Consolation to Marcia

I. Did I not know, Marcia, that you have as little of a woman’s weakness of mind as of her other vices, and that your life was regarded as a pattern of antique virtue, I should not have dared to combat your grief, which is one that many men fondly nurse and embrace, nor should I have conceived the hope of persuading you to hold fortune blameless, having to plead for her at such an unfavorable time, before so partial a judge, and against such an odious charge. I derive confidence, however, from the proved strength of your mind, and your virtue, which has been proved by a severe test. All men know how well you behaved towards your father, whom you loved as dearly as your children in all respects, save that you did not wish him to survive you: indeed, for all that I know you may have wished that also: for great affection ventures to break some of the golden rules of life. You did all that lay in your power to avert the death of your father, Aulus Cremutius Cordus;¹ but when it became clear that, surrounded as he was by the myrmidons of Sejanus, there was no other way of escape from slavery, you did not indeed approve of his resolution, but gave up all attempts to oppose it; you shed tears openly, and choked down your sobs, yet did not screen them behind a smiling face; and you did all this in the present century, when not to be unnatural towards one’s parents is considered the height of filial affection. When the changes of our times gave you an opportunity, you restored to the use of man that genius of your father for which he had suffered, and made him in real truth immortal by publishing as an eternal memorial of him those books which that bravest of men had written with his own blood. You have done a great service to Roman literature: a large part of Cordus’s books had been burned; a great service to posterity, who will receive a true account of events, which cost its author so dear; and a great service to himself, whose memory flourishes and ever will flourish, as long as men set any value upon the facts of Roman history, as long as any one lives who wishes to review the deeds of our fathers, to know what a true Roman was like—one who still remained unconquered when all other necks were broken in to receive the yoke of Sejanus, one who was free in every thought, feeling, and act. By Hercules, the state would have sustained a great loss if you had not brought him forth from the oblivion to which his two splendid qualities, eloquence and independence, had consigned him: he is now read, is popular, is received into men’s hands and bosoms, and fears no old age: but as for those who butchered him, before long men will cease to speak even of their crimes, the only things by which they are remembered. This greatness of mind in you has forbidden me to take into consideration your sex or your face, still clouded by the sorrow by which so many years ago it was suddenly overcast. See; I shall do nothing underhand, nor try to steal away your sorrows: I have reminded you of old hurts, and to prove that your present wound may be healed, I have shown you the scar of one which was equally severe. Let others use soft measures and caresses; I have determined to do battle with your grief, and I will dry those weary and exhausted eyes, which already, to tell you the truth, are weeping more from habit than from sorrow. I will effect this cure, if possible, with your goodwill: if you disapprove of my efforts, or dislike them, then you must continue to hug and fondle the grief which you have adopted as the survivor of your son. What, I pray you, is to be the end of it? All means have been tried in vain: the consolations of your friends, who are weary of offering them, and the influence of great men who are related to you: literature, a taste which your father enjoyed and which you have inherited from him, now finds your ears closed, and affords you but a futile consolation, which scarcely engages your thoughts for a moment. Even time itself, nature’s greatest remedy, which quiets the most bitter grief, loses its power with you alone. Three years have already passed, and still your grief has lost none of its first poignancy, but renews and strengthens itself day by day, and has now dwelt so long with you that it has acquired a domicile in your mind, and actually thinks that it would be base to leave it. All vices sink into our whole being, if we do not crush them before they gain a footing; and in like manner these sad, pitiable, and discordant feelings end by feeding upon their own bitterness, until the unhappy mind takes a sort of morbid delight in grief. I should have liked, therefore, to have attempted to effect this cure in the earliest stages of the disorder, before its force was fully developed; it might have been checked by milder remedies, but now that it has been confirmed by time it cannot be beaten without a hard struggle. In like manner, wounds heal easily when the blood is fresh upon them: they can then be cleared out and brought to the surface, and admit of being probed by the finger: when disease has turned them into malignant ulcers, their cure is more difficult. I cannot now influence so strong a grief by polite and mild measures: it must be broken down by force.

