Consolation for His Mother Helvia

I. My best of mothers, I have often felt eager to console you, and have as often checked that impulse. Many things urged me to make the attempt: in the first place, I thought that if, though I might not be able to restrain your tears, yet that if I could even wipe them away, I should set myself free from all my own sorrows: then I was quite sure that I should rouse you from your grief with more authority if I had first shaken it off myself. I feared, too, lest Fortune, though overcome by me, might nevertheless overcome some one of my family. Then I endeavoured to crawl and bind up your wounds in the best way I could, holding my hand over my own wound; but then again other considerations occurred to me which held me back: I knew that I must not oppose your grief during its first transports, lest my very attempts at consolation might irritate it, and add fuel to it: for in diseases, also, there is nothing more hurtful than medicine applied too soon. I waited, therefore, until it exhausted itself by its own violence, and being weakened by time, so that it was able to bear remedies, would allow itself to be handled and touched. Beside this, while turning over all the works which the greatest geniuses have composed, for the purpose of soothing and pacifying grief, I could not find any instance of one who had offered consolation to his relatives, while he himself was being sorrowed over by them. Thus, the subject being a new one, I hesitated and feared that instead of consoling, I might embitter your grief. Then there was the thought that a man who had only just raised his head after burying his child, and who wished to console his friends, would require to use new phrases not taken from our common every-day words of comfort: but every sorrow of more than usual magnitude must needs prevent one’s choosing one’s words, seeing that it often prevents one’s using one’s very voice. However this may be, I will make the attempt, not trusting in my own genius, but because my consolation will be most powerful since it is I who offer it. You never would deny me anything, and I hope, though all grief is obstinate, that you will surely not refuse me this request, that you will allow me to set bounds to your sorrow.

I. My dearest mother, I have often wanted to comfort you, and just as often held myself back. Many things urged me to try. First, I thought I might not be able to stop your tears, but I could at least wipe them away. If I could do even that, I would free myself from all my own sorrows. Then I felt certain I could speak more firmly in urging you out of grief if I had first overcome my own. I also feared that Fortune, though I had overcome her, might still overcome someone in my family. So I tried to crawl toward you and bandage your wounds as best I could, keeping one hand over my own wound. But other thoughts held me back again. I knew I must not resist your grief in its first violent outbursts. My very efforts to comfort you might stir up your grief and fuel it. With illnesses, too, nothing does more harm than medicine given too soon. So I waited for your grief to exhaust itself through its own violence and weaken with time. Then your grief could bear treatment and allow itself to be handled and touched. Besides, I searched all the works that the greatest minds had written to soothe and calm grief. But I found no example of anyone comforting relatives who were grieving for the person offering comfort. Since the situation was new, I hesitated, afraid I might deepen your grief instead of easing it. Then I thought of a man who had only just lifted his head after burying his child. If he wished to comfort his friends, he would need new expressions, not our ordinary, everyday words of comfort. Yet any unusually great sorrow must prevent us from choosing our words, since such sorrow often leaves us unable even to speak. Be that as it may, I will try. I do not trust in my own talent. Rather, my comfort will have the greatest power because I am the one offering it. You have never denied me anything. Although all grief is stubborn, I hope you will not refuse this request: let me set limits to your sorrow.

II. See how far I have presumed upon your indulgence: I have no doubts about my having more power over you than your grief, than which nothing has more power over the unhappy. In order, therefore, to avoid encountering it straightway, I will at first take its part and offer it every encouragement: I will rip up and bring to light again wounds already scarred. Some one may say, “What sort of consolation is this, for a man to rake up buried evils, and to bring all its sorrows before a mind which scarcely can bear the sight of one?” but let him reflect that diseases which are so malignant that they do but gather strength from ordinary remedies, may often be cured by the opposite treatment: I will, therefore, display before your grief all its woes and miseries: this will be to effect a cure, not by soothing measures, but by cautery and the knife. What shall I gain by this? I shall make the mind that could overcome so many sorrows, ashamed to bewail one wound more in a body so full of scars. Let those whose feeble minds have been enervated by a long period of happiness, weep and lament for many days, and faint away on receiving the slightest blow: but those whose years have all been passed amid catastrophes should bear the severest losses with brave and unyielding patience. Continual misfortune has this one advantage, that it ends by rendering callous those whom it is always scourging. Ill fortune has given you no respite, and has not left even your birthday free from the bitterest grief: you lost your mother as soon as you were born, nay, while you were being born, and you came into life, as it were, an outcast: you grew up under a step-mother, whom you made into a mother by all the obedience and respect which even a real daughter could have bestowed upon her: and even a good step-mother costs every one dear. You lost your most affectionate uncle, a brave and excellent man, just when you were awaiting his return: and, lest Fortune should weaken its blows by dividing them, within a month you lost your beloved husband, by whom you had become the mother of three children. This sorrowful news was brought you while you were already in mourning, while all your children were absent, so that all your misfortunes seemed to have been purposely brought upon you at a time when your grief could nowhere find any repose. I pass over all the dangers and alarms which you have endured without any respite: it was but the other day that you received the bones of three of your grandchildren in the bosom from which you had sent them forth: less than twenty days after you had buried my child, who perished in your arms and amid your kisses, you heard that I had been exiled: you wanted only this drop in your cup, to have to weep for those who still lived.

II. See how much I have counted on your patience with me. I have no doubt that I have more power over you than your grief does. And nothing has more power over the unhappy than grief. So, to avoid confronting your grief at once, I will first take its side and give it every encouragement. I will tear open wounds that have already healed and expose them again. Someone may say, “What kind of comfort is this? Why dig up buried troubles and confront a mind with all its sorrows when it can barely face one?” But let that person consider diseases so severe that ordinary remedies only make them stronger. Such diseases may often be cured by the opposite treatment. So I will lay all your woes and miseries before your grief. My aim is to cure you, not with soothing remedies, but by burning and cutting. What will I gain by this? Your mind has overcome so many sorrows. I will make it ashamed to mourn one more wound in a body already covered in scars. Let those whose weak minds have been softened by years of happiness weep and mourn for days. Let them faint at the slightest blow. But those who have spent all their years amid disasters should bear the heaviest losses with brave, unshakable patience. Constant misfortune has this one advantage: in the end, it numbs those it keeps beating. Ill fortune has given you no relief. It did not spare you the bitterest grief even on the day you were born. You lost your mother as soon as you were born. Indeed, you lost her while you were being born, entering life, as it were, an outcast. You grew up with a stepmother and made her a mother through your obedience and respect. You gave her all the obedience and respect that even her own daughter could have shown her. And even a good stepmother comes at a great cost to anyone. You lost your deeply loving uncle, a brave and excellent man, just as you were expecting his return. And, as if Fortune feared weakening its blows by spreading them out, you lost your beloved husband within a month. You had become the mother of three children by him. This sorrowful news reached you while you were already in mourning and all your children were away. So all your misfortunes seemed deliberately timed to leave your grief nowhere to rest. I pass over all the dangers and fears you have endured without a break. Only the other day, you received the bones of three grandchildren into the arms that had sent them out. Less than twenty days after burying my child, who died in your arms and amid your kisses, you heard of my exile. Your cup of sorrow needed only this last drop: having to weep for those who were still alive.

III. The last wound is, I admit, the severest that you have ever yet sustained: it has not merely torn the skin, but has pierced you to the very heart: yet as recruits cry aloud when only slightly wounded, and shudder more at the hands of the surgeon than at the sword, while veterans even when transfixed allow their hurts to be dressed without a groan, and as patiently as if they were in some one else’s body, so now you ought to offer yourself courageously to be healed. Lay aside lamentations and wailings, and all the usual noisy manifestations of female sorrow: you have gained nothing by so many misfortunes, if you have not learned how to suffer. Now, do I seem not to have spared you? nay, I have not passed over any of your sorrows, but have placed them all together in a mass before you.

III. Your latest wound is, I admit, the worst you have ever suffered. It has not just torn your skin but pierced your heart. Yet new recruits cry out at slight wounds and fear the surgeon’s hands more than the sword. Veterans, however, let their wounds be treated without a groan, even when a sword has pierced them through. They bear the treatment as patiently as if the wounds were in someone else’s body. So now you too must bravely allow yourself to be healed. Put aside your laments, your wailing, and all the usual noisy displays of women’s grief. You have gained nothing from so many misfortunes if you have not learned how to suffer. Now, does it seem that I have not spared you? No, I have not skipped any of your sorrows. Instead, I have gathered them all together before you.

IV. I have done this by way of a heroic remedy: for I have determined to conquer this grief of yours, not merely to limit it; and I shall conquer it, I believe, if in the first place I can prove that I am not suffering enough to entitle me to be called unhappy, let alone to justify me in rendering my family unhappy: and, secondly, if I can deal with your case and prove that even your misfortune, which comes upon you entirely through me, is not a severe one.

IV. I have done this as a drastic remedy, because I am determined to conquer your grief, not merely limit it. I believe I shall conquer your grief if I can prove two things. First, I must show that I am not suffering enough to be called unhappy, much less to justify making my family unhappy. Second, I must consider your situation and show that your misfortune is not severe, even though it comes entirely through me.

The point to which I shall first address myself is that of which your motherly love longs to hear, I mean, that I am not suffering: if I can, I will make it clear to you that the events by which you think that I am overwhelmed, are not unendurable: if you cannot believe this, I at any rate shall be all the more pleased with myself for being happy under circumstances which could make most men miserable. You need not believe what others say about me: that you may not be puzzled by any uncertainty as to what to think, I distinctly tell you that I am not miserable: I will add, for your greater comfort, that it is not possible for me to be made miserable.

I will begin with what your love as a mother makes you long to hear: I am not suffering. If I can, I will show you that the events you think have overwhelmed me are not unbearable. If you cannot believe me, I will be all the more pleased with myself. For I am happy in circumstances that could make most men miserable. You need not believe what others say about me. To spare you any uncertainty about what to think, I tell you plainly that I am not miserable. And to give you even greater comfort, I will add that nothing can make me miserable.

V. We are born to a comfortable position enough, if we do not afterwards lose it: the aim of Nature has been to enable us to live well without needing a vast apparatus to enable us to do so: every man is able by himself to make himself happy. External circumstances have very little importance either for good or for evil: the wise man is neither elated by prosperity nor depressed by adversity; for he has always endeavoured to depend chiefly upon himself and to derive all his joys from himself. Do I, then, call myself a wise man? far from it: for were I able to profess myself wise, I should not only say that I was not unhappy, but should avow myself to be the most fortunate of men, and to be raised almost to the level of a god: as it is, I have applied myself to the society of wise men, which suffices to lighten all sorrows, and, not being as yet able to rely upon my own strength, I have betaken myself for refuge to the camp of others, of those, namely, who can easily defend both themselves and their friends. They have ordered me always to stand as it were on guard, and to mark the attacks and charges of Fortune long before she delivers them; she is only terrible to those whom she catches unawares; he who is always looking out for her assault, easily sustains it: for so also an invasion of the enemy overthrows those by whom it is unexpected, but those who have prepared themselves for the coming war before it broke out, stand in their ranks fully equipped and repel with ease the first, which is always the most furious onset. I never have trusted in Fortune, even when she seemed most peaceful. I have accepted all the gifts of wealth, high office, and influence, which she has so bountifully bestowed upon me, in such a manner that she can take them back again without disturbing me: I have kept a great distance between them and myself: and therefore she has taken them, not painfully torn them away from me. No man loses anything by the frowns of Fortune unless he has been deceived by her smiles: those who have enjoyed her bounty as though it were their own heritage for ever, and who have chosen to take precedence of others because of it, lie in abject sorrow when her unreal and fleeting delights forsake their empty childish minds, that know nothing about solid pleasure: but he who has not been puffed up by success, does not collapse after failure: he possesses a mind of tried constancy, superior to the influences of either state; for even in the midst of prosperity he has experimented upon his powers of enduring adversity. Consequently I have always believed that there was no real good in any of those things which all men desire: I then found that they were empty, and merely painted over with artificial and deceitful dyes, without containing anything within which corresponds to their outside: I now find nothing so harsh and fearful as the common opinion of mankind threatened me with in this which is known as adversity: the word itself, owing to the prevalent belief and ideas current about it, strikes somewhat unpleasantly upon one’s ears, and thrills the hearers as something dismal and accursed, for so hath the vulgar decreed that it should be: but a great many of the decrees of the vulgar are reversed by the wise.

