1. To Rosianus Geminus
This persistent ill-health of yours is alarming, and, although I know that your self-control is generally excellent, I am afraid that your character may be affected I can only advise you to be patient and endure; there is hope of recovery as well as merit in this, and it is not beyond human capacity. At any rate I personally, when in good health, have often spoken like this to my household:’ I hope that if I chance to fall ill, I shall not ask for anything which would be a reason, for subsequent shame and regret, but, if illness gets the upper hand, I warn you now not to give me anything without the doctors’ permission, or else I shall punish you as anyone else would for refusing.’ I was indeed once suffering from a raging fever: at last it began to abate, I was oiled and massaged and was just taking a drink from the doctor when I held out my hand for him to feel my pulse, and refused the cup which had been put to my lips. Later on, when I had been ill nearly three weeks, I was being prepared for a bath, but suddenly noticed the doctors whispering and asked the reason why. They replied that probably it was quite safe for me to take a bath, but they felt a little doubtful about it. ‘Then is it necessary?’ I asked, and so without protest quietly gave up hope of the bath which in my imagination I was already entering, and resigned myself again to do without it with the same inward and outward composure as when I was in a state of anticipation.
My initial reason for telling you this was to have an example to illustrate my advice, but I can also use this letter as a kind of pledge to bind me to practise the same self-control in future.
2. To Fabius(?) Justus
I don’t see how you can say in the same breath that your time is taken up by incessant public duties and ask to see my speeches! I have difficulty enough when people have plenty of time in persuading them to give up a moment of their wasted hours. I will let you finish the summer, which I know is always a busy and trying time for you, and then in winter, when your nights at least are likely to be free, I will look through my efforts for something to send. Meanwhile I am more than satisfied if my letters ate not a nuisance; but I expect they are and will make them shorter in future.
3. To Bruttius (?) Praesens
How much longer will you persist in dividing your time between Lucania1 and Campania? I know you say that Lucania is your native district and Campania your wife’s, but that can only justify a prolonged absence, not a perpetual one. Are you ever coming back to Rome, back to your honours and official duties, your influential friendships, and your clients’ attentions ? How much longer will you be your own master, stay up when you feel inclined, and sleep as long as you like? How long will your shoes go unworn and your toga stay on holiday, while all your day is your own? It is time you renewed acquaintance with our vexations, if only to prevent your pleasures diminishing through sheer surfeit. Come and pay your respects to use for a while so as to be better pleased to receive other peoples’, and rub shoulders in the crowd here in order to appreciate your solitude the more.
But it is silly of me to risk discouraging the very person I am trying to persuade; my arguments may well induce you to sink deeper and deeper into retirement, though I am not asking you to give it up, only to interrupt it. If I were giving you a dinner, I should alternate the sweet dishes with piquant savouries to stimulate your palate when dulled by too much sweetness; and so I am asking you now to season your pleasant way of living with something a little more stimulating.
4. To Pontius Allifanus
You say that you have read my hendecasyllables, and you want to know how a serious man like me came to write them; and I am not frivolous, I admit. To start at the beginning, I was always interested in poetry and wrote a Greek tragedy at the age of fourteen. What it was like I can’t say – anyway, I called it a tragedy. Later on I was weatherbound in the island of Icaria2 while on my way home from military service, and wrote some Latin elegiacs with the sea and island for theme. I have also occasionally tried my hand at epic verse, but this is my first attempt at hendecasyllables. This is how I came to make it. While I was staying in my house at Laurentum I had Asinius Gallus’s works read aloud to me, in which he draws a comparison between his father and Cicero and quotes an epigram of Cicero’s on his favourite Tiro. Then, when I had retired for my siesta (it was summer) and was unable to sleep, I began to reflect upon the fact that all the greatest orators had amused themselves with this kind of writing and had won fame thereby. I set my mind to it, and, to my surprise, in spite of being long out of practice, I had soon expressed the very thought which had inspired me to write. This was the result:
Reading the works of Gallus, where he ventures
To hand the palm of glory to his father,
I found that Cicero could unbend his talent
To play with polished wit on lighter theme.
Tiro, he says, defrauds and cheats his lover
Of kisses promised for a dinner eaten,
Why then conceal my blushes, why not publish
My Tiro’s wiles and coy endearing favours
Whereby he heaps the fuel on my passion?
Next I tried some elegiac verses, which I finished just as quickly, and finding them so easy I was tempted to add more. Afterwards, when I returned to Rome, I read them to my friends, who were appreciative. Then I made attempts in various other metres whenever I had time, especially when travelling. Finally I decided to do as many authors have done and complete a separate volume of hendecasyllables; and I have never regretted this. My verses are read and copied, they are even sung, and set to the cithara or lyre by Greeks who have learned Latin out of hiring for my little book. But I must not boast (though poets can talk wildly!) even if it is not my own opinion I am quoting but other people’s – which pleases me whether right or wrong. I only pray that posterity will be right or wrong in the same way.
5. To his wife Calpumia
You cannot believe how much I miss you. I love you so much, and we are not used to separations. So I stay awake most of the night thinking of you, and by day I find my feet carrying me (a true word, carrying) to your room at the times I usually visited you; then finding it empty I depart, as sick and sorrowful as a lover locked out. The only time I am free from this misery is when I am in court and wearing myself out with my friends’ lawsuits. You can judge then what a life I am leading, when I find my rest in work and distraction in troubles and anxiety.
