, for I didn’t want the force of my argument to lack all light relief.
You must not think that I am asking you to be indulgent to my experiment. To sharpen your critical powers I must confess that my friends and I are thinking of publishing it, if only you cast your vote for the proposal, mistaken though it may be. I must publish something, and I only hope and pray that the most suitable thing is what is ready now-there’s laziness for you! But I want to publish for several reasons, and above all because the books which I have already sent out into the world are still said to find readers although they have lost the charm of novelty. Of course, the booksellers may be flattering me; well, let them, as long as their deception makes me think well of my own work.
3. To Caninius Rufus
I wonder how our darling Comum is looking, and your lovely house outside the town, with its colonnade where it is always springtime, and the shady plane trees, the stream with its sparkling greenish water flowing into the lake below, and the drive over the smooth firm turf. Your baths which are full of sunshine all day, the dining-rooms large and small, the bedrooms for night or the day’s siesta – are you there and enjoying them all in turn, or are you as usual for ever being called away to look after your affairs? If you are there, you are a lucky man to be so happy; if not, you do no better than the rest of us.
But isn’t it really time you handed over those tiresome petty duties to someone else and shut yourself up with your books in the peace and comfort of your retreat? This is what should be both business and pleasure, work and recreation, and should occupy your thoughts awake and asleep! Create something, perfect it to be yours for all time; for everything else you possess will fall to one or another master after you are dead, but this will never cease to be yours once it has come into being. I know the spirit and ability I am addressing, but you must try now to have the high opinion of yourself which the world will come to share if you do.
4. To Pompeia Celerina, his mother-in-law
What luxuries you have in your houses at Ocriculum, Narnia, Carsulae,1 and Perusia2 – even baths at Narnia! I need only send a letter, and there is no need for you to write after the short note you sent there some time ago. In fact your property seems more mine than my own, but with this difference: I have better service and attention from your servants than I do from mine. Perhaps you will have the same experience if you ever stay with us, as I hope you will for two reasons; you could enjoy our possessions as if they were yours, and my household would have to bestir itself at long last – it is unconcerned to the point of indifference in the way it treats me. Slaves lose all fear of a considerate master once they are used to him, but they wake up at the sight of new faces and try to win his favour by giving his guests the service due to him.
5. To Voconius Romanus1
Have you seen anyone so abject and nervous as Regulus2 since Domitian’s death? It has put an end to his misdeeds (which were as bad as in Nero’s day, though latterly better concealed), and made him afraid I was annoyed with him, and rightly so; I wasannoyed. He had helped with the prosecution of Arulenus Rusticus3 and proclaimed his delight in Rusticus’s death by giving a public reading of his speech against him (which he afterwards published) where he used the words ‘ Stoic ape’ ‘branded with Vitellius’s mark’. (You will recognize his style of rhetoric.) Then he took to abusing Herennius Senecio with such violence that Mettius Carus said to him, “What are my dead men to you? Have I ever attacked Crassus or Camerinus?’ (two of Regulus’s victims in Nero’s time). Guessing how strongly I felt about all this, Regulus did not invite me to his reading. He must have remembered too the deadly trap he laid for me in the Centumviral Court, when Arulenus Rusticus had asked me to support Arrionilla, Timon’s wife, with Regulus against me. Part of our case depended on the opinion of Mettius Modestus, the eminent senator who had been banished by Domitian and was still in exile. Up gets Regulus: ‘Tell me, Pliny, what is your opinion of Modestus?’ Now you can see the danger if I gave a good one, and the disgrace if I did not. I can only say the gods must have put words into my mouth. ‘I will give my opinion,’ said I, ‘if the court is to pass judgement on this man.’ He then repeated his request for my opinion. “Witnesses used to be cross-examined about persons on trial,’ I replied, ‘not on those already convicted.’ ‘Never mind then, what you think of Modestus,’ he said:’ I want your opinion of his loyalty.’ ‘I know you do,’ said I, ‘but I think it is quite improper even to put questions about a man on whom sentence has been passed.’ That silenced him. Afterwards I received praise and congratulations for not damaging my reputation by saving myself with an expedient but dishonourable reply, and for not falling into the trap of such a treacherous question.
So then he was terrified by the realization of what he had done, seized Caecilius Celer and Fabius Justus, and begged them to bring about a reconciliation. Not content with this, he called on Spurinna and implored his help – he can be very humble when he is afraid. ‘Please see Pliny at his home in the morning – early in the morning, please, I can’t bear the suspense any longer – and somehow stop him being angry with me.’ I was awake when the message came from Spurinna that he was on the way, and sent back to say I would call on him; so we met in the colonnade of Livia, each making for the other. Spurinna repeated Regulus’s request and put in a plea of his own, but being an honest man acting on behalf of a dishonest, said little. ‘You must decide yourself what answer to take back to Regulus,’ I said. ‘I can only tell you frankly that I am waiting for Mauricus1 to return from exile, and so can’t give you an answer either way, since I must do what he decides. The decision must be his, and I shall abide by it.’