V. We are born into comfortable enough circumstances, if we do not later lose that comfort. Nature’s aim has been to let us live well without needing elaborate resources. Every man can make himself happy through his own efforts. External circumstances matter very little, either for good or for evil. The wise man is neither carried away by prosperity nor brought down by hardship. He has always tried to depend chiefly on himself and to draw all his joys from within. Do I, then, call myself wise? Far from it. If I could claim to be wise, I would not merely say that I was not unhappy. I would declare myself the most fortunate of men, raised almost to the level of a god. As things stand, I have sought the company of wise men, and their company is enough to ease all sorrows. Since I cannot yet rely on my own strength, I have taken refuge in the camp of others. These men can easily defend both themselves and their friends. They have told me always to stand guard, watching for Fortune’s attacks and charges long before she launches them. She terrifies only those she catches unprepared. Anyone who constantly watches for her attack can easily withstand it. In the same way, an enemy invasion overwhelms those who do not expect it. But those who prepare for war before it begins stand fully equipped in their ranks. They easily repel the first attack, which is always the fiercest. I have never trusted Fortune, even when she seemed most peaceful. She has generously given me wealth, high office, and influence. I have accepted all these gifts on terms that let her reclaim them without disturbing me. I have kept a great distance between these gifts and myself. So she has taken them back, not painfully torn them away from me. No man loses anything when Fortune frowns unless her smiles have deceived him. Some have enjoyed her gifts as though they were their inheritance forever. They have chosen to place themselves above others because of those gifts. When her false and fleeting delights abandon them, they sink into utter misery. Their empty, childish minds know nothing of lasting pleasure. But a man who has not been puffed up by success does not collapse after failure. His mind has proved its steadiness and rises above the influence of either condition. For even during prosperity, he has tested his ability to endure hardship. I have therefore always believed that none of the things all men desire contains any real good. Back then, I found those things empty, merely coated in false and deceptive colors. Nothing inside matched their outward appearance. Now, in what people call adversity, I find nothing as harsh and frightening as common opinion had warned me. Because of prevailing beliefs and ideas, even the word “adversity” sounds somewhat unpleasant. It sends a shudder through listeners, as though it named something gloomy and cursed. For that is what ordinary people have decided it must mean. But the wise overturn a great many of the judgments ordinary people make.

VI. Setting aside, then, the verdict of the majority, who are carried away by the first appearance of things and the usual opinion about them, let us consider what is meant by exile: clearly a changing from one place to another. That I may not seem to be narrowing its force, and taking away its worst parts, I must add, that this changing of place is accompanied by poverty, disgrace, and contempt. Against these I will combat later on: meanwhile I wish to consider what there is unpleasant in the mere act of changing one’s place of abode.

VI. Let us set aside the judgment of the majority, who are swayed by first impressions and popular opinion. Let us consider what exile means: clearly, moving from one place to another. I must not seem to downplay exile or leave out its worst aspects. So I must add that this move comes with poverty, disgrace, and contempt. I will argue against these hardships later. For now, I want to consider what is unpleasant about simply moving from one home to another.

”It is unbearable,” men say, “to lose one’s native land.” Look, I pray you, on these vast crowds, for whom all the countless roofs of Rome can scarcely find shelter: the greater part of those crowds have lost their native land: they have flocked hither from their country towns and colonies, and in fine from all parts of the world. Some have been brought by ambition, some by the exigencies of public office, some by being entrusted with embassies, some by luxury which seeks a convenient spot, rich in vices, for its exercise, some by their wish for a liberal education, others by a wish to see the public shows. Some have been led hither by friendship, some by industry, which finds here a wide field for the display of its powers. Some have brought their beauty for sale, some their eloquence: people of every kind assemble themselves together in Rome, which sets a high price both upon virtues and vices. Bid them all to be summoned to answer to their names, and ask each one from what home he has come: you will find that the greater part of them have left their own abodes, and journeyed to a city which, though great and beauteous beyond all others, is nevertheless not their own. Then leave this city, which may be said to be the common property of all men, and visit all other towns: there is not one of them which does not contain a large proportion of aliens. Pass away from those whose delightful situation and convenient position attracts many settlers: examine wildernesses and the most rugged islands, Sciathus and Seriphus, Gyarus and Corsica: you will find no place of exile where some one does not dwell for his own pleasure. What can be found barer or more precipitous on every side than this rock? what more barren in respect of food? what more uncouth in its inhabitants? more mountainous in its configuration? or more rigorous in its climate? yet even here there are more strangers than natives. So far, therefore, is the mere change of place from being irksome, that even this place has allured some away from their country. I find some writers who declare that mankind has a natural itch for change of abode and alteration of domicile: for the mind of man is wandering and unquiet; it never stands still, but spreads itself abroad and sends forth its thoughts into all regions, known or unknown; being nomadic, impatient of repose, and loving novelty beyond everything else. You need not be suprised at this, if you reflect upon its original source: it is not formed from the same elements as the heavy and earthly body, but from heavenly spirit: now heavenly things are by their nature always in motion, speeding along and flying with the greatest swiftness. Look at the luminaries which light the world: none of them stands still. The sun is perpetually in motion, and passes from one quarter to another, and although he revolves with the entire heaven, yet nevertheless he has a motion in the contrary direction to that of the universe itself, and passes through all the constellations without remaining in any: his wandering is incessant, and he never ceases to move from place to place. All things continually revolve and are for ever changing; they pass from one position to another in accordance with natural and unalterable laws: after they have completed a certain circuit in a fixed space of time, they begin again the path which they had previously trodden. Be not surprised, then, if the human mind, which is formed from the same seeds as the heavenly bodies, delights in change and wandering, since the divine nature itself either takes pleasure in constant and exceeding swift motion or perhaps even preserves its existence thereby.

“It is unbearable,” people say, “to lose your homeland.” Look, I ask you, at these vast crowds. All Rome’s countless roofs can barely shelter them. Most of these people have lost their homeland. They have flocked here from their country towns and colonies, and, in short, from every part of the world. Some have come because of ambition, some because of the demands of public office, and some as ambassadors. Some have come to indulge their taste for luxury in a convenient place rich in vices. Some seek a broad education, while others want to see the public shows. Friendship has brought some here. Others have come because their work finds ample scope here for their talents. Some have brought their beauty to sell, others their eloquence. People of every kind gather in Rome, where both virtues and vices command a high price. Have them all called forward by name, and ask each person what home they came from. You will find that most have left their own homes and traveled to a city that is not their own. Rome remains foreign to them, though greater and more beautiful than any other city. Now leave this city, which may be called the common property of all humanity, and visit every other town. Not one lacks a large proportion of people from elsewhere. Pass beyond the towns whose pleasant settings and convenient locations attract many settlers. Examine wildernesses and the most rugged islands, Sciathus and Seriphus, Gyarus and Corsica. You will find no place of exile where someone does not live by choice and for pleasure. What place could be more bare than this rock, or more steep on every side? What place produces less food, has rougher inhabitants, is more mountainous, or has a harsher climate? Yet even here, newcomers outnumber natives. So a mere change of place is far from being a hardship. Even this place has drawn some people away from their homeland. I find some writers who say that human beings have a natural urge to move and change their homes. For the human mind is restless and wandering. The mind never stands still, but ranges outward, sending its thoughts into every region, known or unknown. The mind roams, cannot bear rest, and loves novelty above everything else. You need not be surprised by this restlessness if you consider where the mind originally came from. The mind is not made from the same elements as the heavy, earthly body, but from heavenly spirit. Heavenly things are naturally always moving, speeding and flying along with the greatest swiftness. Look at the heavenly bodies that light the world. Not one stands still. The sun is always moving, passing from one region to another. Although the sun revolves with the whole sky, the sun also moves in the opposite direction to the universe itself. The sun passes through all the constellations without remaining in any. Its wandering is constant, and it never stops moving from place to place. All things continually revolve and change forever. They pass from one position to another according to natural, unchanging laws. After completing a particular circuit within a fixed time, they begin again along the path they traveled before. So do not be surprised if the human mind delights in change and wandering. The mind is formed from the same seeds as the heavenly bodies. For the divine nature itself either enjoys constant, exceedingly swift motion or perhaps even depends on that motion for its existence.

VII. Come now, turn from divine to human affairs: you will see that whole tribes and nations have changed their abodes. What is the meaning of Greek cities in the midst of barbarous districts? or of the Macedonian language existing among the Indians and the Persians? Scythia and all that region which swarms with wild and uncivilized tribes boasts nevertheless Achaean cities along the shores of the Black Sea. Neither the rigours of eternal winter, nor the character of men as savage as their climate, has prevented people migrating thither. There is a mass of Athenians in Asia Minor. Miletus has sent out into various parts of the world citizens enough to populate seventy-five cities. That whole coast of Italy which is washed by the Lower Sea is a part of what once was “Greater Greece.” Asia claims the Tuscans as her own: there are Tyrians living in Africa, Carthaginians in Spain; Greeks have pushed in among the Gauls, and Gauls among the Greeks. The Pyrenees have proved no barrier to the Germans: human caprice makes its way through pathless and unknown regions: men drag along with them their children, their wives, and their aged and worn-out parents. Some have been tossed hither and thither by long wanderings, until they have become too wearied to choose an abode, but have settled in whatever place was nearest to them: others have made themselves masters of foreign countries by force of arms: some nations while making for parts unknown have been swallowed up by the sea: some have established themselves in the place in which they were originally stranded by utter destitution. Nor have all men had the same reasons for leaving their country and for seeking for a new one: some have escaped from their cities when destroyed by hostile armies, and having lost their own lands have been thrust upon those of others: some have been cast out by domestic quarrels: some have been driven forth in consequence of an excess of population, in order to relieve the pressure at home: some have been forced to leave by pestilence, or frequent earthquakes, or some unbearable defects of a barren soil: some have been seduced by the fame of a fertile and over-praised clime. Different people have been led away from their homes by different causes; but in all cases it is clear that nothing remains in the same place in which it was born: the movement of the human race is perpetual: in this vast world some changes take place daily. The foundations of new cities are laid, new names of nations arise, while the former ones die out, or become absorbed by more powerful ones. And yet what else are all these general migrations but the banishments of whole peoples? Why should I lead you through all these details? what is the use of mentioning Antenor the founder of Padua, or Evander who established his kingdom of Arcadian settlers on the banks of the Tiber? or Diomedes and the other heroes, both victors and vanquished, whom the Trojan war scattered over lands which were not their own? It is a fact that the Roman Empire itself traces its origin back to an exile as its founder, who, fleeing from his country after its conquest, with what few relics he had saved from the wreck, had been brought to Italy by hard necessity and fear of his conqueror, which bade him seek distant lands. Since then, how many colonies has this people sent forth into every province? wherever the Roman conquers, there he dwells. These migrations always found people eager to take part in them, and veteran soldiers desert their native hearths and follow the flag of the colonists across the sea. The matter does not need illustrations by any more examples: yet I will add one more which I have before my eyes: this very island¹ has often changed its inhabitants. Not to mention more ancient events, which have become obscure from their antiquity, the Greeks who inhabit Marseilles at the present day, when they left Phocaea, first settled here, and it is doubtful what drove them hence, whether it was the rigour of the climate, the sight of the more powerful land of Italy, or the want of harbours on the coast: for the fact of their having placed themselves in the midst of what were then the most savage and uncouth tribes of Gaul proves that they were not driven hence by the ferocity of the natives. Subsequently the Ligurians came over into this same island, and also the Spaniards,² which is proved by the resemblance of their customs: for they wear the same head-coverings and the same sort of shoes as the Cantabrians, and some of their words are the same: for by association with Greeks and Ligurians they have entirely lost their native speech. Hither since then have been brought two Roman colonies, one by Marius, the other by Sulla: so often has the population of this barren and thorny rock been changed. In fine, you will scarcely find any land which is still in the hands of its original inhabitants: all peoples have become confused and intermingled: one has come after another: one has wished for what another scorned: some have been driven out of the land which they took from another. Thus fate has decreed that nothing should ever enjoy an uninterrupted course of good fortune.