I. Marcia, I know you have as little of a woman’s weakness of mind as of her other faults. I also know your life has been seen as a model of old-fashioned virtue. Otherwise, I would not have dared to challenge your grief, which many men lovingly nurture and embrace. Nor would I have hoped to persuade you that Fortune is blameless. I must defend her at such an unfavorable time, before such a biased judge, against such a hateful charge. Yet I draw confidence from your proven strength of mind and your virtue, which has faced a severe test. Everyone knows how well you treated your father. You loved him as dearly as your children in every respect, except that you did not wish him to outlive you. Indeed, for all I know, you may have wished that too. Deep love dares to break some of life’s golden rules. You did everything you could to prevent the death of your father, Aulus Cremutius Cordus;¹ but he was surrounded by Sejanus’s henchmen, and it became clear that death was his only escape from slavery. You did not approve of his decision, but you stopped trying to oppose it. You wept openly and held back your sobs, yet you did not hide your tears behind a smile. And you did all this in our own century. Nowadays, merely not mistreating your parents is considered the height of devotion to them. When changing times gave you the chance, you restored your father’s genius to the world. That genius had caused his suffering. You made him truly immortal by publishing his books as an everlasting memorial. That supremely brave man had written those books with his own blood. You have done Roman literature a great service, for a large part of Cordus’s books had been burned. You have also greatly served future generations. They will receive a true account of events, an account that cost its author so dearly. And you have greatly served your father himself. His memory thrives and will always thrive, as long as people value the facts of Roman history. It will thrive as long as anyone wants to review our ancestors’ deeds and know what a true Roman was like. He remained unconquered when everyone else had bent their necks to Sejanus’s yoke. He was free in every thought, feeling, and action. By Hercules, the state would have suffered a great loss if you had not rescued him from oblivion. His two splendid qualities, eloquence and independence, had condemned him to that obscurity. Now people read him and admire him. They hold his books in their hands and take him to their hearts, and he need not fear growing old. But those who butchered him will soon cease to be remembered even for their crimes, their only remaining claim to remembrance. Your greatness of mind has kept me from considering your sex or your face. Your face remains clouded by the sorrow that suddenly fell upon you so many years ago. Look, I will do nothing underhanded or try to take your sorrow away by stealth. I have reminded you of old wounds. To show that your present wound can heal, I have pointed to the scar of another equally severe wound. Let others use gentle methods and soothing words. I have decided to fight your grief. I will dry your weary, exhausted eyes. To tell you the truth, those eyes are already weeping more from habit than from sorrow. If possible, I will cure you with your willing cooperation. If you disapprove of my efforts or dislike them, you must go on embracing your grief. You have adopted that grief as the survivor of your son. What, I ask you, will end it? Every remedy has been tried in vain. Your friends have offered comfort until they are tired of offering it. The influence of powerful relatives has also failed. Your father loved literature, and you inherited his love for it. Now you shut your ears to literature. Its comfort is useless and barely holds your attention for a moment. Even time, nature’s greatest remedy, loses its power with you alone, though it soothes the bitterest grief. Three years have already passed, yet your grief has lost none of its original sharpness. Instead, your grief renews itself and grows stronger every day. It has lived with you so long that it has made a home in your mind. Indeed, your grief now thinks leaving would be shameful. All vices spread through our whole being unless we crush them before they take hold. In the same way, these sad, pitiful, and troubled feelings eventually feed on their own bitterness. At last, the unhappy mind takes a kind of unhealthy pleasure in grief. So I would have liked to attempt this cure in the illness’s earliest stages, before its strength had fully developed. Gentler remedies might then have checked your grief. But time has now strengthened your grief, and overcoming it will require a hard struggle. In the same way, wounds heal easily while the blood is still fresh. At that stage, wounds can be cleaned out, opened up, and probed with a finger. Once disease has turned wounds into festering ulcers, healing them becomes harder. I can no longer affect such powerful grief with courteous words and gentle methods. Your grief must be broken by force.