A few days after this Regulus and I met on an official visit to the praetor; he came up to me and asked to see me alone. He said he was afraid that something he had once said in court in reply to Satrius Rufus and myself was still rankling in my mind:’ Satrius Rufus, who makes no attempt to copy Cicero, and is satisfied with the standard of oratory today.’ I replied that now that he admitted it, I realized that the remark was offensive, but that it could have been taken as a compliment. ‘Personally I do try to copy Cicero,’ I said, ‘and am not satisfied with today’s standards. It seems to me foolish not to aim at the highest. But if you remember this case, why have you forgotten the one where you asked me for my opinion of Mettius Modestus’s loyalty?’ He grew noticeably even paler than usual, and then stammered out, ‘The question was meant to damage Modestus, not you.’ (See the cruelly of the man who admits he intended to damage someone in exile.) Then he proffered a fine reason: ‘He said in a letter which was read out before Domitian that Regulus was “the vilest of two-legged creatures”.’ Modestus never wrote a truer word!
This practically ended our conversation, for I did not wish to prolong it and have to commit myself before Mauricus arrived. I am well aware that Regulus is hard to come to grips with; he is rich, influential, backed by many people and feared by more, and fear usually brings more support than popularity. However, it is quite possible that these props may collapse and let him down, for a bad man’s popularity is as fickle as himself. But, as I said, I am waiting for Mauricus. His opinions carry weight and his wisdom is gained from experience, so that he can judge the future by the past. My own plans for attack or withdrawal will depend on his decision, but I am writing all this to you because, as a good friend, you ought to hear about my intentions as well as anything I have said and done.
6. To Cornelius Tacitus
I know you will think it a good joke, as indeed it is, when I tell you that your old friend has caught three boars, very fine ones too. Yes, I really did, and without even changing any of my lazy holiday habits. I was sitting by the hunting nets with writing materials by my side instead of hunting spears, thinking something out and making notes, so that even if I came home emptyhanded I should at least have my notebooks filled. Don’t look down on mental activity of this kind, for it is remarkable how one’s wits are sharpened by physical exercise; the mere fact of being alone in the depths of the woods in the silence necessary for hunting is a positive stimulus to thought. So next time you hunt yourself, follow my example and take your notebooks along with your lunch-basket and flask; you will find that Minerva walks the hills no less than Diana.
7. To Octavius Rufus
See what a pinnacle you have set me on, giving me the same power and majesty as Homer gives to Jupiter Highest and Best: ‘And part the Father granted him, but part denied.’1 You see I can use the same mixture of assent and denial in answer to your plea. I can very properly agree, as you ask me, not to act for the Baetici against a single individual; but it would hardly be consistent with the unfailing sense of duty you admire in me to act against them, when I have formed a close connexion with their province through so many different services rendered and all the risks I have run on their behalf at various times. I shall therefore have to steer a middle course, and choose from the alternatives you offer something which will satisfy your good judgement as well as your inclinations. It is not your present wishes which I have to consider so much as your high standards for what will have your permanent approval.
I hope to be in Rome round the middle of October when I can explain my position to Gallus in person, with you to support me; but meanwhile you may assure him of my intentions, ‘and he bowed his dark brows’.1 I feel like addressing you in Homeric verses whenever I can, as long as you will not let me quote your own – a privilege I covet so much that I believe it would be the only bribe which would induce me to act against the Baetici.
I have nearly left out the most important thing: thank you for your excellent dates, which are now having to compete with my own figs and mushrooms.
8. To Pompeius Saturninus
Your letter asking me to send you one of my recent compositions reached me at a good moment, when I had just decided to do that very thing. So you have spurred on a willing horse and removed any excuse you had for refusing the trouble of reading my work as well as my scruples about asking you to do so; I can hardly be expected to hesitate about availing myself of your offer, nor can you feel it a burden when you made it yourself. All the same, you must not expect anything new from a lazy man like me. I intend to ask you to take another look at the speech I delivered to my fellow-citizens at the official opening of the library at Comum. I have not forgotten that you have already made some general comments on it, so this time will you please apply your usual critical eye to the details as well as to the work as a whole. I can then revise it before committing myself whether to publish or suppress it, and possibly the very process of revision will force me to make up my mind at last, and either show the speech is not yet fit for publication or actually make it so.
And yet it is the actual subject-matter rather than my treatment of it which is holding me back in this way. It makes me seem rather carried away by my own praises, and this increases my diffidence even if I limit myself to a few simple words, especially as I am obliged to dwell on my own generosity as well as that of my relatives. This puts me in a very difficult and delicate position, though somewhat justified by being inevitable. Even disinterested praise is very rarely well received, and it is all the harder to avoid a bad reception when a speaker refers to himself and his family. We feel resentment against merit unadorned, and still more when pride publishes it abroad; in fact it is only when good deeds are consigned to obscurity and silence that they escape criticism and misconstruction. For this reason I have often asked myself whether I ought to have written this speech, such as it is, for an audience or only for my own benefit, seeing that there are many features which are essential when a matter is still in the process of preparation but lose their value and power to please once it is completed. To take the present case as an example of this: nothing could have been more valuable to me than to set out the reasons for my generosity. I was thereby enabled first to dwell on noble sentiments, then to discern their virtue by prolonged reflection, and so finally to avoid the reaction which follows on an impulsive handing-out of gifts. Thus too I trained myself to some extent to think less of my riches, for though we all seem to be born slaves to money-saving, my love of liberal giving, long and deeply reasoned, has freed me from these besetting bonds of avarice, and my generosity seems likely to win more praise because I was led to it from principle and not out of mere impulse.