VII. Come now, turn from divine matters to human affairs. You will see that whole tribes and nations have moved their homes. How else do you explain Greek cities in the middle of barbarian lands? Or the Macedonian language among the Indians and the Persians? Scythia and that whole region teem with wild, uncivilized tribes. Yet they boast Achaean cities along the shores of the Black Sea. Neither the harsh, endless winter nor people as savage as their climate have prevented migration there. Large numbers of Athenians live in Asia Minor. Miletus has sent enough citizens around the world to populate seventy-five cities. The entire Italian coast along the Lower Sea forms part of what was once “Greater Greece.” Asia claims the Tuscans as her own. Tyrians live in Africa, and Carthaginians in Spain. Greeks have pushed into the lands of the Gauls, and Gauls into those of the Greeks. The Pyrenees have proved no barrier to the Germans. Human whim finds a way through unknown regions without paths. People drag their children, wives, and weary, aging parents along with them. Some have wandered from place to place until they became too tired to choose a home. Instead, they settled wherever was nearest. Others have conquered foreign countries by force of arms. Some nations, heading for unknown lands, have been swallowed by the sea. Others have settled wherever utter poverty first left them stranded. Nor has everyone had the same reasons for leaving one country and seeking another. Some escaped when enemy armies destroyed their cities. Having lost their own lands, they were forced onto the lands of others. Some were driven out by internal conflicts. Others were sent away because of overpopulation, to ease the pressure at home. Some were forced to leave by disease, frequent earthquakes, or the unbearable shortcomings of barren land. Others were lured by reports of a fertile country praised beyond its worth. Different causes have led different people away from home. But every case makes one thing clear: nothing stays where it was born. The human race is always moving. In this vast world, changes happen every day. New cities are founded, and new nations acquire names. Meanwhile, earlier nations die out or are absorbed by more powerful ones. Yet what are all these mass migrations but the exile of whole peoples? Why should I take you through all these details? Why mention Antenor, the founder of Padua? Or Evander, who founded his kingdom of Arcadian settlers on the banks of the Tiber? Or Diomedes and the other heroes, both victors and defeated, whom the Trojan war scattered across foreign lands? The Roman Empire itself traces its beginnings to an exile as its founder. He fled his country after its conquest, carrying the few remnants he had saved from the wreckage. Harsh necessity brought him to Italy. Fear of his conqueror had forced him to seek distant lands. Since then, how many colonies have the Romans sent into every province? Wherever the Roman conquers, he settles. These migrations always found eager participants. Veteran soldiers leave their native hearths and follow the colonists’ flag across the sea. No more examples are needed. Yet I will add one more, right before my eyes: this very island¹ has often changed its inhabitants. I will leave aside earlier events, now obscured by time. The Greeks now living in Marseilles first settled here after leaving Phocaea. What drove them away is uncertain. Was it the harsh climate, the sight of the more powerful land of Italy, or the lack of coastal harbours? They later settled among what were then the wildest and most uncivilized tribes of Gaul. That choice proves that the islanders’ savagery did not drive them away. Later, the Ligurians came to this same island, as did the Spaniards,² as similarities in their customs prove. They wear the same head coverings and the same kinds of shoes as the Cantabrians. Some of their words are also the same. For through contact with Greeks and Ligurians, they have entirely lost their native language. Since then, two Roman colonies have been brought here, one by Marius and the other by Sulla. So often has the population of this barren, thorny rock changed. In short, you will hardly find any land still held by its original inhabitants. All peoples have become mixed and intermingled. One has followed another. One has wanted what another rejected. Some have been driven from land they themselves took from others. So fate has decreed that nothing should ever enjoy uninterrupted good fortune.

VIII. Varro, that most learned of all the Romans, thought that for the mere change of place, apart from the other evils attendant on exile, we may find a sufficient remedy in the thought that wherever we go we always have the same Nature to deal with. Marcus Brutus thought that there was sufficient comfort in the thought that those who go into exile are permitted to carry their virtues thither with them. Though one might think that neither of these alone were able to console an exile, yet it must be confessed that when combined they have great power: for how very little it is that we lose! whithersoever we betake ourselves two most excellent things will accompany us, namely, a common Nature and our own especial virtue. Believe me, this is the work of whoever was the Creator of the universe, whether he be an all-powerful deity, an incorporeal mind which effects vast works, a divine spirit by which all things from the greatest to the smallest are equally pervaded, or fate and an unalterable connected sequence of events, this, I say, is its work, that nothing above the very lowest can ever fall into the power of another: all that is best for a man’s enjoyment lies beyond human power, and can neither be bestowed or taken away: this world, the greatest and the most beautiful of Nature’s productions, and its noblest part, a mind which can behold and admire it, are our own property, and will remain with us as long as we ourselves endure. Let us therefore briskly and cheerfully hasten with undaunted steps whithersoever circumstances call us: let us wander over whatever countries we please; no place of banishment can be found in the whole world in which man cannot find a home. I can raise my eyes from the earth to the sky in one place as well as in another; the heavenly bodies are everywhere equally near to mankind: accordingly, as long as my eyes are not deprived of that spectacle of which they never can have their fill, as long as I am allowed to gaze on the sun and moon, to dwell upon the other stars, to speculate upon their risings and settings, their periods, and the reasons why they move faster or slower, to see so many stars glittering throughout the night, some fixed, some not moving in a wide orbit but revolving in their own proper track, some suddenly diverging from it, some dazzling our eyes by a fiery blaze as though they were falling, or flying along drawing after them a long trail of brilliant light: while I am permitted to commune with these, and to hold intercourse, as far as a human being may, with all the company of heaven, while I can raise my spirit aloft to view its kindred sparks above, what does it matter upon what soil I tread?

VIII. Varro, the most learned of all the Romans, considered how to ease the distress of simply changing places. He set aside the other hardships of exile. For the change of place alone, he thought one idea offered enough comfort: wherever we go, we encounter the same Nature. Marcus Brutus thought another idea offered enough comfort: those who go into exile can take their virtues with them. Neither thought alone may seem enough to comfort an exile. Yet we must admit that together they have great power. For how little we lose! Wherever we go, two excellent things accompany us: the Nature we all share and our own particular virtue. Believe me, whoever created the universe made things this way. The Creator may be an all-powerful deity or a mind without a body that accomplishes vast works. Or he may be a divine spirit that fills all things equally, from the greatest to the smallest. Or the Creator may be fate, an unchangeable chain of connected events. Whatever the Creator is, this is his work: only the very lowest things can ever fall under another person's control. All the best things a person can enjoy lie beyond human power. No one can give them to us or take them away. This world, the greatest and most beautiful of Nature's creations, belongs to us. So does Nature's noblest part, a mind capable of seeing and admiring the world. Both will remain ours as long as we live. So let us hurry eagerly and cheerfully, with fearless steps, wherever circumstances call us. Let us wander through whatever countries we please. Nowhere in the whole world is there a place of exile where a person cannot find a home. I can lift my eyes from the earth to the sky in one place as easily as another. The heavenly bodies are equally near to people everywhere. My eyes can never have enough of that sight. As long as I am not denied it, what does it matter what soil I walk on? As long as I can gaze at the sun and moon and study the other stars, what does it matter? I can consider their rising and setting, their cycles, and why they move faster or slower. I can watch so many stars glitter throughout the night. Some are fixed. Others do not move in a wide orbit but turn along their own paths. Some suddenly leave their paths. Some dazzle our eyes with a fiery blaze, as though falling. Others fly along, drawing a long trail of brilliant light behind them. As long as I can commune with these heavenly bodies, what does it matter what soil I walk on? As long as I can share in all the company of heaven, as far as a human being can? As long as I can lift my spirit to look upon its kindred sparks above?

IX. “But this country does not produce beautiful or fruit-bearing trees; it is not watered by the courses of large or navigable rivers; it bears nothing which other nations would covet, since its produce barely suffices to support its inhabitants: no precious marbles are quarried here, no veins of gold and silver are dug out.” What of that! It must be a narrow mind that takes pleasure in things of the earth: it ought to be turned away from them to the contemplation of those which can be seen everywhere, which are equally brilliant everywhere: we ought to reflect, also, that these vulgar matters by a mistaken perversion of ideas prevent really good things reaching us: the further men stretch out their porticos, the higher they raise their towers, the more widely they extend their streets, the deeper they sink their retreats from the heats of summer, the more ponderous the roofs with which they cover their banqueting halls, the more there will be to obstruct their view of heaven. Fortune has cast you into a country in which there is no lodging more splendid than a cottage: you must indeed have a poor spirit, and one which seeks low sources of consolation, if you endure this bravely because you have seen the cottage of Romulus: say, rather, “Should that lowly barn be entered by the virtues, it will straightway become more beautiful than any temple, because within it will be seen justice, self-restraint, prudence, love, a right division of all duties, a knowledge of all things on earth and in heaven. No place can be narrow, if it contains such a company of the greatest virtues; no exile can be irksome in which one can be attended by these companions. Brutus, in the book which he wrote upon virtue, says that he saw Marcellus in exile at Mytilene, living as happily as it is permitted to man to live, and never keener in his pursuit of literature than at that time. He consequently adds the reflexion: ‘I seemed rather to be going into exile myself when I had to return without him, than to be leaving him in exile.’ O how much more fortunate was Marcellus at that time, when Brutus praised him for his exile, than when Rome praised him for his consulship! what a man that must have been who made any one think himself exiled because he was leaving him in exile! what a man that must have been who attracted the admiration of one whom even his friend Cato admired! Brutus goes on to say:— ‘Gaius Caesar sailed past Mytilene without landing, because he could not bear to see a fallen man.’ The Senate did indeed obtain his recall by public petition, being so anxious and sorrowful the while, that you would have thought that they all were of Brutus’s mind that day, and were not pleading the cause of Marcellus, but their own, that they might not be sent into exile by being deprived of him: yet he gained far greater glory on the day when Brutus could not bear to leave him in exile, and Caesar could not bear to see him: for each of them bore witness to his worth: Brutus grieved, and Caesar blushed at going home without Marcellus. Can you doubt that so great a man as Marcellus frequently encouraged himself to endure his exile patiently in some such terms as these: “The loss of your country is no misery to you: you have so steeped yourself in philosophic lore, as to know that all the world is the wise man’s country? What! was not this very man who banished you absent from his country for ten successive years? he was, no doubt, engaged in the extension of the empire, but for all that he was absent from his country. Now see how his presence is required in Africa, which threatens to re-kindle the war, in Spain which is nursing up again the strength of the broken and shattered opposite faction, in treacherous Egypt, in fine, in all the parts of the world, for all are watching their opportunity to seize the empire at a disadvantage. Which will he go to meet first? which part of the universal conspiracy will he first oppose? His victory will drag him through every country in the world. Let nations look up to him and worship him: do thou live satisfied with the admiration of Brutus.”