6. To Caedlius Macrinus
A most extraordinary thing has happened to Varenus,1 though it is not yet definitely settled. The Bithynians are reported to have dropped their case against him, as an ill-advised venture. I say ‘reported’, but the representative of the province is here with his Council’s decree, copies of which he has presented to the Emperor, to a large number of prominent citizens and to us, as acting for Varenus. However, Magnus is being as obstinate as ever and keeps on harassing that excellent man Nigrinus, through whom he has approached the consuls with a demand for Varenus to be compelled to produce his accounts.
At this stage I was standing by Varenus in a friendly capacity only and decided to say nothing, for it could only have done him harm if the counsel given him by the Senate began by defending him as if he were on trial when the essential thing was to show that he was not on trial at all. But when Nigrinus had made his request and the consuls turned to me, I said that they would see that I had good reason for my silence as soon as they had heard the true representatives of the province. ‘To whom have they been sent?’ asked Nigrinus. ‘To me, amongst others,’ I replied: ‘I have the Council’s decree.’ ‘You may have your own information,’ he said. ‘If you have yours,’ I retorted, ‘surely I may have mine – of a better sort.’ Then Polyaenus, the Bithynian spokesman, explained their reasons for dropping the prosecution and asked that no decision should be taken before the Emperor held an inquiry. Magnus replied to this, and Polyaenus spoke again. I threw in a few words now and then, but kept silent most of the time, for I have learned that there are occasions when silence is as effective a form of oratory as eloquence. I can indeed remember certain criminal cases when I did my clients more good by saying nothing than I could have done by the most elaborate speech.
For example (there is nothing to stop me from discussing my professional activities, though I had another purpose in writing this letter), a mother who had lost her son charged his freedmen, who were heirs to the estate with her, of poisoning their master and forging his will. She had brought her case before the Emperor and been granted Julius Servianus to judge it. I had defended the accused men before a large assembly, for the case was celebrated and there were distinguished personalities engaged on both sides. The inquiry was stopped after the court had come to a decision in favour of the defendants. Subsequently the mother approached the Emperor with a declaration that she had discovered fresh evidence. Suburanus was instructed to hear the case again, if she could produce any new material. The mother was represented by Julius Africanus, the grandson of the famous orator about whom Passienus Crispus said after hearing him speak ‘Fine, by Jove, fine; but why so fine?’ His grandson, an able young man but a bit too sharp, had said a good deal and come to the end of his time-limit, but then asked Suburanus for permission to add ‘just one more word’. My turn came, and everyone was looking to me for a lengthy reply. ‘I should have spoken in reply,’ I said, ‘if Africanus had added his “one more word”, for this, I am sure, would have contained all the fresh evidence.’ I can scarcely remember ever winning such applause for a speech as I did on that occasion for not making one.
The same sort of reception and applause has greeted my policy of saying nothing for Varenus. The consuls have granted Polyaenus’s request and left the whole question open for the Emperor to decide. I am anxiously awaiting the result, for that day will determine whether we are to have some peace and respite from worry on Varenus’s account or to renew our efforts with fresh anxiety.
7. To Pompeius Satumims
I thanked our friend Priscus only the other day, but I was very glad to do so again at your bidding. It is a great pleasure to me that splendid men like yourselves, both friends of mine, should be so devoted and conscious of your mutual attachment. Priscus also declares that nothing gives him greater happiness than his friendship with you and vies with you in this best of rivalries, a reciprocated affection which will increase as time goes on.
I am sorry to hear that you are immersed in business, as it keeps you from your own work, but if you can settle one case by arbitration and the other, as you say, by your own efforts, you will begin to enjoy your leisure where you are; and then can return to us when you are tired of it.
8. To Neratius (?) Prisms
Words cannot express my pleasure on receiving letter after letter from our friend Saturninus, in which he expresses his warmest thanks to you. Go on as you have begun, love this splendid man as much as you can; his friendship will prove a source of long and lasting happiness for he is endowed with all the virtues, not least the gift of unfailing loyalty in his affections.
9. To Fuscus Salinator
You ask me what course of study I think you should follow during your present prolonged holiday. The most useful thing, which is always being suggested, is to translate Greek into Latin and Latin into Greek. This kind of exercise develops in one a precision and richness of vocabulary, a wide range of metaphor, and power of exposition, and, moreover, imitation of the best models leads to a like aptitude for original composition. At the same time, any point which might have been overlooked by a reader cannot escape the eye of a translator. All this cultivates perception and critical sense.
When you have read a passage sufficiently to remember the subject-matter and line of thought, there is no harm in your trying to compete with it; then compare your efforts with the original and consider carefully where your version is better or worse. You may well congratulate yourself if yours is sometimes better and feel much ashamed if the other is always superior to yours. You may also sometimes choose a passage you know well and try to improve on it. This is a daring attempt, but does not presume too far when it is made in private; and yet we see many people entering this type of contest with great credit to themselves and, by not lacking confidence, outstripping the authors whom they only intended to follow. You can also revise the speeches you have put aside, retaining much of the original, but leaving out still more and making other additions and alterations. This I know you will think a tedious labour, but its very difficulty makes it profitable to rekindle your fire and recover your enthusiasm when once its force is spent; to graft new limbs, in fact, on to a finished trunk without disturbing the balance of the original.