I had also to consider the fact that I was not paying for public games or a show of gladiators but making an annual contribution towards the maintenance of free-born children. Pleasures for the ear and eye need no recommendation (in fact they are better restrained than encouraged in a public speech) but carefully chosen and persuasive words as well as material rewards are needed to prevail on anyone to submit willingly to the tedium and hard work involved in bringing up children. Doctors use persuasion to recommend a diet which will bring their patients better health though they may find it dull; still more must anyone acting in the public interest find attractive phrases to introduce a beneficial service which is not immediately popular. My own special difficulty was to make the childless appreciate the benefits gained by parents, so that the majority would be willing to wait and prove worthy of the privileges granted to a few. At the time, I was considering the general interest rather than my own self-glorification when I wished the purpose and effect of my benefaction to be known, but my present idea of publishing the speech may perhaps make me seem to be furthering my own reputation instead of benefiting others. I am also well aware that a nobler spirit will seek the reward of virtue in the consciousness of it, rather than in popular opinion. Fame should be the result, not the purpose of our conduct, and if for some reason it fails to follow, there is no less merit in cases where it was deserved. But, when people accompany their generous deeds with words, they are thought not to be proud of having performed them but to be performing them in order to have something to be proud of. So what would win a glowing tribute from an independent opinion soon loses it if accompanied by self-praise, for when men find an action unassailable they will criticize the doer for his pride in it; hence either your conduct is blamed for anything in it which is best passed over in silence, or you can be blamed just as much yourself for not keeping silent about your merits.
I have besides my individual difficulties. This was delivered not as a public speech in the open, but before the town council in their senate house, so that I am afraid that it is hardly consistent at this point to court by publication the popular favour and applause which I avoided when I was speaking. I put the doors and walls of the senate house between myself and the populace whom I was trying to benefit, so as not to appear to court their favour; but now I feel that I am going out of my way to display my powers and thus win over those whose sole concern with my benefaction rests in the example it sets.
These then are my reasons for hesitating in this way; but I know I can always depend on your good advice and should like to take it now.
9. To Minicius Fundanus
It is extraordinary how, if one takes a single day spent in Rome, one can give a more or less accurate account of it, but scarcely any account at all of several days put together. If you ask anyone what he did that day, the answer would be: ‘I was present at a coming-of-age ceremony, a betrothal, or a wedding. I was called on to witness a will, to support someone in court or to act as assessor.’ All this seems important on the actual day, but quite pointless if you consider that you have done the same sort of thing every day, and still more pointless if you think about it when you are out of town. It is then that you realize how many days you have wasted in trivialities.
I always realize this when I am at Laurentum,1 reading and writing and finding time to take the exercise which keeps my mind fit for work. There is nothing there for me to say or hear said which I would afterwards regret, no one disturbs me with malicious gossip, and I have no one to blame – but myself – when writing doesn’t come easily. Hopes and fears do not worry me, and my time is not wasted in idle talk; I share my thoughts with no one but my books. It is a good life and a genuine one, a seclusion which is happy and honourable, more rewarding than any ‘business’ can be. The sea and shore are truly my private Helicon, an endless source of inspiration. You should take the first opportunity yourself to leave the din, the futile bustle and useless occupations of the city and devote yourself to literature or to leisure. For it was wise as well as witty of our friend Atilius to say that it is better to have no work to do than to work at nothing.
10. To Attius Clemens
If Rome has ever given a home to the liberal arts, they can be said to flourish there today; from amongst the many distinguished persons who are proof of this I need only name the philosopher Euphrates. When I was a young man doing my military service in Syria I came to know him well; I visited his home and took pains to win his affection, though that was hardly necessary as he has always been accessible and ready to make overtures, and is full of the courteous sympathy he teaches. I only wish I could have fulfilled the hopes he formed of me at that time in the same way that I feel he has increased his virtues: or perhaps it is my admiration which has increased now that I appreciate them better. I cannot claim to appreciate them fully even now, for if it takes an artist to judge painting, sculpture and modelling, only one philosopher can really understand another. But it is plain to my limited judgement that Euphrates has many remarkable gifts which make their appeal felt even by people of no more than average education. His arguments are subtle, his reasoning profound, and his words wellchosen, so that he often seems to have something of the sublimity and richness of Plato. He talks readily on many subjects with a special charm which can captivate and so convince the most reluctant listener. He is moreover tall and distinguished to look at, with long hair and a flowing white beard, and though these may sound like natural advantages of no real importance, they help to make him widely respected. His dress is always neat, and his serious manner makes no show of austerity, so that your first reaction on meeting him would be admiration rather than repulsion. He leads a wholly blameless life while remaining entirely human; he attacks vices, not individuals, and aims at reforming wrongdoers instead of punishing them. You would follow his teaching with rapt attention, eager for him to continue long after you are convinced.