IX. “But this country produces no beautiful or fruit-bearing trees. No large or navigable rivers flow through it. It produces nothing other nations would want, since its crops barely support its inhabitants. No precious marble is quarried here, and no veins of gold or silver are mined.” What of it! Only a narrow mind takes pleasure in earthly things. The mind should turn instead to contemplating things visible everywhere and equally brilliant everywhere. We should also consider how our distorted values let these ordinary things keep us from what is truly good. The farther people extend their covered walkways, the higher they raise their towers, the wider they make their streets. They dig deeper retreats from the summer heat and cover their banquet halls with heavier roofs. The more they build, the more they block their view of heaven. Fortune has thrown you into a country where no home is grander than a cottage. Suppose you bear this bravely because you have seen the cottage of Romulus. Your spirit must be poor indeed, seeking comfort from such lowly sources. Say instead, “If the virtues enter that humble barn, it will immediately become more beautiful than any temple. For within it will appear justice, self-restraint, wisdom, love, a proper ordering of every duty, and knowledge of earth and heaven. No place can be cramped if it holds such a company of the greatest virtues. No exile can be distressing if these companions can attend you.” In his book on virtue, Brutus says he saw Marcellus living in exile at Mytilene. Marcellus was as happy as any human being can be. Never had he pursued literature more eagerly. Brutus therefore adds this reflection: ‘When I had to return without him, I felt I was entering exile myself, rather than leaving him there.’ How much more fortunate Marcellus was when Brutus praised him in exile than when Rome praised him as consul! What a man he must have been! Anyone leaving him in exile felt himself exiled by the separation. What a man, to win the admiration of someone whom even his friend Cato admired! Brutus goes on to say: ‘Gaius Caesar sailed past Mytilene without landing, because he could not bear to see a fallen man.’ The Senate did secure Marcellus’s recall through a public petition. The senators were so anxious and sorrowful that you would have thought they all shared Brutus’s feelings that day. They seemed to be pleading not Marcellus’s case, but their own, lest losing him send them into exile. Yet Marcellus won far greater glory when Brutus could not bear to leave him and Caesar could not bear to see him. Both men testified to his worth. Brutus grieved, and Caesar blushed at returning home without Marcellus. Can you doubt that a man as great as Marcellus often encouraged himself to bear exile patiently with words like these? “Losing your country is no misery to you. Haven’t you studied philosophy deeply enough to know that the whole world is the wise man’s country? What! Wasn’t the very man who banished you away from his country for ten years in a row? He was expanding the empire, no doubt, but he was still away from his country. Now look at all the places that need his presence. Africa threatens to renew the war. Spain is rebuilding the strength of his defeated and shattered opponents. Treacherous Egypt needs him too. In short, every part of the world needs him. For all are watching for a chance to catch the empire at a disadvantage. Which threat will he face first? Which part of this worldwide conspiracy will he oppose first? His victory will drag him through every country in the world. Let nations look up to him and worship him. Be content yourself with the admiration of Brutus.”

X. Marcellus, then, nobly endured his exile, and his change of place made no change in his mind, even though it was accompanied by poverty, in which every man who has not fallen into the madness of avarice and luxury, which upset all our ideas, sees no harm. Indeed, how very little is required to keep a man alive? and who, that has any virtue whatever, will find this fail him? As for myself, I do not feel that I have lost my wealth, but my occupation: the wants of the body are few: it wants protection from the cold, and the means of allaying hunger and thirst: all desires beyond these are vices, not necessities. There is no need for prying into all the depths of the sea, for loading one’s stomach with heaps of slaughtered animals, or for tearing up shell-fish³ from the unknown shore of the furthest sea: may the gods and goddesses bring ruin upon those whose luxury transcends the bounds of an empire which is already perilously wide. They want to have their ostentatious kitchens supplied with game from the other side of the Phasis, and though Rome has not yet obtained satisfaction from the Parthians, they are not ashamed to obtain birds from them: they bring together from all regions everything, known or unknown, to tempt their fastidious palate: food, which their stomach, worn out with delicacies, can scarcely retain, is brought from the most distant ocean: they vomit that they may eat, and eat that they may vomit, and do not even deign to digest the banquets which they ransack the globe to obtain. If a man despises these things, what harm can poverty do him? If he desires them, then poverty even does him good, for he is cured in spite of himself, and though he will not receive remedies even upon compulsion, yet while he is unable to fulfil his wishes he is as though he had them not. Gaius Caesar, whom in my opinion Nature produced in order to show what unlimited vice would be capable of when combined with unlimited power, dined one day at a cost of ten millions of sesterces: and though in this he had the assistance of the intelligence of all his subjects, yet he could hardly find how to make one dinner out of the tribute-money of three provinces. How unhappy are they whose appetite can only be aroused by costly food! and the costliness of food depends not upon its delightful flavour and sweetness of taste, but upon its rarity and the difficulty of procuring it: otherwise, if they chose to return to their sound senses, what need would they have of so many arts which minister to the stomach? of so great a commerce? of such ravaging of forests? of such ransacking of the depths of the sea? Food is to be found everywhere, and has been placed by Nature in every part the world, but they pass it by as though they were blind, and wander through all countries, cross the seas, and excite at a great cost the hunger which they might allay at a small one. One would like to say: Why do you launch ships? why do you arm your hands for battle both with men and wild beasts? why do you run so riotously hither and thither? why do you amass fortune after fortune? Are you unwilling to remember how small our bodies are? is it not frenzy and the wildest insanity to wish for so much when you can contain so little? Though you may increase your income, and extend the boundaries of your property, yet you never can enlarge your own bodies: when your business transactions have turned out well, when you have made a successful campaign, when you have collected the food for which you have hunted through all lands, you will have no place in which to bestow all these superfluities. Why do you strive to obtain so much? Do you think that our ancestors, whose virtue supports our vices even to the present day, were unhappy, though they dressed their food with their own hands, though the earth was their bed, though their roofs did not yet glitter with gold, nor their temples with precious stones? and so they used then to swear with scrupulous honesty by earthenware gods; those who called these gods to witness would go back to the enemy for certain death rather than break their word.⁴ Do you suppose that our dictator who granted an audience to the ambassadors of the Samnites, while he roasted the commonest food before the fire himself with that very hand with which he had so often smitten the enemy, and with which he had placed his laurel wreath upon the lap of Capitolian Jove, enjoyed life less than the Apicius who lived in our own days, whose habits tainted the entire century, who set himself up as a professor of gastronomy in that very city from which philosophers once were banished as corrupters of youth? It is worth while to know his end. After he had spent a hundred millions of sesterces on his kitchen, and had wasted on each single banquet a sum equal to so many presents from the reigning emperors, and the vast revenue which he drew from the Capitol, being overburdened with debt, he then for the first time was forced to examine his accounts: he calculated that he would have ten millions left of his fortune, and, as though he would live a life of mere starvation on ten millions, put an end to his life by poison. How great must the luxury of that man have been, to whom ten millions signified want? Can you think after this that the amount of money necessary to make a fortune depends upon its actual extent rather than on the mind of the owner? Here was a man who shuddered at the thought of a fortune of ten million sesterces, and escaped by poison from a prospect which other men pray for. Yet, for a mind so diseased, that last draught of his was the most wholesome: he was really eating and drinking poisons when he was not only enjoying, but boasting of his enormous banquets, when he was flaunting his vices, when he was causing his country to follow his example, when he was inviting youths to imitate him, albeit youth is quick to learn evil, without being provided with a model to copy. This is what befalls those who do not use their wealth according to reason, which has fixed limits, but according to vicious fashion, whose caprices are boundless and immeasurable. Nothing is sufficient for covetous desire, but Nature can be satisfied even with scant measure. The poverty of an exile, therefore, causes no inconvenience, for no place of exile is so barren as not to produce what is abundantly sufficient to support a man.