I know that your chief interest at the present time is forensic oratory, but that is not a reason for advising you to limit yourself to this provocative and somewhat pugnacious style. The soil is refreshed when sown with successive changes of seed, and so are our minds if cultivated by different subjects. I should like you sometimes to take a passage of historical narrative or turn your attention to letter-writing, for often even in a speech the subject calls for a narrative or a poetic style of description; and letters develop brevity and simplicity of style. It is permissible, too, to seek relaxation in writing, poetry, by which I mean not a long continuous poem (which can only be finished if one has plenty of leisure), but one of those short, polished sets of verses which make a break in your duties and responsibilities, however pressing. This is called light verse, but it sometimes brings its authors as much fame as serious work. In fact (for why shouldn’t I versify to encourage you to take to verse?)
The beauty of wax is its power to yield
To the fingers’ skilful touch;
Thus taught, it can shape the god of War,
Chaste Wisdom or Love or her son.
The secret springs can quench a flame,
Or gladden the flowers and fields;
So the mind of man, through the gentle arts
Is taught the wisdom of change.
The greatest orators, and the greatest men, too, used to train or amuse themselves in this way – or rather, combine their training with amusement, for it is remarkable how the mind is both stimulated and relaxed by these trifles. They comprise our loves and hatreds, our indignation, compassion and wit, in fact every phase of life and every detail of our public and professional activities. They also offer the same advantages as other forms of poetry; when we have been bound by the restrictions of metre, we delight in the freedom of prose and gladly return to what comparison has shown to be the easier style.
Perhaps this is more than you wanted, but there is one more thing. I have said nothing about what I think you should read, though this was implied when I was telling you what to write. Remember to make a careful selection from representative authors in each subject, for the saying is that a man should be deeply, not widely, read. These authors are too well known and approved to need further indication; and, besides, I have let this letter run on so far that I am robbing you of time for work with all my advice on planning it. Back then to your books and writing – either something on the lines I suggest, or what you have already started.
10. To Caecilius Macrinus
If I have heard the beginning of a story I always want to pick up the thread and add the conclusion, so I expect you, too, would like to hear the end of the affair between Varenus and the Bithynians. Polyaenus spoke on one side and Magnus on the other. The Emperor listened to both speeches and then declared that neither party should have cause to complain of delay; he would undertake to find out the wishes of the province. Meanwhile Varenus has gained much, for the justice of the charge against him is all the more doubtful when it is still uncertain if he is being charged at all. We can only hope that the province will not decide again in favour of what it was reported to have rejected, not think better of its change of heart1
11. To Calpumius Fabatus, his wife’s grandfather
You are surprised to hear that my freedman Hermes has sold to Corellia, without waiting for the public auction, the land which I inherited and ordered to be put up for sale, valuing my five-twelfths of the estate at 700,000 sesterces. It might have fetched 900,000 you say, and this makes you wonder all the more whether I shall confirm what he has done. Yes, I do; and here are my reasons, for I am anxious to have your approval and my fellow-heirs’ forgiveness if I disassociate myself from them in obedience to a higher claim.
I have the greatest respect and affection for Corellia, first as the sister of Corellius Rufus, whose memory I always hold sacred, and then as my mother’s dearest friend. Then I have old ties of friendship with her excellent husband Minicius Justus, as I did with her son, who presided over the games held during my praetorship. During my last visit to you, when Corellia told me that she would like to own some property on the shores of Lake Como, it was I who offered her any one of my estates she liked, at her own price, with the exception of what I inherited from my parents; for those I could not give up even to her. Consequently, when I inherited this property, which included the land you refer to, I wrote and told her it was for sale. Hermes took her the letter, and when she asked him to transfer my share to her at once, he did so.
I am bound then, as you see, to confirm an action of my own freed-man which was in accordance with my own wishes. The only thing now is for my fellow-heirs not to be annoyed with me for having allowed a separate sale of what I need not have sold at all. There is no necessity for them to follow my example, for they have not the same ties with Corellia; so they are permitted to consider their own interests, though friendship took priority over mine.
12. To Minidus Fundams
Here is the short speech which you asked me to write, for your friend (or rather for our friend, as we have everything in common) to use if he needs it. I have sent it at the last minute, to leave you no time to correct, which means to spoil it. Doubtless though youwillfind time – for spoiling certainly, for correcting I can’t say: you purists cut out all the best passages! But I shan’t care, for I can pass the result off as my own some day, and take the credit for your fastidiousness, as I do for the passages you will find marked with an alternative version written between the lines. For I suspected that you would find its sonority and grandeur rather too pompous, so I thought it would be best to put you out of your misery by adding something shorter and plainer straight away – a meaner, inferior version, in fact, though you may think it an improvement. (Here’s my chance to make a real attack on your ultra-refinement.) So far 1 have been trying to raise a smile from you in the midst of your responsibilities, but this is serious: be sure to refund my expenses for taking the trouble to send this by special messenger. Now you have read this request you will condemn the whole speech out of hand and not just the details, being unwilling to admit it is worth anything when you are asked to pay for it.
13. To Julius Ferox
The same letter of yours tells me that you are doing no work and yet you are working. I speak in riddles, you protest; so I do, until I make my meaning clear. You say you are not working, but your letter is so well phrased that it could only have been written by someone who worked at it; or else you are luckier than the rest of us in being able to produce work of such finish in your idle moments.