He has moreover three children, two of them sons whom he has brought up with the greatest care; and his father-in-law, Pompeius Julianus, who has had a career of great distinction as a leading citizen of his province, has nothing more to his credit than the fact that from amongst many excellent offers he chose a son-in-law who was outstanding rather for his learning than for any official position.
I don’t know why I say so much about a man whose company I am never free to enjoy, unless it is to chafe the more against my loss of freedom. My time is taken up with official duties,1 important but none the less tiresome. I sit on the bench, sign petitions, make up accounts, and write innumerable – but unliterary – letters. “Whenever I have the chance I complain about these duties to Euphrates, who consoles me by saying that anyone who holds public office, presides at trials and passes judgement, expounds and administers justice, and thereby puts into practice what the philosopher only teaches, has a part in the philosophic life and indeed the noblest part of all. But of one thing he can never convince me – that all this is better than spending whole days listening to his teaching and learning from him.
All the more then do I urge you to let him take you in hand and polish you up next time you are in town; you do have time for this, and the prospect should speed up your coming. For unlike many people, I don’t grudge others the advantages which I cannot have myself: on the contrary, I feel a real sense of pleasure if I see my friends enjoying the plenty which is denied to me.
11. To Fabius Justus
I have not heard from you for a long time, and you can’t say you have nothing to write about because you can at least write that – or else the phrase our elders used to start a letter with: ‘If you are well, well and good; I am well.’ That will do for me – it is all that matters. Don’t think I am joking; I mean it. Let me know how you are; if I don’t know I can’t help worrying.
12. To Calestrius Tiro
I have lost a very great man, if ‘loss’ is the right word for such a bereavement. Corellius Rufus has died, and died by his own wish, which makes me even sadder; for death is most tragic when it is not due to fate or natural causes. When we see men die of disease, at least we can find consolation in the knowledge that it is inevitable, but, when their end is self-sought, our grief is inconsolable because we feel that their lives could have been long. Corellius, it is true, was led to make his decision by the supremacy of reason, which takes the place of inevitability for the philosophers; but he had many reasons for living, a good conscience and reputation, and wide influence, besides a wife and sisters living and a daughter and grandchild: and, as well as so many close relatives, he had many true friends. But he suffered so long from such a painful affliction that his reasons for dying outweighed everything that life could give him.
At the age of thirty-two, I have heard him say, he developed trouble in the feet, just as his father had done; for like other characteristics, most diseases are hereditary. As long as he was young and active he could keep it under control by temperate living and strict continence, and latterly when he grew worse with advancing age, he bore up through sheer strength of mind, even when cruelly tortured by unbelievable agony; for the disease was now no longer confined to his feet as before, but was spreading through all his limbs. I went to see him in Domitian’s time as he lay ill in his house outside Rome. His servants left the room, as they always did when one of his more intimate friends came in, and even his wife went out, though she was well able to keep any secret. He looked all round the room before speaking, and then: ‘Why do you suppose I endure pain like this so long?’ he said. ‘So that I can outlive that robber if only by a single day.’ Had his body been equal to his spirit he would have made sure that he had his desire.
However, the gods heard his prayer; and knowing it was granted he relaxed and felt free to die. He broke off all his links with life, now unable to hold him, for his disease had progressed although he tried to check it by his strict regimen; and, as it grew steadily worse, he made up his mind to escape. Two days passed, then three, then four, but he refused all food. His wife, Hispulla, sent our friend Gaius Geminius to me with the sad news that Corellius was determined to die, and nothing she or her daughter could say would dissuade him; I was the only person left who might be able to recall him to life. I hurried to him, and was nearly there when Julius Atticus brought me another message from Hispulla that even I could do nothing now as he had become more and more fixed in his resolve. Indeed, when the doctor offered him food he had only said’ I have made up my mind’; and these words bring home to me how much I admired him and how I shall miss him now. I keep thinking that I have lost a great friend and a great man. I know he had lived to the end of his sixty-seventh year, a good age even for a really sound constitution: I know that he escaped from perpetual illness: I know too that he left a family to outlive him, and his country (which was still dearer to him) in a prosperous state: and yet I mourn his death as if he were a young man in full health. I mourn, too, on my own account, though you may think this a sign of weakness, for I have lost the guardian and mentor who watched over my life. In short, as I said to my friend Calvisius in my first outburst of grief, I am afraid I shall be less careful how I live now.
Send me some words of comfort, but do not say that he was an old man and ill; I know this. What I need is something new and effective which I have never heard nor read about before, for everything I know comes naturally to my aid, but is powerless against grief like this.