II. I am aware that all who wish to give any one advice begin with precepts, and end with examples: but it is sometimes useful to alter this fashion, for we must deal differently with different people. Some are guided by reason, others must be confronted with authority and the names of celebrated persons, whose brilliancy dazzles their mind and destroys their power of free judgment. I will place before your eyes two of the greatest examples belonging to your sex and your century: one, that of a woman who allowed herself to be entirely carried away by grief; the other, one who, though afflicted by a like misfortune, and an even greater loss, yet did not allow her sorrows to reign over her for a very long time, but quickly restored her mind to its accustomed frame. Octavia and Livia, the former Augustus’s sister, the latter his wife, both lost their sons when they were young men, and when they were certain of succeeding to the throne. Octavia lost Marcellus, whom both his father-in-law and his uncle had begun to depend upon, and to place upon his shoulders the weight of the empire—a young man of keen intelligence and firm character, frugal and moderate in his desires to an extent which deserved especial admiration in one so young and so wealthy, strong to endure labour, averse to indulgence, and able to bear whatever burden his uncle might choose to lay, or I may say to pile upon his shoulders. Augustus had well chosen him as a foundation, for he would not have given way under any weight, however excessive. His mother never ceased to weep and sob during her whole life, never endured to listen to wholesome advice, never even allowed her thoughts to be diverted from her sorrow. She remained during her whole life just as she was during the funeral, with all the strength of her mind intently fixed upon one subject. I do not say that she lacked the courage to shake off her grief, but she refused to be comforted, thought that it would be a second bereavement to lose her tears, and would not have any portrait of her darling son, nor allow any allusion to be made to him. She hated all mothers, and raged against Livia with especial fury, because it seemed as though the brilliant prospect once in store for her own child was now transferred to Livia’s son. Passing all her days in darkened rooms and alone, not conversing even with her brother, she refused to accept the poems which were composed in memory of Marcellus, and all the other honours paid him by literature, and closed her ears against all consolation. She lived buried and hidden from view, neglecting her accustomed duties, and actually angry with the excessive splendour of her brother’s prosperity, in which she shared. Though surrounded by her children and grandchildren, she would not lay aside her mourning garb, though by retaining it she seemed to put a slight upon all her relations, in thinking herself bereaved in spite of their being alive.

II. I know that all who offer advice begin with principles and end with examples. But sometimes it helps to reverse this order, because different people need different approaches. Some are guided by reason. Others must be confronted with authority and the names of famous people. The brilliance of these figures dazzles their minds and robs them of independent judgment. I will set before you two of the greatest examples from your own sex and century. One woman let grief carry her away completely. The other suffered a similar misfortune and an even greater loss. Yet she did not let sorrow rule her for very long, but quickly returned to her usual state of mind. Octavia and Livia, Augustus’s sister and wife respectively, both lost their sons as young men, when their succession to the throne seemed certain. Octavia lost Marcellus. Both his father-in-law and his uncle had begun to rely on him and place the empire’s weight on his shoulders. He was a young man of sharp intelligence and firm character. He lived simply and kept his desires in check, qualities especially admirable in someone so young and wealthy. He could endure hard work, avoided indulgence, and could bear whatever burden his uncle chose to place on his shoulders. Indeed, I might say whatever burdens his uncle chose to pile on them. Augustus had chosen his foundation well. Marcellus would not have collapsed under any weight, however great. His mother never stopped weeping and sobbing for the rest of her life. She never tolerated sound advice or even allowed her thoughts to turn away from her sorrow. Throughout her life, she remained just as she had been at the funeral. All her mental energy stayed fixed on that one loss. I do not say she lacked the courage to shake off her grief. Rather, she refused comfort and thought losing her tears would be a second bereavement. She would not keep any portrait of her beloved son or allow anyone to mention him. She hated all mothers and directed particular fury at Livia. To Octavia, the brilliant future once awaiting her own child seemed to have passed to Livia’s son. She spent all her days alone in darkened rooms and would not speak even with her brother. She refused to accept the poems written in Marcellus’s memory and all the other literary tributes honoring him. She closed her ears to every attempt at consolation. She lived as though buried, hidden from sight, and neglected her usual duties. She was even angry at the overwhelming splendor of her brother’s prosperity, though she shared in it. Although surrounded by her children and grandchildren, she would not take off her mourning clothes. By continuing to wear them, she seemed to slight all her relatives, considering herself bereaved despite their being alive.