X. Marcellus, then, endured his exile nobly. His change of place did not change his mind, even though exile also brought poverty. No one sees harm in poverty unless he has fallen into the madness of greed and luxury. That madness distorts all our ideas. Indeed, how little a man needs to stay alive! And who with any virtue at all will find himself without that little? As for myself, I do not feel that I have lost my wealth, only my occupation. The body’s needs are few. It needs protection from cold and relief from hunger and thirst. All desires beyond these are vices, not necessities. There is no need to search every depth of the sea or stuff our stomachs with heaps of slaughtered animals. Nor must we tear shellfish³ from the unknown shores of the most distant sea. May the gods and goddesses ruin those whose luxury reaches beyond an empire already dangerously vast! They want game from beyond the Phasis for their kitchens, where they display their wealth. Rome has not yet received satisfaction from the Parthians, yet these people feel no shame in getting birds from them. They gather everything from every region, known or unknown, to tempt their fussy appetites. Food comes from the farthest ocean, though their stomachs, worn out by delicacies, can barely hold it. They vomit so they can eat, and eat so they can vomit. They will not even bother to digest the feasts for which they plunder the globe. If a man scorns these pleasures, what harm can poverty do him? If he desires them, poverty actually does him good, since it cures him against his will. Although he refuses remedies even under compulsion, his inability to satisfy his desires leaves him as if he had none. Gaius Caesar once spent ten million sesterces on a single dinner. In my opinion, Nature created him to show what unlimited vice could do when joined with unlimited power. He had the ingenuity of all his subjects to help him. Yet he could hardly find a way to spend three provinces’ tribute on one dinner. How miserable are people whose appetites can only be stirred by expensive food! Yet food costs so much not because of its delightful flavor or sweetness. Its price comes from its rarity and the difficulty of obtaining it. Otherwise, if these people chose to recover their senses, why would they need so many skills devoted to their stomachs? Why would they need such extensive trade, such destruction of forests, such plundering of the sea’s depths? Food can be found everywhere. Nature has placed it in every part of the world. But they pass it by as though blind. They roam every country and cross the seas, spending heavily to stir a hunger they could cheaply satisfy. One would like to say: Why do you launch ships? Why do you take up weapons against both men and wild beasts? Why do you rush so wildly from place to place? Why do you pile up fortune after fortune? Are you unwilling to remember how small our bodies are? Is wanting so much, when you can hold so little, not madness of the wildest kind? You may increase your income and expand your estates, but you can never enlarge your bodies. Your business deals may succeed, and you may wage a successful campaign. You may gather the food you have hunted across every land. Yet you will have nowhere to put all these excesses. Why do you struggle to obtain so much? Do you think our ancestors were unhappy? Their virtue sustains us in our vices even today. Yet they prepared food with their own hands and slept on the ground. Their roofs did not yet glitter with gold, nor their temples with precious stones. In those days, they swore oaths with scrupulous honesty by gods made of clay. Those who called these gods as witnesses would return to the enemy and certain death rather than break their word.⁴ Consider our dictator, who received the Samnites’ ambassadors while roasting the plainest food over the fire himself. He cooked with the very hand that had so often struck down the enemy. With that same hand, he had laid his laurel wreath in the lap of Capitolian Jove. Do you suppose he enjoyed life less than Apicius, who lived in our own day? Apicius’s habits corrupted the entire century. He set himself up as a teacher of fine dining in that very city where philosophers were once banished for corrupting the young. His end is worth knowing. He spent a hundred million sesterces on his kitchen. On individual banquets, he squandered sums equal to so many gifts from the reigning emperors. He also wasted the vast income he drew from the Capitol. Burdened with debt, he was then forced to examine his accounts for the first time. He calculated that ten million sesterces would remain of his fortune. As though ten million meant a life of starvation, he killed himself with poison. How extravagant must a man be if ten million means poverty to him? After this, can you think wealth depends more on the amount owned than on the owner’s mind? Here was a man who shuddered at the thought of having ten million sesterces. He used poison to escape a future other men pray for. Yet for so diseased a mind, that last drink was his healthiest. He was truly eating and drinking poison when he enjoyed his enormous banquets and even boasted about them. He was poisoning himself when he flaunted his vices and led his country to follow his example. He was doing the same when he encouraged young people to imitate him. Yet the young learn evil quickly enough without a model to copy. This is what happens to people who use their wealth according to corrupt fashion rather than reason. Reason sets firm limits, but fashion’s whims have no bounds or measure. Nothing satisfies greedy desire, but Nature can be satisfied with even a little. An exile’s poverty, therefore, causes no hardship. No place of exile is so barren that it cannot produce more than enough to support a man.

XI. Next, need an exile regret his former dress and house? If he only wishes for these things because of their use to him, he will want neither roof nor garment, for it takes as little to cover the body as it does to feed it: Nature has annexed no difficult conditions to anything which man is obliged to do. If, however, he sighs for a purple robe steeped in floods of dye, interwoven with threads of gold and with many coloured artistic embroideries, then his poverty is his own fault, not that of Fortune: even though you restored to him all that he has lost, you would do him no good; for he would have more unsatisfied ambitions, if restored, than he had unsatisfied wants when he was an exile. If he longs for furniture glittering with silver vases, plate which boasts the signature of antique artists, bronze which the mania of a small clique has rendered costly, slaves enough to crowd however large a house, purposely overfed horses, and precious stones of all countries: whatever collections he may make of these, he never will satisfy his insatiable appetite, any more than any amount of liquor will quench a thirst which arises not from the need of drink but from the burning heat within a man; for this is not thirst but disease. Nor does this take place only with regard to money and food, but every want which is caused by vice and not by necessity is of this nature: however much you supply it with you do not quench it but intensify it. He who restrains himself within the limits prescribed by nature, will not feel poverty; he who exceeds them will always be poor, however great his wealth may be. Even a place of exile suffices to provide one with necessaries; whole kingdoms do not suffice to provide one with superfluities. It is the mind which makes men rich: this it is that accompanies them into exile, and in the most savage wildernesses, after having found sufficient sustenance for the body, enjoys its own overflowing resources: the mind has no more connexion with money than the immortal gods have with those things which are so highly valued by untutored intellects, sunk in the bondage of the flesh. Gems, gold, silver, and vast polished round tables are but earthly dross, which cannot be loved by a pure mind that is mindful of whence it came, is unblemished by sin, and which, when released from the body, will straightway soar aloft to the highest heaven: meanwhile, as far as it is permitted by the hindrances of its mortal limbs and this heavy clog of the body by which it is surrounded, it examines divine things with swift and airy thought. From this it follows that no free-born man, who is akin to the gods, and fit for any world and any age, can ever be in exile: for his thoughts are directed to all the heavens and to all times past and future: this trumpery body, the prison and fetter of the spirit, may be tossed to this place or to that; upon it tortures, robberies, and diseases may work their will: but the spirit itself is holy and eternal, and upon it no one can lay hands.

XI. Next, must an exile mourn the clothes and house he once had? If he wants these things only for their practical use, he will lack neither shelter nor clothing. For covering the body takes as little as feeding it. Nature has made nothing difficult that human beings must do. But suppose he longs for a purple robe soaked in vast quantities of dye. Suppose he wants gold threads woven into it and elaborate embroidery in many colors. Then his poverty is his own fault, not Fortune’s. Even if you restored everything he had lost, you would do him no good. Once restored, he would have more unfulfilled ambitions than he had unmet needs in exile. Suppose he longs for furnishings glittering with silver vases and tableware bearing the signatures of ancient artists. Suppose he wants bronze objects made expensive by the obsessive enthusiasm of a small circle of collectors. He wants enough slaves to crowd even the largest house, deliberately overfed horses, and precious stones from every country. However much he collects, he will never satisfy his endless appetite. Nor can any amount of drink quench a thirst caused not by needing water, but by burning heat within. For such a thirst is not thirst but disease. The same is true not only of money and food. Every desire caused by vice rather than necessity works this way. However much you give such a desire, you do not satisfy it but make it stronger. Anyone who stays within nature’s limits will not feel poor. Anyone who goes beyond those limits will always be poor, however great his wealth. Even a place of exile can supply necessities. Whole kingdoms cannot supply luxuries. The mind makes people rich. The mind accompanies them into exile. Even in the wildest wilderness, once the body has enough food, the mind enjoys its own abundant resources. The mind has no more connection with money than the immortal gods have with what ignorant minds prize. Such ignorant minds are enslaved to the body. Gems, gold, silver, and huge, polished round tables are merely earthly rubbish. A pure mind cannot love such things. It remembers where it came from and remains unstained by sin. Once freed from the body, it will immediately rise to the highest heaven. Meanwhile, the mind explores divine things with swift, soaring thought, as far as the body’s restrictions allow. For mortal limbs obstruct the mind, and the heavy body surrounding it weighs it down. So no freeborn man can ever truly be in exile. He is related to the gods and suited to any world and any age. For his thoughts reach across all the heavens and all time, past and future. This worthless body, the spirit’s prison and chains, may be thrown from one place to another. Torture, robbery, and disease may do whatever they please to the body. But the spirit itself is sacred and eternal, and no one can lay hands on it.

XII. That you may not suppose that I merely use the maxims of the philosophers to disparage the evils of poverty, which no one finds terrible, unless he thinks it so; consider in the first place how many more poor people there are than rich, and yet you will not find that they are sadder or more anxious than the rich: nay, I am not sure that they are not happier, because they have fewer things to distract their minds. From these poor men, who often are not unhappy at their poverty, let us pass to the rich. How many occasions there are on which they are just like poor men! When they are on a journey their baggage is cut down, whenever they are obliged to travel fast their train of attendants is dismissed. When they are serving in the army, how small a part of their property can they have with them, since camp discipline forbids superfluities! Nor is it only temporary exigences or desert places that put them on the same level as poor men: they have some days on which they become sick of their riches, dine reclining on the ground, put away all their gold and silver plate, and use earthenware. Madmen! they are always afraid of this for which they sometimes wish. O how dense a stupidity, how great an ignorance of the truth they show when they flee from this thing and yet amuse themselves by playing with it! Whenever I look back to the great examples of antiquity, I feel ashamed to seek consolation for my poverty, now that luxury has advanced so far in the present age, that the allowance of an exile is larger than the inheritance of the princes of old. It is well known that Homer had one slave, that Plato had three, and that Zeno, who first taught the stern and masculine doctrine of the Stoics, had none: yet could any one say that they lived wretchedly without himself being thought a most pitiable wretch by all men? Menenius Agrippa, by whose mediation the patricians and plebeians were reconciled, was buried by public subscription. Attilius Regulus, while he was engaged in scattering the Carthaginians in Africa, wrote to the Senate that his hired servant had left him, and that consequently his farm was deserted: whereupon it was decreed that as long as Regulus was absent, it should be cultivated at the expense of the state. Was it not worth his while to have no slave, if thereby he obtained the Roman people for his farm-bailiff? Scipio’s daughters received their dowries from the Treasury, because their father had left them none: by Hercules, it was right for the Roman people to pay tribute to Scipio for once, since he had exacted it for ever from Carthage. O how happy were those girls’ husbands, who had the Roman people for their father-in-law. Can you think that those whose daughters dance in the ballet, and marry with a settlement of a million sesterces, are happier than Scipio, whose children received their dowry of old-fashioned brass money from their guardian the Senate? Can any one despise poverty, when she has such a noble descent to boast of? can an exile be angry at any privation, when Scipio could not afford a portion for his daughters, Regulus could not afford a hired labourer, Menenius could not afford a funeral? when all these men’s wants were supplied in a manner which rendered them a source of additional honour? Poverty, when such men as these plead its cause, is not only harmless, but positively attractive.

XII. You may think I rely only on philosophers’ sayings to downplay the hardships of poverty. But no one finds poverty terrible unless they believe it is. First, consider how many more poor people there are than rich people. Yet you will not find the poor sadder or more anxious than the rich. Indeed, I am not sure the poor are not happier, because they have fewer things to distract their minds. Let us turn from these poor people, who are often not unhappy about their poverty, to the rich. How often the rich live just like the poor! When the rich travel, they take less baggage. Whenever they must travel quickly, they send away their attendants. When serving in the army, how little of their property they can bring, since military discipline forbids unnecessary possessions! Nor do only temporary needs or deserted places put the rich on the same level as the poor. Some days, the rich grow sick of their wealth. They eat reclining on the ground, put away all their gold and silver dishes, and use earthenware. Madmen! They always fear the very thing they sometimes wish for. What deep stupidity, what great ignorance of the truth! They run from poverty, yet amuse themselves by playing at being poor! Whenever I look back at the great examples of ancient times, I feel ashamed to seek comfort for my poverty. Luxury has now grown so much that an exile’s allowance exceeds the inheritance of the princes of old. Everyone knows that Homer had one slave and Plato had three. Zeno, who first taught the stern and manly philosophy of the Stoics, had none. Yet could anyone call their lives miserable without everyone thinking the speaker a truly pitiable wretch? Menenius Agrippa brought about peace between the patricians and plebeians, yet public donations paid for his burial. While routing the Carthaginians in Africa, Attilius Regulus wrote to the Senate that his hired worker had left him. As a result, his farm lay untended. The Senate therefore decreed that the state would pay to cultivate his farm as long as Regulus remained away. Was it not worth having no slave, if he gained the Roman people as his farm manager? Scipio’s daughters received their dowries from the Treasury because their father had left them none. By Hercules, the Roman people were right to pay tribute to Scipio for once. After all, he had forced Carthage to pay tribute forever. How fortunate those girls’ husbands were to have the Roman people as their father-in-law! Can you think fathers whose daughters dance in the ballet and marry with million-sesterce settlements are happier than Scipio? His children received their dowries in old-fashioned brass coins from their guardian, the Senate. Can anyone look down on poverty when she can boast such noble ancestry? Can an exile resent any hardship, when Scipio could not afford dowries for his daughters? Regulus could not afford a hired worker, and Menenius could not afford a funeral. Yet all these men’s needs were met in ways that brought them even greater honor. With men like these defending her, poverty is not only harmless but positively attractive.