13. To Sosius Senecio
This year has raised a fine crop of poets; there was scarcely a day throughout the month of April when someone was not giving a public reading. I am glad to see that literature flourishes and there is a show of budding talent, in spite of the fact that people are slow to form an audience. Most of them sit about in public places, gossiping and wasting their time when they could be giving their attention, and give orders that they are to be told at intervals whether the reader has come in and has read the preface, or is coming to the end of the book. It is not till that moment – and even then very reluctantly – that they come dawdling in. Nor do they stay very long, but leave before the end some of them trying to slip out unobserved and others marching, boldly out. And yet people tell how in our fathers’ time the Emperor Claudius was walking on the Palatine when he heard voices and asked what was happening; on learning that Nonianus was giving a reading he surprised the audience by joining it unannounced. Today the man with any amount of leisure, invited well in advance and given many a reminder, either never comes at all, or, if he does, complains that he has wasted a day – just because he has not wasted it. The more praise and honour then is due to those whose interest in writing and reading aloud is not damped by the idleness and conceit of their listeners.
Personally I have failed scarcely anyone, though I admit that most of the invitations came from my friends; for there are very few people who care for literature without caring for me too. That is why I stayed in town longer than I intended, but now I can return to my country retreat and write something myself. I shall not read it to my friends, for I don’t want it to seem that I went to hear them with the intention of putting them in my debt. Here as elsewhere a duty performed deserves no gratitude if a return is expected.
14. To Junius Mauricus
You ask me to look out for a husband for your brother’s daughter, a responsibility which I feel is very rightly mine; for you know how I have always loved and admired him as the finest of men, and how he influenced my early years by his advice and encouraged me to become worthy of his praise. You could not entrust me with anything which I value or welcome so much, nor could there be any more befitting duty for me than to select a young man worthy to be the father of Arulenus Rusticus’s grandchildren.
I should have had a long search if Minicius Acilianus were not at hand, as if he were made for us. He loves me as warmly as one young man does another (he is a little younger than I am), but respects me as his elder, for he aspires to be influenced and guided by me, as I was by you and your brother. His native place is Brixia,1 one of the towns in our part of Italy which still retains intact much of its honest simplicity along with the rustic virtues of the past. His father is Minicius Macrinus, who chose to remain a leading member of the order of knights because he desired nothing higher; the deified Emperor Vespasian would have raised him to praetorian rank, but he has always steadfastly preferred a life of honest obscurity to our status – or our struggles to gain it. His maternal grandmother, Serrana Procula, comes from the town of Patavium,2 whose reputation you know; but Serrana is a model of propriety even to the Patavians. His uncle, Publius Acilius, is a man of exceptional character, wisdom and integrity. You will in fact find nothing to criticize in the whole household, any more than in your own.
Acilianus himself has abundant energy and application, but no lack of modesty. He has held the offices of quaestor, tribune and praetor with great distinction, thus sparing you the necessity of canvassing on his behalf. He has a frank expression, and his complexion is fresh and high-coloured; his general good looks have a natural nobility and the dignified bearing of a senator. (I think these points should be mentioned, as a sort of just return for a bride’s virginity.) I am wondering whether to add that his father has ample means; for if I picture you and your brother for whom we are seeking a son-in-law, I feel no more need be said; but in view of the prevailing habits of the day and the laws of the country which judge a man’s income to be of primary importance, perhaps after all it is something which should not be omitted. Certainly if one thinks of the children of the marriage, and subsequent generations, the question of money must be taken into account as a factor influencing our choice.
It may seem to you that I have been indulging my affection, and going further than the facts allow, but I assure you on my honour that you will find the reality far better than my description. I do indeed love the young man dearly, as he deserves, but, just because I love him, I would not overload him with praise.
15. To Septicius Clarus
Who are you, to accept my invitation to dinner and never come? Here’s your sentence and you shall pay my costs in full, no small sum either. It was all laid out, one lettuce each, three snails, two eggs, barley-cake, and wine with honey chilled with snow (you will reckon this too please, and as an expensive item, seeing that it disappears in the dish), besides olives, beetroots, gherkins, onions, and any number of similar delicacies. You would have heard a comic play, a reader or singer, or all three if I felt generous. Instead you chose to go where you could have oysters, sow’s innards, sea-urchins, and Spanish dancing-girls. You will suffer for this – I won’t say how. It was a cruel trick done to spite one of us – yourself or most likely me, and possibly both of us, if you think what a feast of fun, laughter and learning we were going to have. You can eat richer food at many houses, but nowhere with such free and easy enjoyment. All I can say is, try me; and then, if you don’t prefer to decline invitations elsewhere, you can always make excuses to me.
16. To Erucius Clarus
I was always much attached to our friend Pompeius Saturninus, and admired his talents long before I knew how versatile, sensitive and comprehensive they were. Now I am truly his, to have and to hold.