III. Livia lost her son Drusus, who would have been a great emperor, and was already a great general: he had marched far into Germany, and had planted the Roman standards in places where the very existence of the Romans was hardly known. He died on the march, his very foes treating him with respect, observing a reciprocal truce, and not having the heart to wish for what would do them most service. In addition to his dying thus in his country’s service, great sorrow for him was expressed by the citizens, the provinces, and the whole of Italy, through which his corpse was attended by the people of the free towns and colonies, who poured out to perform the last sad offices to him, till it reached Rome in a procession which resembled a triumph. His mother was not permitted to receive his last kiss and gather the last fond words from his dying lips: she followed the relics of her Drusus on their long journey, though every one of the funeral pyres with which all Italy was glowing seemed to renew her grief, as though she had lost him so many times. When, however, she at last laid him in the tomb, she left her sorrow there with him, and grieved no more than was becoming to a Caesar or due to a son. She did not cease to make frequent mention of the name of her Drusus, to set up his portrait in all places, both public and private, and to speak of him and listen while others spoke of him with the greatest pleasure: she lived with his memory; which none can embrace and consort with who has made it painful to himself.² Choose, therefore, which of these two examples you think the more commendable: if you prefer to follow the former, you will remove yourself from the number of the living; you will shun the sight both of other people’s children and of your own, and even of him whose loss you deplore; you will be looked upon by mothers as an omen of evil; you will refuse to take part in honourable, permissible pleasures, thinking them unbecoming for one so afflicted; you will be loth to linger above ground, and will be especially angry with your age, because it will not straightway bring your life abruptly to an end. I here put the best construction on what is really most contemptible and foreign to your character. I mean that you will show yourself unwilling to live, and unable to die. If, on the other hand, showing a milder and better regulated spirit, you try to follow the example of the latter most exalted lady, you will not be in misery, nor will you wear your life out with suffering. Plague on it! what madness this is, to punish one’s self because one is unfortunate, and not to lessen, but to increase one’s ills! You ought to display, in this matter also, that decent behaviour and modesty which has characterised all your life: for there is such a thing as self-restraint in grief also. You will show more respect for the youth himself, who well deserves that it should make you glad to speak and think of him, if you make him able to meet his mother with a cheerful countenance, even as he was wont to do when alive.

III. Livia lost her son Drusus, who would have been a great emperor and was already a great general. He had marched far into Germany and planted the Roman standards where people hardly knew the Romans existed. He died on the march, with even his enemies treating him with respect. Both sides observed a truce. His enemies could not bring themselves to wish for his death, though it would benefit them most. Besides dying in his country’s service, he was deeply mourned by the citizens, the provinces, and all of Italy. As his body traveled through Italy, people from the free towns and colonies poured out to pay their last respects. They accompanied his body until it reached Rome in a procession resembling a triumph. His mother was denied his last kiss and the last loving words from his dying lips. She followed the remains of her Drusus on their long journey. Yet every funeral pyre blazing throughout Italy seemed to renew her grief, as though she had lost him again each time. But when she finally laid him in the tomb, she left her sorrow there with him. She grieved no more than was fitting for a Caesar or owed to a son. She continued to mention her Drusus often and display his portrait everywhere, in public and in private. She took the greatest pleasure in speaking about him and listening to others speak of him. She lived with his memory. No one can embrace and live with a memory they have made painful to themselves.² Choose, then, which of these two examples you find more admirable. If you choose the first, you will cut yourself off from the living. You will avoid seeing other people’s children, your own children, and even the son whose loss you mourn. Mothers will see you as a sign of coming misfortune. You will refuse to share in honorable, innocent pleasures, thinking them improper for someone suffering as you do. You will be reluctant to remain alive. You will be especially angry at your age because it does not immediately bring your life to an abrupt end. Here I am putting the kindest interpretation on conduct that is truly contemptible and entirely unlike you. I mean that you will show yourself unwilling to live and unable to die. If, instead, you approach grief more gently and with greater self-control, you can follow the second, most distinguished woman’s example. Then you will not live in misery or wear out your life with suffering. Damn it! What madness it is to punish yourself because you are unfortunate, and to increase your troubles rather than lessen them! In grief, too, you should show the dignity and modesty that have marked your whole life. For grief, too, calls for self-restraint. Your son deserves to bring you joy when you speak and think of him. You will honor him more if you let him greet his mother with a cheerful face, just as he did in life.