XIII. To this one may answer: “Why do you thus ingeniously divide what can indeed be endured if taken singly, but which all together are overwhelming? Change of place can be borne if nothing more than one’s place be changed: poverty can be borne if it be without disgrace, which is enough to cow our spirits by itself.” If any one were to endeavour to frighten me with the number of my misfortunes, I should answer him as follows: If you have enough strength to resist any one part of your ill-fortune, you will have enough to resist it all. If virtue has once hardened your mind, it renders it impervious to blows from any quarter: if avarice, that greatest pest of the human race, has left it, you will not be troubled by ambition: if you regard the end of your days not as a punishment, but as an ordinance of nature, no fear of anything else will dare to enter the breast which has cast out the fear of death. If you consider sexual passion to have been bestowed on mankind not for the sake of pleasure, but for the continuance of the race, all other desires will pass harmlessly by one who is safe even from this secret plague, implanted in our very bosoms. Reason does not conquers vices one by one, but all together: if reason is defeated, it is utterly defeated once for all. Do you suppose that any wise man, who relies entirely upon himself, who has set himself free from the ideas of the common herd, can be wrought upon by disgrace? A disgraceful death is worse even than disgrace: yet Socrates bore the same expression of countenance with which he had rebuked thirty tyrants, when he entered the prison and thereby took away the infamous character of the place; for the place which contained Socrates could not be regarded as a prison. Was any one ever so blind to the truth as to suppose that Marcus Cato was disgraced by his double defeat in his candidature for the praetorship and the consulship? that disgrace fell on the praetorship and consulship which Cato honoured by his candidature. No one is despised by others unless he be previously despised by himself: a grovelling and abject mind may fall an easy prey to such contempt: but he who stands up against the most cruel misfortunes, and overcomes those evils by which others would have been crushed—such a man, I say, turns his misfortunes into badges of honour, because we are so constituted as to admire nothing so much as a man who bears adversity bravely. At Athens, when Aristides was being led to execution, every one who met him cast down his eyes and groaned, as though not merely a just man but justice herself was being put to death. Yet one man was found who spat in his face: he might have been disturbed at this, since he knew it could only be a foul-mouthed fellow that would have the heart to do so; he, however, wiped his face, and with a smile asked the magistrate who accompanied him to warn that man not to open his mouth so rudely again. To act thus was to treat contumely itself with contempt. I know that some say that there is nothing more terrible than disgrace, and that they would prefer death. To such men I answer that even exile is often accompanied by no disgrace whatever: if a great man falls, he remains a great man after his fall, you can no more suppose that he is disgraced than when people tread upon the walls of a ruined temple, which the pious treat with as much respect as when they were standing.

XIII. Someone may answer: “Why do you so cleverly separate troubles that can be endured individually but are overwhelming together? A change of place can be endured if nothing else changes. Poverty can be endured if it brings no disgrace. Disgrace alone is enough to crush our spirits.” If anyone tried to frighten me by counting my misfortunes, I would answer as follows: If you have enough strength to resist any part of your misfortune, you have enough to resist it all. Once virtue has toughened your mind, your mind can withstand blows from any direction. If greed, the greatest plague of the human race, has left your mind, ambition will not trouble you. If you see death not as punishment but as nature’s decree, no other fear will dare enter your heart. Your heart has already cast out the fear of death. Suppose you believe sexual passion was given to humanity not for pleasure but to continue the race. Then all other desires will pass you by harmlessly. You are safe even from this hidden plague, planted within our very hearts. Reason conquers vices not one by one, but all together. If reason is defeated, its defeat is complete and final. Do you suppose disgrace can affect a wise man who relies entirely on himself? He has freed himself from the opinions of the crowd. A disgraceful death is worse even than disgrace. Yet Socrates entered prison with the same expression he had worn when rebuking thirty tyrants. By entering, he stripped the place of its shameful reputation. For a place that held Socrates could not be considered a prison. Was anyone ever so blind to the truth as to think Marcus Cato was disgraced by two election defeats? He had stood for the praetorship and the consulship. The disgrace fell instead on those offices, which Cato had honored by seeking them. No one is despised by others unless he first despises himself. A servile, lowly spirit may easily fall prey to such contempt. But consider the man who stands firm against the cruelest misfortunes and overcomes troubles that would have crushed others. Such a man, I say, turns his misfortunes into badges of honor. For we are made to admire nothing more than someone who bears adversity bravely. At Athens, when Aristides was being led to execution, everyone he met lowered their eyes and groaned. They acted as though not merely a just man but justice herself was being put to death. Yet one man spat in his face. Aristides might have been upset by this. He knew that only a foul-mouthed fellow could have the heart to do such a thing. Instead, he wiped his face and smiled. He asked the magistrate accompanying him to warn the man not to open his mouth so rudely again. Acting this way meant treating insult itself with contempt. I know some say nothing is more terrible than disgrace, and that they would prefer death. I answer them that even exile often brings no disgrace at all. If a great man falls, he remains a great man after his fall. You can no more think him disgraced than you can think a ruined temple disgraced when people tread on its walls. The devout treat those walls with as much respect as when they stood.

XIV. Since, then, my dearest mother, you have no reason for endless weeping on my account, it follows that your tears must flow on your own: there are two causes for this, either your having lost my protection, or your not being able to bear the mere fact of separation. The first of these I shall only touch upon lightly, for I know that your heart loves nothing belonging to your children except themselves. Let other mothers look to that, who make use of their sons’ authority with a woman’s passion, who are ambitious through their sons because they cannot bear office themselves, who spend their sons’ inheritance, and yet are eager to inherit it, and who weary their sons by lending their eloquence to others: you have always rejoiced exceedingly in the successes of your sons, and have made no use of them whatever: you have always set bounds to our generosity, although you set none to your own: you, while a minor under the power of the head of the family, still used to make presents to your wealthy sons: you managed our inheritances with as much care as if you were working for your own, yet refrained from touching them as scrupulously as if they belonged to strangers: you have spared to use our influence, as though you enjoyed other means of your own, and you have taken no part in the public offices to which we have been elected beyond rejoicing in our success and paying our expenses: your indulgence has never been tainted by any thought of profit, and you cannot regret the loss of your son for a reason which never had any weight with you before his exile.

XIV. My dearest mother, you have no reason to weep endlessly for me. So your tears must be for yourself. There are two possible reasons: you have lost my protection, or you cannot bear being separated from me. I will touch only briefly on the first reason. I know you love your children for themselves alone, not for anything they possess. Let other mothers worry about losing their sons’ protection. Such mothers exploit their sons’ authority with a woman’s passion. They pursue their ambitions through their sons because they cannot hold office themselves. They spend their sons’ inheritance, yet are eager to inherit it themselves. They wear their sons out by putting their sons’ speaking skills at other people’s disposal. You, however, have always taken great joy in your sons’ successes without ever using those successes for your own benefit. You have always limited our generosity to you, although you placed no limits on your generosity to us. Even while legally a minor under the family head’s authority, you gave presents to your wealthy sons. You managed our inheritances as carefully as if you were managing your own. Yet you avoided touching them as scrupulously as if they belonged to strangers. You refrained from using our influence, as though you had other resources of your own. Your only involvement in our elected public offices was to rejoice in our success and pay our expenses. Your loving generosity has never been tainted by any thought of personal gain. So you cannot mourn your son’s loss for a reason that never mattered to you before his exile.

XV. All my powers of consolation must be directed to the other point, the true source of your maternal grief. You say, “I am deprived of the embraces of my darling son, I cannot enjoy the pleasure of seeing him and of hearing him talk. Where is he at whose sight I used to smooth my troubled brow, in whose keeping I used to deposit all my cares? Where is his conversation, of which I never could have enough? his studies, in which I used to take part with more than a woman’s eagerness, with more than a mother’s familiarity? Where are our meetings? the boyish delight which he always showed at the sight of his mother?” To all this you add the actual places of our merrymakings and conversation, and, what must needs have more power to move you than anything else, the traces of our late social life, for Fortune treated you with the additional cruelty of allowing you to depart on the very third day before my ruin, without a trace of anxiety, and not fearing anything of the kind. It was well that we had been separated by a vast distance: it was well that an absence of some years had prepared you to bear this blow: you came home, not to take any pleasure in your son, but to get rid of the habit of longing for him. Had you been absent long before, you would have borne it more bravely, as the very length of your absence would have moderated your longing to see me: had you never gone away, you would at any rate have gained one last advantage in seeing your son for two days longer: as it was, cruel Fate so arranged it that you were not present with me during my good fortune, and yet have not become accustomed to my absence. But the harder these things are to bear, the more virtue you must summon to your aid, and the more bravely you must struggle as it were with an enemy whom you know well, and whom you have already often conquered. This blood did not flow from a body previously unhurt: you have been struck through the scar of an old wound.

XV. I must direct all my efforts to comfort you toward the other point, the true source of your grief as a mother. You say, “I can no longer embrace my darling son, or enjoy seeing him and hearing him talk. Where is the son whose very sight used to ease my troubled expression? Where is the son I used to entrust with all my cares? Where are the conversations with him that I could never get enough of? Where are his studies, which I used to share with more than a woman’s eagerness and a mother’s closeness? Where are our meetings? Where is the boyish delight he always showed when he saw his mother?” To all these memories you add the very places where we enjoyed ourselves and talked. Above all, you remember the signs of our recent life together, which must move you more than anything else. For Fortune was cruel enough to let you leave just three days before my ruin, free from anxiety and fearing nothing of the kind. How fortunate that such a vast distance had separated us. How fortunate that several years of absence had prepared you to bear this blow. You came home not to enjoy your son’s company, but to break the habit of longing for him. Had you been away for a long time beforehand, you would have borne this blow more bravely. The sheer length of your absence would have eased your longing to see me. Had you never gone away, you would at least have gained one final benefit: two more days with your son. Instead, cruel Fate arranged matters so that you missed my good fortune, yet never grew used to my absence. But the harder these things are to bear, the more strength of character you must call on. You must fight all the more bravely, as though facing an enemy you know well and have often defeated. This blood did not flow from a body that had never been hurt. You have been struck through the scar of an old wound.