14. To Corellia
It is very generous of you to insist so warmly that I should give orders for the price you are to pay for my land to be raised from the 700,000 sesterces agreed by my freedman to 900,000, the real value on which you have had to pay the five-per-cent inheritance tax. But I must insist in my turn that you consider what is the right course for me, as well as for you, and allow me to oppose you on this one point in the same spirit in which I usually comply with all your wishes.
15. To Pompeius Satuminus
You want my news, but there is nothing new to tell; I am involved in public duties, active on behalf of my friends, and occasionally doing some work of my own. If I could describe the work as exclusive and continuous I should certainly be happier, though I would not like to say my. time would be better spent. As for your news, I should be sorry to hear that your activities are the opposite of what you would choose were you not so honourably employed; for managing the affairs of one’s city merits our highest praise no less than settling disputes between friends.
I felt sure that you would enjoy the company of our friend Priscus. I know what a frank and charming person he is, but I had yet to learn how grateful he could be: if, as you say in your letter, he has such happy memories of my services.
16. To Calpurnius Fabatus, his wife’s grandfather
Calestrius Tiro is one of my dearest friends, and we have been closely associated in both personal and official relations. We did our military service together and were both quaestors serving the Emperor. He held the office of tribune before me, through the privilege granted to fathers of children, but I caught him up in the praetorship when the Emperor gave me a year’s remission. I have often visited him in his country houses, and he has often spent times of convalescence in my home.
He is now setting out for Baetica as governor of the province, and will pass through Ticinum.1 I hope, in fact I am sure, that I can easily persuade him to leave his direct route to pay you a visit, if you really intend to liberate formally the slaves you recently pronounced free before your friends. You need not fear that this will be a trouble to a man who would not find a journey round the world too far on my behalf. So be rid of your usual diffidence and consult your own inclinations. He will be as pleased to do my bidding as I am to do yours.
17. To Caedlius (?) Celer
Everyone has his own reasons for reading his work aloud; my own, as I have often said, is to be told of the slips I know I am sure to have made. So I am all the more surprised to read in your letter that there were people who criticized me for giving any reading of my speeches at all: unless they think that this is the only kind of writing which never needs correction. I should like to ask them why they allow (if they do allow) readings of history, whose authors aim at truth and accuracy rather than at displaying their talents, and tragedy, which needs a stage and actors rather than a lecture-room, and lyric poetry, which calls for a chorus and a lyre instead of a reader. They say that such readings are an established custom. Then is their originator to be blamed? Besides, there have been readings of speeches before, by some of our own orators as well as by the Greeks.
‘But it is unnecessary to read a speech already delivered.’ It would be if the audience and the speech were exactly the same, and you read the speech immediately after delivery; but if you make certain additions and alterations, if you invite new people along with those who heard you before, and after a certain interval, why should it be less suitable to read a speech than to publish it? ‘It is difficult for a reading of a speech to be satisfactory.’ That depends on the efforts of the reader and is no reason for not reading at all. Personally, I do not seek praise for my speech when it is read aloud, but when the text can be read after publication, and consequently I employ every possible method of correction. First of all, I go through my work myself; next, I read it to two or three friends and send it to others for comment. If I have any doubts about their criticisms, I go over them again with one or two people, and finally I read the work to a larger audience; and that is the moment, believe me, when I make my severest corrections, for my anxiety makes me concentrate all the more carefully. Respect for an audience, modesty and anxiety are the best critics. Look at it in this way: if you are going to talk to a single individual, however well informed, won’t you be less nervous than you are before large numbers who may be quite ignorant? When you rise to plead in court, isn’t that the moment when you have least confidence in yourself, when you wish you could alter most of your speech or indeed the whole? Especially if the scene is imposing and the assembly large, for even the sight of dirty working clothes can be intimidating. If you feel that your opening words are badly received, don’t you falter and break down? I imagine it is because there is some sort of sound collective wisdom in mere numbers, so that, though individual judgements may be poor, when combined they carry weight. Thus it was that Pomponius Secundus, the author of tragedies, if one of his close friends happened to think that some passage should be deleted when he wished to keep it, used to say that he ‘appealed to the people’: and according to the people’s silence or applause he would act on his own judgement or that of his friend. Such was his faith in public opinion, whether rightly or wrongly it is not for me to say. For I do not invite the general public, but a select and limited audience of persons whom I admire and trust, whom I observe individually and fear as a whole; seeing that I apply to fear what Cicero said about the practice of writing. Fear is the sternest corrective – the prospect of giving a reading, our entry into the lecture-room, our white faces, our trembling, and our nervous glances, all prompt us to correct our work.
Consequently I do not regret my practice; experience has taught me its great advantages, and I am so far from being deterred by the idle comments of the people you quote that I should like- you to suggest something else I can do. Nothing can satisfy my desire for perfection; I can never forget the importance of putting anything into the hands of the public, and I am positive that any work must be revised more than once and read to a number of people if it is intended to give permanent and universal satisfaction.
18. To Caninius Rujus
You want my advice on what provision to make for securing now and after your death the money you have offered to our native town to pay the cost of an annual feast. It is an honour to be consulted, but difficult to give an immediate opinion. You might hand over the capital to the town, but there is a danger of its being dissipated. Or you might make a gift of land, but it would be neglected as public property always is. Personally I can think of no better plan than the one I adopted myself. I had promised a capital sum of 500,000 sesterces for the maintenance of free-born boys and girls, but instead of paying this over I transferred some of my landed property (which was worth considerably more) to the municipal agent, and then had it reconveyed back to be charged with an annual rent payable of 30,000 sesterces. By this means the principal is secured for the town, the interest is certain, and the property will always find a tenant to cultivate it because its value greatly exceeds the rent charged. I am well aware that I appear to have paid out more than the sum I have given, seeing that the fixed rent charge has reduced the market value of a fine property, but one ought to make personal and temporary interests give place to public and permanent advantages, and consider the security of a benefaction more than one’s own gains.