I have heard him plead in court with subtlety and fervour, and his speeches have the same finish and distinction when impromptu as when they are prepared. His aphorisms are apt and ready, his periods rounded with a formal dignity, his vocabulary impressive and classical. All of this I find peculiarly satisfying when it is carried along on the full stream of his oratory, and no less so when examined in detail. You will feel the same when you have a chance to handle his speeches and compare them with any one of the older orators to whose standards he aspires. His histories will please you even more by their conciseness and clarity, the charm and brilliance of their style and their power of exposition, for the words he puts into the mouths of his characters are as vivid as his own public speeches, though condensed into a simpler and terser style.
He also writes verses in the style of Catullus and Calvus which might indeed be theirs, for these are full of wit and charm, bitterness and passion; and, though he sometimes strikes a harsher note in the even flow of his measures, it is done deliberately and in imitation of his models. He has recently read me some letters which he said were written by his wife, but sounded to me like Plautus or Terence being read in prose. Whether they are really his wife’s as he says, or his own (which he denies), one can only admire him either for what he has written or for the way he has cultivated and refined the taste of the girl he married.
So all my time is spent with him. If I have something of my own to write I read him first, and again afterwards; I read him for recreation and he never seems the same. I do urge you to read him too. The fact that he is still alive should not detract from his work. If he had been one of the writers before our own time we should be collecting his portraits as well as his books: are we then to let him languish without honour or popularity, as if we saw too much of him, just because he is living today? It is surely perverse and ungenerous to refuse recognition to one so deserving because we have the good fortune to enjoy his company and conversation, and can demonstrate our affection for the man as well as our appreciation of his work.
17. To Cornelius Titianus
There is still a sense of loyalty and duty alive in the world, and men whose affection does not die with their friends. Titinius Capito has obtained permission from the Emperor to set up a statue in the forum to Lucius Silanus.1 To make use of one’s friendly relations with the Emperor for such a purpose, and to test the extent of one’s influence by paying tribute to others is a graceful gesture which deserves nothing but praise. It is indeed Capito’s practice to show respect to famous men, and one must admire the reverence with which he cares for the family busts of Brutus, Cassius, and Cato which he has set up in his own home, not being able to do so elsewhere. He also celebrates the lives of his greatest heroes in excellent verse, and you may be sure that his love of the virtues of others means he has no lack of them himself. In his recognition of what is due to Lucius Silanus, Capito has won immortality for himself as well, for to erect a statue in the forum of Rome is as great an honour as having one’s own statue there.
18. To Suetonius Tranquillus2
So you have had an alarming dream which makes you fear that the case which is coming on may go against you; and you want me to apply for an adjournment to get you off for a few days, or one day at least. It isn’t easy but I will try, ‘for a dream comes from Zeus’.1 But it makes a difference whether your dreams usually come true or not, for to judge by a dream of my own, the one which has frightened you might well foretell that you will be successful. I had undertaken to act on behalf of Junius Pastor when I dreamed that my mother-in-law came and begged me on her knees to give up the case. I was very young at the time and I was about to plead in die Centumviral Court against men of great political influence, some of them also friends of the Emperor; any one of these considerations could have shaken my resolve after such a depressing dream, but I carried on, believing that “The best and only omen is to fight for your country’2 – or in my case for my pledge to Pastor, if anything can come before one’s country. I won my case, and it was that speech which drew attention to me and set me on the threshold of a successful career.
See then if you can follow my example, and give a happy interpretation to your dream; but if you still think there is more safety in the warning given by all cautious folk, ‘when in doubt do nothing’, you can write and tell me. I will find some way out and deal with the case so that you can take it up when you wish. I admit that your position is different from mine; adjournments are never granted in the Centumviral Court, but in your case it is possible though not easy.
19. To Romatius Firmus
You and I both come from the same town, went to the same school, and have been friends since we were children. Your father was a close friend of my mother’s and uncle’s, and a friend to me too, as far as our difference in age allowed; so there are sound and serious reasons why I ought to try to improve your position. You are a town-councillor of Comum, which shows that your present capital is 100,000 sesterces, so I want to give you another 300,000 to make up your qualification for the order of knights. I can then have the pleasure of seeing you in that position as well as in your present one. The length of our friendship is sufficient guarantee that you will not forget this gift, and I shall not even remind you to enjoy your new status with becoming discretion, because it was received through me; as I ought to, did I not know that you will do so unprompted. An honourable position has to be maintained with special care if it is to keep alive the memory of a friend’s generous gift.
20. To Cornelius Tacitus
I am always having arguments with a man of considerable learning and experience, who admires nothing in forensic oratory so much as brevity. I admit that this is desirable if the case permits, but if it means that points which should be made are omitted, or hurried over when they should be impressed and driven home by repetition, one can only end by betraying one’s client. Most points gain weight and emphasis by a fuller treatment, and make their mark on the mind by alternate thrust and pause, as a fencer uses his foil.
At this point he produces his authorities, and quotes me the Greek Lysias and our own Romans, the brothers Gracchus and Cato. It is true that most of their speeches are short and concise, but I counter Lysias with Demosthenes, Aeschines, Hyperides, and many others, and the Gracchi and Cato with Pollio, Caesar, Caelius, and above all Cicero, whose longest speech is generally considered his best.1 Like all good things, a good book is all the better if it is a long one; and statues, busts, pictures and drawings of human beings, many animals and also trees can be seen to gain by being on a large scale as long as they are well-proportioned. The same applies to speeches; and when published they look better and more impressive in a good-sized volume.