IV. I will not invite you to practise the sterner kind of maxims, nor bid you bear the lot of humanity with more than human philosophy; neither will I attempt to dry a mother’s eyes on the very day of her son’s burial. I will appear with you before an arbitrator: the matter upon which we shall join issue is, whether grief ought to be deep or unceasing. I doubt not that you will prefer the example of Julia Augusta, who was your intimate friend: she invites you to follow her method: she, in her first paroxysm, when grief is especially keen and hard to bear, betook herself for consolation to Areus, her husband’s teacher in philosophy, and declared that this did her much good; more good than the thought of the Roman people, whom she was unwilling to sadden by her mourning; more than Augustus, who, staggering under the loss of one of his two chief supporters, ought not to be yet more bowed down by the sorrow of his relatives; more even than her son Tiberius, whose affection during that untimely burial of one for whom whole nations wept made her feel that she had only lost one member of her family. This was, I imagine, his introduction to and grounding in philosophy of a woman peculiarly tenacious of her own opinion:—“Even to the present day, Julia, as far as I can tell—and I was your husband’s constant companion, and knew not only what all men were allowed to know, but all the most secret thoughts of your hearts— you have been careful that no one should find anything to blame in your conduct; not only in matters of importance, but even in trifles you have taken pains to do nothing which you could wish common fame, that most frank judge of the acts of princes, to overlook. Nothing, I think, is more admirable than that those who are in high places should pardon many shortcomings in others, and have to ask it for none of their own. So also in this matter of mourning you ought to act up to your maxim of doing nothing which you could wish undone, or done otherwise.

IV. I will not ask you to follow the harsher teachings or face the human condition with more than human wisdom. Nor will I try to dry a mother’s tears on the very day of her son’s burial. I will go with you before an arbitrator. The question we will debate is whether grief should be deep or endless. I have no doubt that you will prefer the example of Julia Augusta, your close friend. She invites you to follow her approach. In her first wave of grief, when sorrow is especially sharp and hard to bear, she sought comfort from Areus. He was her husband’s philosophy teacher, and she said his help did her great good. It helped more than thinking of the Roman people, whom she did not want to sadden with her mourning. It helped more than thinking of Augustus, already shaken by losing one of his two chief supporters. His family’s sorrow ought not to weigh him down further. It helped even more than thinking of her son Tiberius. During that untimely burial of a man mourned by whole nations, Tiberius’s affection made her feel she had lost only one family member. Here, I imagine, is how Areus introduced philosophy and laid its foundations for a woman especially firm in her opinions: “Julia, as far as I can tell, you have always taken care that no one could fault your conduct. I was your husband’s constant companion. I knew not only what everyone was allowed to know, but all the most secret thoughts in your hearts. Even in small matters, not just important ones, you have taken pains to do nothing you would want public opinion to overlook. Public opinion is the most outspoken judge of rulers’ actions. Nothing, I think, is more admirable than this: people in high positions forgive many faults in others, yet need forgiveness for none themselves. So, in mourning too, you should follow your principle. Do nothing you would wish undone or done differently.