19. To Neratius (?) Priscus
I am very worried about Fannia’s illness. She contracted it while nursing Junia, one of the Vestal Virgins, a duty she undertook voluntarily at first (Junia being a relative of hers) and then by order of the pontiffs. (For when sickness compels the Virgins to leave the hall of Vesta, they are always committed to the care of some married woman.) This service Fannia was faithfully performing when she fell a victim to her present illness. Her fever never leaves her, her cough grows worse, and she is painfully thin and weak. There remains only the courage and the spirit wormy of her husband Helvidius and her father Thrasea: in every other way she is failing, and my anxiety on her behalf is coupled with grief, grief that so great a woman will be lost to the sight of her country when her like may not be seen again: such are her purity and integrity, her nobility and loyal heart. Twice she followed her husband into exile, and a third time was banished herself on his account. For when Senecio was on trial for having written a life of Helvidius, and said in his defence that he had done so at Fannia’s request, Mettius Carus then demanded in a threatening tone if this was true. She replied that it was. Had she lent Senecio her husband’s diaries? ‘Yes.’ Did her mother know of this? ‘No.’ Not a word in fact did she utter through fear of danger. Moreover, although the Senate was driven through fear of the times to order the destruction of the books in question, she managed to save them when her possessions were confiscated, and took them with her into the exile they had caused.
At the same time she has such friendliness and charm, the rare gift, in fact, of being able to inspire affection as well as respect. Will there be anyone now whom we can hold up as a model to our wives, from whose courage even our own sex can take example, and whom we can admire as much as the heroines of history while she is still in our midst ? To me it seems as though her whole house is shaken to its very foundations and is tottering to its fall, even though she may leave descendants; for how can their deeds and merits be sufficient to assure that the last of her line has not perished in her?
A further and more personal pain and grief for me is my feeling that I am losing her mother again – to whom I can pay no higher tribute than by calling her the famous mother of a great woman. The mother was restored to us in her daughter, but soon will be taken away with her, leaving me the pain of a re-opened wound to bear as well as this fresh blow. I honoured and loved them both -1 cannot say which the more, nor did they wish a distinction to be drawn. My services were at their command alike in prosperity and adversity; I was their comfort in exile and their champion after their return. I could never make them an adequate return, and so I am all the more anxious for Fannia’s life to be spared to give me time to pay my debt. These are my troubles at the time of writing to you; but, if one of the gods will turn them to joy, I shall make no complaint about my present fears.
20. To Cornelius Tacitus
I have read your book, and marked as carefully as I could the passages which I think should be altered or removed, for if it is my custom to tell the truth, you are always willing to hear it; no one accepts criticism so readily as those who best deserve praise. Now I am awaiting the return of my book from you, with your comments: a fair exchange which we both enjoy. I am delighted to think that if posterity takes any interest in us the tale will everywhere be told of the harmony, frankness, and loyalty of our lifelong relationship. It will seem both rare and remarkable that two men of much the same age and position, and both enjoying a certain amount of literary reputation (I can’t say much about you when it refers to me too), should have encouraged each other’s literary work.
I was still a young man when you were already winning fame and glory, and I aspired to follow in your footsteps and be ‘far behind but still the nearest’1 to you in fact and in repute. There were at the time many other distinguished men of talent, but a certain similarity in our natures made me feel that you were the person I could and should try to imitate. So I am all the happier to know that whenever conversation turns upon literature, our names are mentioned together, and that my name comes up when people talk about you. There may be writers who are ranked higher than either of us, but if we are classed together our position does not matter; for me the highest position is the one nearest to you. You must also surely have noticed in wills that unless someone has been a particular friend of one or the other of us we are left legacies of the same kind and value. All this shows that our love should be still warmer, seeing that there are so many ties to bind us in our work, character, and reputation, and, above all, in the last wishes of our friends.
21. To Cornutus Tertuttus
I obey, dear colleague, and I am seeing to my eye trouble as you bid me. I travelled here in a closed carriage with the light completely excluded, so that I might have been at home in bed, and now that I am here I am neither writing nor reading – no easy sacrifice, but I have made it – and am working only by ear. I can darken my rooms by drawing the blinds, without making them too dark, and the light in the roofed arcade is reduced by half when the lower windows have their shutters closed. By this means I am gradually reaccustoming myself to full daylight. I take baths, as they do me good, and wine, which can do no harm, but only very sparingly; this has always been my way, and now I am under supervision. I was delighted to receive the pullet, especially as it was a gift from you. My eyes may still be inflamed, but they were sharp enough to see how plump it was.
22. To Pompeius Fako
You may have felt that I was rather pressing in my request for you to confer a military tribunate on a friend of mine, but you will be less surprised when you know who and what he is. Now that I have your promise I can give you his name and a full description. He is Cornelius Minicianus, in rank and character the pride of my native district. He is well born and rich, but cares for literature as a poor professional might; and he is remarkable too for his justice on the bench, courage at the bar, and loyalty in friendship. You will feel that it is you who are receiving the favour when you come to know him more intimately and find that he is equal to any official position or distinction; I don’t want to say more in praise of the most modest of men.