XVI. You have no grounds for excusing yourself on the ground of being a woman, who has a sort of right to weep without restraint, though not without limit. For this reason our ancestors allotted a space of ten months’ mourning for women who had lost their husbands, thus settling the violence of a woman’s grief by a public ordinance. They did not forbid them to mourn, but they set limits to their grief: for while it is a foolish weakness to give way to endless grief when you lose one of those dearest to you, yet it shows an unnatural hardness of heart to express no grief at all: the best middle course between affection and hard common sense is both to feel regret and to restrain it. You need not look at certain women whose sorrow, when once begun, has been ended only by death: you know some who after the loss of their sons have never laid aside the garb of mourning: you are constitutionally stronger than these, and from you more is required. You cannot avail yourself of the excuse of being a woman, for you have no womanish vices. Unchastity, the greatest evil of the age, has never classed you with the majority of women; you have not been tempted either by gems or by pearls; riches have not allured you into thinking them the greatest blessing that man can own; respectably brought up as you were in an old-fashioned and strict household, you have never been led astray by that imitation of others which is so full of danger even to virtuous women. You have never been ashamed of your fruitfulness as though it were a reproach to your youth: you never concealed the signs of pregnancy as though it were an unbecoming burden, nor did you ever destroy your expected child within your womb after the fashion of many other women, whose attractions are to be found in their beauty alone. You never defiled your face with paints or cosmetics: you never liked clothes which showed the figure as plainly as though it were naked: your sole ornament has been a consummate loveliness which no time can impair, your greatest glory has been your modesty. You cannot, therefore, plead your womanhood as an excuse for your grief, because your virtues have raised you above it: you ought to be as superior to womanish tears as you are to womanish vices. Even women would not allow you to pine away after receiving this blow, but would bid you quickly and calmly go through the necessary amount of mourning, and then to arise and shake it off: I mean, if you are willing to take as your models those women whose eminent virtue has given them a place among even great men. Misfortune reduced the number of Cornelia’s children from twelve to two: if you count the number of their deaths, Cornelia had lost ten: if you weigh them, she had lost the Gracchi: nevertheless, when her friends were weeping around her and using too bitter imprecations against her fate, she forbade them to blame fortune for having deprived⁵ her of her sons the Gracchi. Such ought to have been the mother of him who, when speaking in the Forum, said, “Would you speak evil of the mother who bore me?” The mother’s speech seems to me to show a far greater spirit: the son set a high value on the birth of the Gracchi; the mother set an equal value on their deaths. Rutilia followed her son Cotta into exile, and was so passionately attached to him that she could bear exile better than absence from him; nor did she return home before her son did so: after he had been restored, and had been raised to honour in the republic, she bore his death as bravely as she had borne his exile. No one saw any traces of tears upon her cheeks after she had buried her son: she displayed her courage when he was banished, her wisdom when he died: she allowed no considerations either to interfere with her affection, or to force her to protract a useless and foolish mourning. These are the women with whom I wish you to be numbered: you have the best reasons for restraining and suppressing your sorrow as they did, because you have always imitated their lives.

XVI. You cannot excuse yourself by saying you are a woman. Women have a certain right to weep freely, though not without limit. For this reason, our ancestors allowed women ten months of mourning after losing their husbands. A public law thus set limits on the intensity of a woman’s grief. They did not forbid women to mourn, but they limited their grief. Giving way to endless grief after losing someone very dear to you is a foolish weakness. Yet showing no grief at all reveals an unnaturally hard heart. The best middle course between affection and stern common sense is to feel sorrow and also restrain it. You need not look to certain women whose sorrow, once begun, has ended only with death. You know some who have never taken off their mourning clothes after losing their sons. You are stronger by nature than these women, and more is required of you. You cannot use being a woman as an excuse, because you have none of women’s vices. Sexual immorality, the greatest evil of our age, has never placed you among the majority of women. Neither gems nor pearls have tempted you. Wealth has not lured you into thinking it the greatest blessing anyone can possess. You were properly raised in a strict, old-fashioned household. You have never been led astray by copying others, a practice so dangerous even to virtuous women. You have never been ashamed of bearing many children, as though motherhood discredited your youth. You never hid the signs of pregnancy as though pregnancy were an unattractive burden. Nor did you ever destroy your unborn child in your womb, as many other women do. Such women’s appeal lies in their beauty alone. You never covered your face with paints or cosmetics. You never liked clothes that revealed your figure as clearly as if you were naked. Your only adornment has been a perfect loveliness that time cannot damage. Your greatest glory has been your modesty. You therefore cannot plead your womanhood as an excuse for grief, because your virtues have raised you above it. You should rise above womanish tears just as you have risen above womanish vices. Even women would not let you waste away after this blow. They would urge you to mourn as much as necessary, quickly and calmly, then rise and shake off your grief. I mean those women whose outstanding virtue has earned them a place even among great men. This holds if you are willing to take such women as your models. Misfortune reduced Cornelia’s children from twelve to two. If you count her losses, Cornelia had lost ten children. If you weigh those losses, she had lost the Gracchi. Nevertheless, when her friends wept around her and cursed her fate too bitterly, she stopped them. She forbade them to blame fortune for having deprived⁵ her of her sons, the Gracchi. Such was the fitting mother of the man who said, while speaking in the Forum, “Would you speak evil of the mother who bore me?” To me, the mother’s words show a far greater spirit. The son placed a high value on the birth of the Gracchi. The mother placed an equal value on their deaths. Rutilia followed her son Cotta into exile. She loved him so deeply that she could bear exile better than separation from him. Nor did she return home before her son returned. After his return and rise to honor in the republic, she bore his death as bravely as his exile. After she buried her son, no one saw any trace of tears on her cheeks. She showed her courage when he was banished and her wisdom when he died. She let nothing interfere with her affection or force her to prolong useless, foolish mourning. These are the women among whom I want you to be counted. You have the strongest reasons to restrain and suppress your sorrow as they did, because you have always followed their example.

XVII. I am aware that this is a matter which is not in our power, and that none of the passions, least of all that which arises from grief, are obedient to our wishes; indeed, it is overbearing and obstinate, and stubbornly rejects all remedies: we sometimes wish to crush it, and to swallow our emotion, but, nevertheless, tears flow over our carefully arranged and made-up countenance. Sometimes we occupy our minds with public spectacles and shows of gladiators; but during the very sights by which it is amused, the mind is wrung by slight touches of sorrow. It is better, therefore, to conquer it than to cheat it; for a grief which has been deceived and driven away either by pleasure or by business rises again, and its period of rest does but give it strength for a more terrible attack; but a grief which has been conquered by reason is appeased for ever. I shall not, then, give you the advice which so many, I know, adopt, that you should distract your thoughts by a long journey, or amuse them by a beautiful one; that you should spend much of your time in the careful examination of accounts, and the management of your estate, and that you should keep constantly engaging in new enterprises: all these things avail but little, and do not cure, but merely obstruct our sorrow. I had rather it should be brought to an end than that it should be cheated: and, therefore, I would fain lead you to the study of philosophy, the true place of refuge for all those who are flying from the cruelty of Fortune: this will heal your wounds and take away all your sadness: to this you would now have to apply yourself, even though you had never done so before; but as far as my father’s old-fashioned strictness permitted, you have gained a superficial, though not a thorough knowledge of all liberal studies. Would that my father, most excellent man that he was, had been less devoted to the customs of our ancestors, and had been willing to have you thoroughly instructed in the elements of philosophy, instead of receiving a mere smattering of it! I should not now need to be providing you with the means of struggling against Fortune, but you would offer them to me: but he did not allow you to pursue your studies far, because some women use literature to teach them luxury instead of wisdom. Still, thanks to your keen intellectual appetite, you learned more than one could have expected in the time: you laid the foundations of all good learning: now return to them: they will render you safe, they will console you, and charm you. If once they have thoroughly entered into your mind, grief, anxiety, the distress of vain suffering will never gain admittance thither: your breast will not be open to any of these; against all other vices it has long been closed. Philosophy is your most trustworthy guardian, and it alone can save you from the attacks of Fortune.

XVII. I know that this is not within our control. None of our passions obey our wishes, least of all the passion born of grief. Grief is overpowering and stubborn, and firmly rejects all remedies. Sometimes we try to suppress grief and swallow our feelings. Yet tears still flow over faces we have carefully composed and made up. Sometimes we distract ourselves with public spectacles and gladiatorial shows. But even while we enjoy those sights, small reminders of sorrow torment the mind. So it is better to conquer grief than to trick it. Grief pushed aside by pleasure or business returns. The respite only strengthens grief for a more terrible attack. But grief conquered by reason is calmed forever. So I will not give you the advice that I know so many people offer. They tell you to distract your mind with a long journey, or delight it with a scenic one. They advise you to spend much of your time carefully checking accounts and managing your estate. They tell you to keep taking on new projects. All these things do little good. They do not cure sorrow, but merely get in its way. I would rather bring sorrow to an end than trick it. So I want to guide you toward philosophy, the true refuge for all who flee Fortune’s cruelty. Philosophy will heal your wounds and take away all your sadness. You would need to turn to philosophy now even if you had never studied it before. But you gained some knowledge of all the liberal arts, as far as my father’s old-fashioned strictness allowed. Your knowledge was broad, though not deep. My father was an excellent man. Yet I wish he had been less devoted to our ancestors’ customs. I wish he had allowed you a thorough grounding in philosophy rather than just a little knowledge of it. Then I would not now need to give you the means to struggle against Fortune. Instead, you would offer those means to me. But he did not let you study further. He feared that some women learn extravagance rather than wisdom from literature. Still, your eager mind helped you learn more than anyone could have expected in the time available. You laid the foundations of all sound learning. Now return to those studies. They will keep you safe, comfort you, and delight you. Once those studies have fully entered your mind, grief, anxiety, and the anguish of needless suffering will never enter. Your heart will not be open to any of these troubles. Your heart has long been closed to all other vices. Philosophy is your most trustworthy guardian. Philosophy alone can save you from Fortune’s attacks.

XVIII. Since, however, you require something to lean upon until you can reach that haven of rest which philosophy offers to you, I wish in the meantime to point out to you the consolations which you have. Look at my two brothers—while they are safe, you have no grounds for complaint against Fortune; you can derive pleasure from the virtues of each of them, different as they are; the one has gained high office by attention to business, the other has philosophically despised it. Rejoice in the great place of one of your sons, in the peaceful retirement of the other, in the filial affection of both. I know my brothers’ most secret motives: the one adorns his high office in order to confer lustre upon you, the other has withdrawn from the world into his life of quiet and contemplation, that he may have full enjoyment of your society. Fortune has consulted both your safety and your pleasure in her disposal of your two sons: you may be protected by the authority of the one, and delighted by the literary leisure of the other. They will vie with one another in dutiful affection to you, and the loss of one son will be supplied by the love of two others. I can confidently promise that you will find nothing wanting in your sons except their number. Now, then, turn your eyes from them to your grandchildren; to Marcus, that most engaging child, whose sight no sorrow can withstand. No grief can be so great or so fresh in any one’s bosom as not to be charmed away by his presence. Where are the tears which his joyousness could not dry? whose heart is so nipped by sorrow that his animation would not cause it to dilate? who would not be rendered mirthful by his playfulness? who would not be attracted and made to forget his gloomy thoughts by that prattle to which no one can ever be weary of listening? I pray the gods that he may survive us: may all the cruelty of fate exhaust itself on me and go no further; may all the sorrow destined for my mother and my grandmother fall upon me; but let all the rest flourish as they do now: I shall make no complaints about my childlessness or my exile, if only my sacrifice may be received as a sufficient atonement, and my family suffer nothing more. Hold in your bosom Novatilla, who soon will present you with great-grandchildren, she whom I had so entirely adopted and made my own, that, now that she has lost me, she seems like an orphan, even though her father is alive. Love her for my sake as well as for her own: Fortune has lately deprived her of her mother: your affection will be able to prevent her really feeling the loss of the mother whom she mourns. Take this opportunity of forming and strengthening her principles; nothing sinks so deeply into the mind as the teaching which we receive in our earliest years; let her become accustomed to hearing your discourses; let her character be moulded according to your pleasure: she will gain much even if you give her nothing more than your example. This continually recurring duty will be a remedy in itself: for when your mind is full of maternal sorrow, nothing can distract it from its grief except either philosophic argument or honourable work. I should count your father among your greatest consolations, were he not absent: as it is, judge from your affection for me what his affection is for you, and then you will see how much more just it is that you should be preserved for him than that you should be sacrificed to me. Whenever your keenest paroxysms of grief assail you and bid you give way to them, think of your father. By giving him so many grandchildren and great-grandchildren you have made yourself no longer his only daughter; but you alone can crown his prosperous life by a happy end: as long as he is alive it is impiety for you to regret having been born.