He parries this and the other examples I usually cite to support my opinion, for he is too nimble in argument for me to come to grips with him. Then he insists that the speeches I instance were shorter when delivered than they are in their published form. This I deny. Several speeches by various authors confirm my opinion, notably two of Cicero’s in defence of Murena and Varenus, where some sections are no more than a bare summary of certain charges which are indicated merely by headings. It is obvious from this that the published speech leaves out a great deal of what Cicero said in court. He also makes it clear that in accordance with the custom of his day he conducted the entire defence of Cluentius by himself, and actually took four days over his defence of Gaius Cornelius. There can be no doubt then that if he took several days to deliver his speeches in full he must have subsequently pruned and revised them in order to compress them into a single volume, though admittedly a large one.
Then it is argued that there is a great difference between a speech as delivered and the written version. This is a popular view I know, but I feel convinced (if I am not mistaken) that, though some speeches may sound better than they read, if the written speech is good it must also be good when delivered, for it is the model and prototype for the spoken version. That is why we find so many rhetorical figures, apparently spontaneous, in any good written speech, even in those which we know were published without being delivered’; for example, in Cicero’s speech against Verres: ‘An artist – now who was he? thank you for telling me; people said it was Polyclitus.’1 It follows then that the perfect speech when delivered is that which keeps most closely to the written version, so long as the speaker is allowed the full time due to him; if he is cut short it is no fault of his, but a serious error on the part of the judge. The law supports my view, for it allows speakers any amount of time and recommends not brevity but the full exposition and precision which brevity cannot permit, except in very restricted cases. Let me add what I have learned from the best of all teachers, experience. On the many occasions when I have been counsel, judge, or assessor, I have found that people are influenced in different ways, and that small points often have important consequences. Men’s powers of judgement vary with their temperaments; thus they can listen to the same case but reach different conclusions, or perhaps the same one by a different emotional reaction. Moreover, everyone is prejudiced in favour of his own powers of discernment, and will always find an argument most convincing if it leads to the conclusion he has reached for himself; everyone must then be given something he can grasp and recognize as his own idea.
Regulus once said to me when we were appearing in the same case: ‘You think you should follow up every point, but I make straight for the throat and hang on to that.’ (He certainly hangs on to whatever he seizes, but he often misses the right place.) I pointed out that it might be the knee or the heel he seized when he thought he had the throat.’ I can’t see the throat,’ I said,’ so my method is to feel my way and try everything – in fact I “leave no stone unturned”.’ On my farms I cultivate my fruit trees and fields as carefully as my vineyards, and in the fields I sow barley, beans and other legumes as well as corn and wheat; so when I am making a speech I scatter various arguments around like seeds in order to reap whatever crop comes up. There are as many unforeseen hazards and uncertainties to surmount in working on the minds of judges as in dealing with, the problems of weather and soil. Nor have I forgotten the words of the comic poet Eupolis in praise of the great orator Pericles:’ Speed marked his words, and persuasion sat upon his lips. Thus he could charm, yet alone among orators left his sting behind in his hearers.’ But ‘speed’ alone (whether by that is meant brevity or rapidity or both, for they are different things) could not have given Pericles his power to persuade and charm had he not also possessed a supreme gift of eloquence. Charm and persuasion require fulness of treatment and time for delivery, and a speaker who leaves his sting in the minds of his hearers does not stop at pricking them, but drives his point in. And again, another comic poet1 said of Pericles that ‘he flashed lightning, thundered and confounded Greece’. It is no curtailed and restricted style but a grand oratory, spacious and sublime, which can thunder, lighten, and throw a world into tumult and confusion.
‘All the same, the mean is best.’ No one denies it, but to fall short through over-compression is to miss the mean just as much as to be diffuse and go beyond it. The criticism ‘spiritless and feeble’ is heard as often as ‘excessive and redundant’, when one speaker does not cover his ground and another goes outside it. Both fail, through weakness or vitality, but the latter is at least the fault of a more powerful talent, if a crude one. In saying this I do not mean to praise Homer’s Thersites, ‘unbridled of, tongue’,2 but Odysseus with his ‘words like flakes of winter snow’; and I can also very much admire Menelaus who spoke ‘at no great length but very dearly’.3 But, if I were given my choice, I prefer the speech like the winter snows, one which is fluent and vigorous, but also expansive, which is in fact divinely inspired.
‘But a lot of people like a short speech.’ So they do, if they are lazy, but it is absurd to take their idle whim as a serious opinion; if you followed their advice you would do best not in a short speech but saying nothing at all.
This is the view I have held up to now, though I can modify it if you disagree; only please give me your reasons if you do. I know I should bow to your authority, but on an important question like this I would rather yield to a reasoned argument than to authority alone. So if you think I am right, you need only tell me so in as short a letter as you like, as long as you will write to corroborate my opinion. If you think me wrong, make it a long one, and I only hope this does not look like bribery – to demand a short letter if you agree with me, and a very long one if you don’t.