23. To Calpumius Fabatus, his wife’s grandfather
I am delighted to hear that you are feeling well enough to meet Tiro at Mediolanum,1 but I must ask you to conserve your strength and not take upon yourself a burden too heavy for your years. In fact I insist that you wait for him at home, indoors and without leaving your room; for as I love him like a brother, he must not demand from one I honour as a father an attention which he would not expect his own father to show.
24. To Rosianus Geminus
Ummidia Quadratilla is dead, having almost attained the age of seventy-nine and kept her powers unimpaired up to her last illness, along with a sound constitution and sturdy physique which are rare in a woman. She died leaving an excellent will; her grandson inherits two-thirds of the estate, and her granddaughter the remaining third. I scarcely know the latter, but the grandson is a close friend of mine. He is a remarkable young man who inspires a sort of family affection amongst people in no way related to him. In the first place, though conspicuous for his good looks, he spent his youth and early manhood untouched by scandal; then he married before he was twenty-four and would have been a father had his prayers been granted. He lived in his grandmother’s house, but managed to combine personal austerity with deference to her sybaritic tastes. She kept a troupe of mimic actors whom she treated with an indulgence unsuitable in a lady of her high position, but Quadratus never watched their performances either in the theatre or at home, nor did she insist on it. Once when she was asking me to supervise her grandson’s education she told me that as a woman, with all a woman’s idle hours to fill, she was in the habit of amusing herself playing draughts or watching her mimes, but before she did either she always told Quadratus to go away and work: which, I thought, showed her respect for his youth as much as her affection.
This incident will surprise you as it did me. The last Sacerdotal Games were opened by a performance of mime, and as we left the theatre together Quadratus said to me: ‘Do you realize that today was the first time I have seen any of my grandmother’s dancers?’ So said her grandson; but meanwhile people who were nothing to Quadratilla were running to the theatre to pay their respects to her – though ‘respect’ is hardly the word to use for their fawning attentions -jumping up and clapping to show their admiration, and then copying every gesture of their mistress with snatches of song. Today there is only a tiny bequest as a gratuity for their hired applause, which they will receive from the heir who never watched them perform.
I have told you this because you are usually glad to hear of any news, and also because I like to dwell on my pleasure by writing about it. It is a joy to witness the family affection shown by the deceased and the honour done to an excellent young man, and I am happy to think that the house which once belonged to Gaius Cassius, the founder of the Cassian School of jurisprudence, will have a master no less distinguished. For my friend Quadratus will adorn it by his presence and restore its former grandeur, fame, and glory by rising to be as great an orator as Cassius was a jurist.
25. To Caninius (?) Rufus
What a number of scholars are hidden and lost to fame through their own modesty or retiring habits! And yet when we are about to make a speech or give a reading we are nervous only of those who parade their learning, whereas the others who say nothing prove themselves superior by paying a noble profession the tribute of silence. I can illustrate this from my own experience.
After Terentius Junior had held the military posts open to a knight and had also served as procurator in the province of Gallia Narbonensis, his conduct being irreproachable throughout, he retired to his estates, preferring a life of peace and leisure to the offices which could have been his. I looked upon him as a good father of his household and a hard-working farmer, so when he invited me to visit him I intended to talk on the subjects with which I imagined he was familiar; but when I began to do so the scholarly trend of his conversation led me back to literary topics. Everything he says is expressed in well-turned phrases in excellent Latin or Greek, and his proficiency in both languages is such that he always seems to speak best the one he happens to be using. He reads and remembers an immense amount; you would think Athens his home, not a country house. In short, he has increased my nervousness and made me respect these retired somewhat countrified people as much as the persons I know to be learned scholars. You should do likewise, for in the field of letters, as of battle, there are men who may be rustic in appearance, but are found on closer inspection to be well armed and equipped and full of spirit and fire.
26. To Valerius (?) Maximus
The poor health of a friend of mine has lately reminded me that we are never so virtuous as when we are ill. Has a sick man ever been tempted by greed or lust? He is neither a slave to his passions nor ambitious for office; he cares nothing for wealth and is content with the little he has, knowing that he must leave it. It is then that he remembers the gods and realizes that he is mortal: he feels neither envy, admiration, nor contempt for any man: not even slanderous talk can win his attention or give him food for thought, and his dreams are all of baths and cool springs. These are his sole concern, the object of all his prayers; meanwhile he resolves that if he is lucky enough to recover he will lead a sober and easy life in future, that is, a life of happy innocence.
So here for our guidance is the rule, put shortly, which the philosophers seek to express in endless words and volumes: in health we should continue to be the men we vowed to become when sickness prompted our words.
27. To Licinius Sura
Our leisure gives me the chance to learn and you to teach me; so I should very much like to know whether you think that ghosts exist, and have a form of their own and some sort of supernatural power, or whether they lack substance and reality and take shape only from our fears. I personally am encouraged to believe in their existence largely from what I have heard of the experience of Curtius Rufus.1 While he was still obscure and unknown he was attached to the suite of the new governor of Africa. One afternoon he was walking up and down in the colonnade of his house when there appeared to him the figure of a woman, of superhuman size and beauty. To allay his fears she told him that she was the spirit of Africa, come to foretell his future: he would return to Rome and hold office, and then return with supreme authority to the same province, where he would die. Everything came true. Moreover, the story goes on to say that as he left the boat on his arrival at Carthage the same figure met him on the shore. It is at least certain that when he fell ill he interpreted his future by the past and misfortune by his previous success, and gave up all hope of recovery although none of his people despaired of his life.