XVIII. Still, you need something to lean on until you reach the haven of peace that philosophy offers. So, for now, I want to show you the comforts you already have. Look at my two brothers. As long as they are safe, you have no reason to complain against Fortune. You can take pleasure in the virtues of both, different as those virtues are. One has gained high office through devotion to public business. The other has rejected high office on philosophical grounds. Rejoice in one son’s high position, the other’s peaceful retirement, and the love both bear you. I know my brothers’ deepest motives. One brings honor to his office so that he may bring honor to you. The other has left public life for quiet and reflection so that he can fully enjoy your company. In arranging your two sons’ lives, Fortune has provided for both your safety and your happiness. One son’s authority can protect you, and the other’s leisure for study and writing can delight you. They will compete in their devotion to you. The love of two sons will make up for the loss of one. I can confidently promise that you will lack nothing in your sons except their full number. Now turn your eyes from your sons to your grandchildren. Look at Marcus, that utterly charming child whose very presence no sorrow can withstand. No one’s grief can be so great or so fresh that his presence cannot charm it away. What tears could his joy fail to dry? Whose heart is so gripped by sorrow that his lively spirit would not open it? Who would not be cheered by his playfulness? Who would not be drawn in and forget their gloomy thoughts at his chatter, which no one ever tires of hearing? I pray to the gods that he may outlive us. May fate spend all its cruelty on me and go no further. May all the sorrow meant for my mother and grandmother fall on me. But let everyone else continue to flourish as they do now. I will not complain about having no children or being in exile, if only my sacrifice is accepted as sufficient atonement. Let my family suffer nothing more. Hold Novatilla close to your heart. She will soon give you great-grandchildren. I had adopted her so completely as my own that losing me makes her seem an orphan, though her father lives. Love her for my sake as well as her own. Fortune has recently taken her mother from her. Your love can keep her from truly feeling the loss of the mother she mourns. Take this chance to shape and strengthen her principles. Nothing takes root so deeply in the mind as the teaching we receive in our earliest years. Let her grow used to hearing you speak. Let her character be shaped as you wish. She will gain much even if you give her nothing but your example. This ongoing responsibility will itself be a remedy for your grief. When your mind is full of a mother’s sorrow, only philosophical reasoning or honorable work can draw you away from grief. I would count your father among your greatest comforts if he were not away. As things stand, judge his love for you by your love for me. Then you will see how much more right it is to preserve yourself for him than to sacrifice yourself for me. Whenever the sharpest waves of grief strike and urge you to give in, think of your father. By giving him so many grandchildren and great-grandchildren, you have made yourself no longer his only daughter. But you alone can bring his prosperous life to a happy close. As long as he lives, it is wrong before the gods for you to regret having been born.

XIX. I have hitherto said nothing of your chief source of consolation, your sister, that most faithful heart which shares all your sorrows as fully as your own, and who feels for all of us like a mother. With her you have mingled your tears, on her bosom you have tasted your first repose: she always feels for your troubles, and when I am in the case she does not grieve for you alone. It was in her arms that I was carried into Rome: by her affectionate and motherly nursing I regained my strength after a long period of sickness: she enlarged her influence to obtain the office of quaestor for me, and her fondness for me made her conquer a shyness which at other times made her shrink from speaking to, or loudly greeting her friends. Neither her retired mode of life, nor her country-bred modesty, at a time when so many women display such boldness of manner, her placidity, nor her habits of solitary seclusion prevented her from becoming actually ambitious on my account. Here, my dearest mother, is a source from which you may gain true consolation: join yourself, as far as you are able, to her, bind yourself to her by the closest embraces. Those who are in sorrow are wont to flee from those who are dearest to them, and to seek liberty for the indulgence of their grief: do you let her share your every thought: if you wish to nurse your grief, she will be your companion, if you wish to lay it aside she will bring it to an end. If, however, I rightly understand the wisdom of that most perfect woman, she will not suffer you to waste your life in unprofitable mourning, and will tell you what happened in her own instance, which I myself witnessed. During a sea-voyage she lost a beloved husband, my uncle, whom she married when a maiden; she endured at the same time grief for him and fear for herself, and at last, though shipwrecked, nevertheless rescued his body from the vanquished tempest. How many noble deeds are unknown to fame! If only she had had the simple-minded ancients to admire her virtues, how many brilliant intellects would have vied with one another in singing the praises of a wife who forgot the weakness of her sex, forgot the perils of the sea, which terrify even the boldest, exposed herself to death in order to lay him in the earth, and who was so eager to give him decent burial that she cared nothing about whether she shared it or no. All the poets have made the wife⁶ famous who gave herself to death instead of her husband: my aunt did more when she risked her life in order to give her husband a tomb: it shows greater love to endure the same peril for a less important end. After this, no one need wonder that for sixteen years, during which her husband governed the province of Egypt, she was never beheld in public, never admitted any of the natives to her house, never begged any favour of her husband, and never allowed anyone to beg one of her. Thus it came to pass that a gossiping province, ingenious in inventing scandal about its rulers, in which even the blameless often incurred disgrace, respected her as a singular example of uprightness,⁷ never made free with her name,—a remarkable piece of self-restraint among a people who will risk everything rather than forego a jest,—and that at the present time it hopes for another governor’s wife like her, although it has no reasonable expectation of ever seeing one. It would have been greatly to her credit if the province had approved her conduct for a space of sixteen years: it was much more creditable to her that it knew not of her existence. I do not remind you of this in order to celebrate her praises, for to take such scanty notice of them is to curtail them, but in order that you may understand the magnanimity of a woman who has not yielded either to ambition or to avarice, those twin attendants and scourges of authority, who, when her ship was disabled and her own death was impending, was not restrained by fear from keeping fast hold of her husband’s dead body, and who sought not how to escape from the wreck, but how to carry him out of it with her. You must now show a virtue equal to hers, recall your mind from grief, and take care that no one may think that you are sorry that you have borne a son.

XIX. So far I have said nothing of your greatest comfort, your sister. Her faithful heart shares all your sorrows as fully as your own, and she loves us all like a mother. You have mingled your tears with hers and found your first rest in her arms. She always shares your distress, and when I am involved, she grieves for more than you alone. She carried me into Rome in her arms. Her loving, motherly care restored my strength after a long illness. She used her influence to secure the office of quaestor for me. Her love for me helped her overcome her shyness. At other times, that shyness kept her from speaking to friends or even greeting them aloud. She lived quietly, with the modesty of a country upbringing, at a time when so many women behaved boldly. Yet neither her modesty, her calm nature, nor her solitary habits kept her from becoming ambitious for my sake. Here, my dearest mother, is a source of true comfort. Stay as close to her as you can, and hold her in your tightest embrace. People in sorrow often avoid those dearest to them, seeking freedom to indulge their grief. Instead, share every thought with her. If you wish to dwell on your grief, she will keep you company. If you wish to put your grief aside, she will bring it to an end. But if I rightly understand that admirable woman's wisdom, she will not let you waste your life in useless mourning. She will tell you what happened to her, an experience I witnessed myself. During a sea voyage, she lost her beloved husband, my uncle, whom she had married as a young woman. She faced grief for him and fear for herself at the same time. Though shipwrecked, she finally rescued his body, overcoming the storm. How many noble deeds never become famous! If only she had lived among the unpretentious ancients, who would have admired her courage! How many brilliant writers would have competed to praise such a wife! She forgot the weakness of her sex and the dangers of the sea, which terrify even the boldest. She risked death to bury her husband. She was so determined to give him a proper burial that she did not care whether she shared his grave. All the poets have made famous the wife⁶ who died in her husband's place. My aunt did more when she risked her life to give her husband a tomb. Facing the same danger for a less important purpose shows greater love. After such courage, no one need wonder at her conduct during her husband's sixteen years as governor of Egypt. She was never seen in public and never admitted any local people into her house. She never asked her husband for a favor, or allowed anyone to ask her for one. Egypt was a gossiping province, skilled at inventing scandals about its rulers. Even the blameless often fell into disgrace there. Yet the province respected her as an exceptional example of integrity,⁷ and never treated her name disrespectfully. Such restraint was remarkable among people who would risk everything rather than give up a joke. Even now, the province hopes for another governor's wife like her, though there is no reasonable prospect of finding one. Earning the province's approval for sixteen years would have been greatly to her credit. That the province did not even know she existed was far more to her credit. I do not remind you of her conduct simply to praise her. So brief an account would only diminish the praise she deserves. Rather, I want you to understand her greatness of spirit. She yielded neither to ambition nor to greed, those twin companions and curses of power. When her ship was disabled and death threatened her, fear did not make her release her husband's body. She thought not of how to escape the wreck, but of how to bring him out with her. Now you must show courage equal to hers and turn your mind away from grief. Make sure no one can think you regret having borne a son.

XX. However, since it is necessary, whatever you do, that your thoughts should sometimes revert to me, and that I should now be present to your mind more often than your other children, not because they are less dear to you, but because it is natural to lay one’s hands more often upon a place that pains one; learn how you are to think of me: I am as joyous and cheerful as in my best days: indeed these days are my best, because my mind is relieved from all pressure of business and is at leisure to attend to its own affairs, and at one time amuses itself with lighter studies, at another eagerly presses its inquiries into its own nature and that of the universe: first it considers the countries of the world and their position: then the character of the sea which flows between them, and the alternate ebbings and flowings of its tides; next it investigates all the terrors which hang between heaven and earth, the region which is torn asunder by thunderings, lightnings, gusts of wind, vapour, showers of snow and hail. Finally, having traversed every one of the realms below, it soars to the highest heaven, enjoys the noblest of all spectacles, that of things divine, and, remembering itself to be eternal, reviews all that has been and all that will be for ever and ever.

XX. Yet whatever you do, your thoughts must sometimes return to me. And now you must think of me more often than of your other children. This is not because you love them less. It is because we naturally touch a painful spot more often. So learn how to think of me: I am as joyful and cheerful as in my best days. Indeed, these are my best days, because my mind is free from the pressure of business. My mind has time to attend to its own concerns. Sometimes it enjoys lighter studies. At other times, it eagerly explores its own nature and the nature of the universe. First, my mind considers the lands of the world and their positions. Then it examines the nature of the sea between those lands, and the alternating ebb and flow of its tides. Next, it investigates all the terrors suspended between heaven and earth. That region is torn apart by thunder, lightning, gusts of wind, vapor, and showers of snow and hail. Finally, after passing through every realm below, my mind soars to the highest heaven. There it enjoys the noblest of all sights, the sight of divine things. And, remembering its own eternal nature, it surveys all that has been and all that will be, forever and ever.