21. To Plinius Paternus
I have the highest possible opinion of your judgement and critical eye, not because your taste is so very good (don’t flatter yourself) but because it is as good as mine. Joking apart, I think the slaves you advised me to buy look all right, but it remains to be seen if they are honest; and here one can’t go by a slave’s looks, but rather by what one hears of him.
22. To Catilius Severus
I have been kept in town for a long time in an appalling state of mind. I am exceedingly worried about Titius Aristo, a man I particularly love and admire, who has been seriously ill for some time. He has no equal in moral influence and wisdom, so that I feel that it is no mere individual in danger, but that literature itself and all the liberal arts are endangered in his person. His experience of civil and constitutional law, his knowledge of human affairs and the lessons of history are such that there is nothing you might wish to learn which he could not teach. I certainly find him a mine of information whenever I have an obscure point to consider. He is genuine and authoritative in conversation, and his deliberate manner is firm and dignified; there can be few questions to which he cannot provide a ready answer, and yet he often pauses to weigh up the many alternative arguments which his keen and powerful intellect derives from their fundamental source and then selects with fine discrimination.
Moreover, his habits are simple and his dress is plain, and his bedroom and its furniture always seem to me to give a picture of bygone simplicity. It has its adornment in his greatness of mind, which cares nothing for show but refers everything to conscience, seeking reward for a good deed in its performance and not in popular opinion. In fact none of those people who parade their pursuit of knowledge by their personal appearance can be compared with a man like Aristo. He does not haunt the gymnasia and public places, nor does he entertain himself and his friends in their leisure hours with long dissertations, but he plays an active part in the business of civil life, helping many people professionally and still more by his personal advice. Yet none of those who rank high as philosophers can attain his high standard of virtue, duty, justice and courage.
His patience throughout this illness, if you could only see it, would fill you with admiration; he fights against pain, resists thirst, and endures the unbelievable heat of his fever without moving or throwing off his coverings. A few days ago, he sent for me and some of his intimate friends, and told us to ask the doctors what the outcome of his illness would be, so that if it was to be fatal he could deliberately put an end to his life, though he would carry on with the struggle if it was only to be long and painful; he owed it to his wife’s prayers and his daughter’s tears, and to us, his friends, not to betray our hopes by a self-inflicted death so long as these hopes were not vain. This I think was a particularly difficult decision to make, which merits the highest praise. Many people have his impulse and urge to forestall death, but the ability to examine critically the arguments for dying, and to accept or reject the idea of living or not, is the mark of a truly great mind. The doctors are in fact reassuring in their promises; it only remains for the gods to confirm these and free me at long last from my anxiety. If they do, I can then return to Laurentum, to my books and notes and freedom for work. At present I am always sitting by Aristo’s bedside or worrying about him, so that I have neither time nor inclination for reading or writing anything.
There you have my fears, hopes, and plans for the future; in return, give me your news, past, present and to come, but please make your letter more cheerful than mine. It will be a great comfort in my trouble if you have no complaints.
23. To Pompeius Falco
You want to know what I think about your continuing to practise in the law courts while you hold the office of tribune. It depends entirely on the view you take of the tribunate – an ‘empty form’ and a ‘mere title’, or an inviolable authority which should not be called in question by anyone, not even the holder. When I was tribune myself, I acted on the assumption (which may have been a wrong one) that my office really meant something. I therefore gave up all my court work, for I thought it unsuitable for a tribune to stand while others were seated, when it was really every man’s duty to rise and give place to him; to be cut short by the water-clock though, he had the power to command anyone’s silence; and, although it was sacrilege to interrupt him, to be exposed to insults which he could not pass over without an appearance of weakness, nor counter without seeming to abuse his power. I had also to face the difficulty of how to react if my client or my opponent were to appeal to me as tribune, whether to lend my aid by interposing my veto, or to keep silent as if I had laid down my office and resumed my status of private citizen. For these reasons I chose to be tribune to all rather than give my professional services to a few; but your own decision, as I said before, can only depend on your idea of the tribunate and the part you intend to play: a wise man will choose one within his capacity to play to the end.
24. To Baebius Hispanus
My friend Suetonius Tranquillus wishes to buy a small property which I hear a friend of yours is trying to sell. Please see that he has it at a fair price, so that he will be pleased with his purchase. A bad bargain is always annoying, and especially because it seems to reproach the owner for his folly. There is indeed much about this property to whet Tranquillus’s appetite if only the price suits him: easy access to Rome, good communications, a modest house, and sufficient land for him to enjoy without taking up too much of his time. Scholars turned landowners, like himself, need no more land than will suffice to clear their heads and refresh their eyes, as they stroll around their grounds and tread their single path, getting to know each one of their precious vines and counting every fruit tree.
I am writing this to show you how much he will be in my debt and I in yours if he is able to buy this small estate with all its advantages at a reasonable price which will leave him no room for regrets.