Now consider whether the following story, which I will tell just as it was told to me, is not quite as remarkable and even more terrifying. In Athens there was a large and spacious mansion with the bad reputation of being dangerous to its occupants. At dead of night the clanking of iron and, if you listened carefully, the rattle of chains could be heard, some way off at first, and then close at hand. Then there appeared the spectre of an old man, emaciated and filthy, with a long flowing beard and hair on end, wearing fetters on his legs and shaking the chains on his wrists. The wretched occupants would spend fearful nights awake in terror; lack of sleep led to illness and then death as their dread increased, for even during the day, when the apparition had vanished, the memory of it was in their mind’s eye, so that their terror remained after the cause of it had gone. The house was therefore deserted, condemned to stand empty and wholly abandoned to the spectre; but it was advertised as being to let or for sale in case someone was found who knew nothing of its evil reputation.
The philosopher Athenodorus came to Athens and read the notice. His suspicions were aroused when he heard the low price, and the whole story came out on inquiry; but he was none the less, in fact all the more, eager to rent the house. When darkness fell he gave orders that a couch was to be made up for him in the front part of the house, and asked for his notebooks, pen and a lamp. He sent all his servants to the inner rooms, and concentrated his thoughts, eyes and hand on his writing, so that his mind would be occupied and not conjure up the phantom he had heard about nor other imaginary fears. At first there was nothing but the general silence of night; then came the clanking of iron and dragging of chains. He did not look up nor stop writing, but steeled his mind to shut out the sounds. Then the noise grew louder, came nearer, was heard in the doorway, and then inside the room. He looked round, saw and recognized the ghost described to him. It stood and beckoned, as if summoning him. Athenodorus in his turn signed to it to wait a little, and again bent over his notes and pen, while it stood rattling its chains over his head as he wrote. He looked round again and saw it beckoning as before, so without further delay he picked up his lamp and followed. It moved slowly, as if weighed down with chains, and when it turned off into the courtyard of the house it suddenly vanished, leaving him alone. He then picked some plants and leaves and marked the spot. The following day he approached the magistrates, and advised them to give orders for the place to be dug up. There they found bones, twisted round with chains, which were left bare and corroded by the fetters when time and the action of the soil had rotted away the body. The bones were collected and given a public burial, and after the shades had been duly laid to rest the house saw them no more.
For these details I rely on the evidence of others, but here is a story I can vouch for myself. One of my freedmen, a man of some education, was sleeping in the same bed as his younger brother when he dreamed that he saw someone sitting on the bed and putting scissors to his hair, even cutting some off the top of his head. When day dawned he found this place shorn and the hair lying on the floor. A short time elapsed and then another similar occurrence confirmed the earlier one. A slave boy was sleeping with several others in the young slaves’ quarters. His story was that two men clad in white came in through the window, cut his hair as he lay in bed, and departed the way they had come. Daylight revealed that his head had also been shorn and the hair was scattered about. Nothing remarkable followed, except perhaps the fact that I was not brought to trial, as I should have been if Domitian (under whom all this happened) had lived longer. For amongst the papers in his desk was found information laid against me by Carus; from which, in view of the custom for accused persons to let their hair grow long, one may interpret the cutting of my slaves’ hair as a sign that the danger threatening me was averted.
So please apply your learned mind to this question; it deserves your long and careful consideration, nor can I be called undeserving as a recipient of your informed opinion. You may argue both sides of the case as you always do, but lay your emphasis on one side or the other and do not leave me in suspense and uncertainty; my reason for asking your opinion was to put an end to my doubts.
28. To Septicius Clarus
You say that people have criticized me in your hearing for taking any opportunity for exaggerated praise of my friends. I accept the charge, in fact I welcome it, for there can be no more honourable fault than warmth of heart. But who are these people who know my friends better than I do myself? And, even if they do, why grudge me happiness in my delusion? My friends may not be all I proclaim them, but it makes me happy to think that they are. Let these people transfer their misplaced attentions to someone else; they will find all too many who think it a sign of good judgement to disparage their friends, but they will never persuade me to believe that I love mine too much.
29. To Montanus
You will think it a joke – or an outrage, but a joke after all – if you read this, which has to be seen to be believed. On the road to Tibur, less than a mile from Rome, as I noticed the other day, there is a monument to Pallas1 with the following inscription: ‘To him the Senate decreed in return for his loyal services to his patrons, the insignia of a praetor, and the sum of fifteen million sesterces, but he thought fit to accept the distinction only.’
Personally I have never thought much of these honours whose distribution depends on chance rather than on a reasoned decision, but this inscription more than anything makes me realize what a ridiculous farce it is when they can be thrown away on such dirt and filth, and that rascal could presume to accept and refuse them, all with a show of setting posterity an example of moderation. But it isn’t worth my indignation; better to laugh, or such people will think they have really achieved something when their lucky chance has brought them no more than ridicule.
30. To Julius Genitor
I am deeply distressed to hear that you have lost a pupil of such promise, and, knowing your readiness with kindly attentions and generous affection for anyone of whom you think highly, I cannot but feel that his illness and death have interfered with your own work.
As for me, I am pursued by city business even here, for there is no lack of people wanting me to act as judge or arbitrator, and then there are the peasants who claim their right after my long absence to vex my ears with their complaints. The necessity of letting my farms is also becoming urgent and giving a good deal of trouble, for suitable tenants can rarely be found. Consequently I can only beg a moment here and there for my own work, though I am working, for I write a little and read; though comparison with my reading only makes me realize how badly I write, however much you encourage me by comparing my speeches in vindication of Helvidius1 with Demosthenes’ speech against Meidias. I admit that I had this by me while I was writing my own speech, not with any idea of rivalling it – it would be madness to presume so far – but treating it as a model to follow as closely as the diversity of subject permitted, and the difference between my own small talent and Demosthenes’ genius allowed.
31. To Cornutus Tertullus
Claudius Pollio is anxious for your friendship, which he deserves for that very reason, and also because he has a real affection for you himself – for few people expect this from others if they do not first feel it themselves. He is besides a man of honour and integrity, retiring and modest almost to excess, if that were possible. We did our military service together, when I came to know him more intimately than just as a fellow soldier. He was in command of a cavalry division, while I had been ordered by the consular legate to audit the accounts of the cavalry and infantry divisions; in several cases I found a great deal of shocking rapacity and deliberate inaccuracy, by contrast with his accounts which had been kept with scrupulous care and complete honesty. On his subsequent promotion to important administrative posts he could never be tempted out of his deep-rooted dislike of personal gain; success never went to his head, and, in all the various posts he held, he preserved intact his reputation for humanity while applying the same strength of purpose to all his duties, as he now shows in his present retirement. He did indeed once (to his greater glory) return temporarily to active life when he was chosen by our friend Corellius to assist him in the purchase and distribution of land made possible through the generosity of the Emperor Nerva; and there could be no higher honour than to be the special choice of so great a man from such a wide field for selection.
You can also be assured of Pollio’s respect and loyalty for his friends by the dying wishes of many people, amongst them Annius Bassus whose merit is well known, and whose memory Pollio preserves and perpetuates in the grateful tribute of a published biography; for he cultivates literature as he does every honest pursuit. Such splendid conduct deserves praise for its very rarity, seeing that the majority of people remember their dead friends only to complain about them. This, then, is the man who so much desires your friendship, so that you should, if you will trust me, welcome him with open arms and summon him to your side with affection so as to show your gratitude. For, according to the code of friendship, the one who takes the initiative puts the other in his debt and owes no more until he is repaid.
32. To Calpurnius Fabatus, his wife’s grandfather
I am glad you enjoyed my friend Tiro’s visit, and particularly pleased to hear that you took the opportunity of his presence with a governor’s authority to liberate a number of your slaves. I am always anxious for the advancement of our native place, and above all through the increasing numbers of her citizens, for that is a tribute which sets a town on the surest of foundations.
One other thing pleases me I confess, not that I am courting popularity; you go on to say that you and I were both warmly praised in a vote of thanks, and, as Xenophon says, ‘praise is the sweetest thing to hear’,1 especially if it is felt to be deserved.
33. To Cornelius Tacitus
I believe that your histories will be immortal: a prophecy which will surely prove correct. That is why (I frankly admit) I am anxious to appear in them. We are usually careful to see that none but the best artists shall portray our features, so why should we not want our deeds to be blessed by a writer like yourself to celebrate them? So here is an account of an incident which can hardly have escaped your watchful eye, since it appeared in the official records; but I am sending it so that you may be assured of my pleasure if this action of mine, which gained interest from the risks attending it, shall be distinguished by the testimony of your genius.
The Senate had instructed me to act with Herennius Senedo as counsel for the province of Baetica against Baebius Massa,1 and after Massa’s conviction had passed the resolution that his property should be kept in official custody. Senecio then discovered that the consuls would be willing to hear Massa’s claims for restitution, so sought me out and proposed that we should continue to act in unity as we had done in carrying out the prosecution entrusted to us: we should approach the consuls and ask them not to allow the dispersal of the property which they were responsible for holding in custody. I pointed out that we had acted as counsel by appointment of the Senate, and asked him to consider whether perhaps we had come to the end of our role now that the case was over. ‘You can set what limit you like to your own responsibilities,’ he said, ‘for you have no connexion with the province except the recent one of the services you have rendered, but I was born in Baetica and served as quaestor there.’ ‘If your mind is made up,’ I said, ‘I will act with you, so that if any ill-will results, you will not have to face it alone.’
We went to the consuls. Senecio said what was necessary and I added a few words. We had scarcely finished speaking when Massa complained that Senecio had displayed the animosity of a personal enemy rather than a professional counsel’s honour, and demanded leave to prosecute him for treason. Amidst the general consternation I began to speak: ‘Most noble consuls, I am afraid that by not including me in his accusation Massa’s very silence has charged me with collusion with himself.’ These words were acclaimed at once and subsequently much talked about; indeed, the deified Emperor Nerva (who never failed to notice anything done for the good of the State even before he became Emperor) sent me a most impressive letter in which he congratulated not only me but our generation for being blessed with an example so much (he said) in the best tradition.
Whatever the merit of this incident, you can make it better known and even famous, but I am not asking you to go beyond what is due to the facts. History should always confine itself to the truth, which in its turn is enough for honest deeds.