V. “In the next place, I pray and beseech you not to be self-willed and beyond the management of your friends. You must be aware that none of them know how to behave, whether to mention Drusus in your presence or not, as they neither wish to wrong a noble youth by forgetting him, nor to hurt you by speaking of him. When we leave you and assemble together by ourselves, we talk freely about his sayings and doings, treating them with the respect which they deserve: in your presence deep silence is observed about him, and thus you lose that greatest of pleasures, the hearing the praises of your son, which I doubt not you would be willing to hand down to all future ages, had you the means of so doing, even at the cost of your own life. Wherefore endure to listen to, nay, encourage conversation of which he is the subject, and let your ears be open to the name and memory of your son. You ought not to consider this painful, like those who in such a case think that part of their misfortune consists in listening to consolation. As it is, you have altogether run into the other extreme, and, forgetting the better aspects of your lot, look only upon its worse side: you pay no attention to the pleasure you have had in your son’s society and your joyful meetings with him, the sweet caresses of his babyhood, the progress of his education: you fix all your attention upon that last scene of all: and to this, as though it were not shocking enough, you add every horror you can. Do not, I implore you, take a perverse pride in appearing the most unhappy of women: and reflect also that there is no great credit in behaving bravely in times of prosperity, when life glides easily with a favouring current: neither does a calm sea and fair wind display the art of the pilot: some foul weather is wanted to prove his courage. Like him, then, do not give way, but rather plant yourself firmly, and endure whatever burden may fall upon you from above, scared though you may have been at the first roar of the tempest. There is nothing that fastens such a reproach³ on Fortune as resignation.” After this he points out to her the son who is yet alive: he points out grandchildren from the lost one.

V. “Next, I beg you not to be stubborn or refuse to let your friends guide you. You must know that none of them know how to act. They do not know whether to mention Drusus in your presence. They neither want to dishonor a noble young man by forgetting him nor hurt you by speaking of him. When we leave you and gather on our own, we talk freely about his words and deeds. We give them the respect they deserve. In your presence, we say nothing about him. So you lose one of life’s greatest pleasures, hearing your son praised. I have no doubt you would want his praises passed down to all future generations, if you could arrange it. You would do so even at the cost of your own life. So bear to hear him discussed. Better still, encourage such conversations, and welcome the name and memory of your son. You should not find this painful, as some people do when they count hearing consolation as part of their misfortune. As things stand, you have gone completely to the opposite extreme. You forget the better parts of your life and look only at the worst. You ignore the pleasure of your son’s company and your joyful meetings with him. You ignore his sweet embraces as a baby and the progress of his education. You focus entirely on that final scene. And as if that scene were not terrible enough, you add every horror you can imagine. I beg you, do not take a twisted pride in seeming the most unhappy of women. Remember, too, that there is little credit in behaving bravely when life goes well and the current carries you smoothly. A calm sea and a fair wind do not reveal a pilot’s skill either. Some bad weather is needed to prove his courage. Like that pilot, then, do not give way. Instead, stand firm and bear whatever burden falls on you from above. Do so even though the storm’s first roar may have frightened you. Nothing brings such disgrace³ upon Fortune as calmly accepting what she brings.” After this, he reminds her of the son who is still alive. He reminds her of the grandchildren left by the son she lost.

VI. It is your trouble, Marcia, which has been dealt with here: it is beside your couch of mourning that Areus has been sitting: change the characters, and it is you whom he has been consoling. But, on the other hand, Marcia, suppose that you have sustained a greater loss than ever mother did before you: see, I am not soothing you or making light of your misfortune: if fate can be overcome by tears, let us bring tears to bear upon it: let every day be passed in mourning, every night be spent in sorrow instead of sleep: let your breast be torn by your own hands, your very face attacked by them, and every kind of cruelty be practised by your grief, if it will profit you. But if the dead cannot be brought back to life, however much we may beat our breasts, if destiny remains fixed and immoveable for ever, not to be changed by any sorrow, however great, and death does not loose his hold of anything that he once has taken away, then let our futile grief be brought to an end. Let us, then, steer our own course, and no longer allow ourselves to be driven to leeward by the force of our misfortune. He is a sorry pilot who lets the waves wring his rudder from his grasp, who leaves the sails to fly loose, and abandons the ship to the storm: but he who boldly grasps the helm and clings to it until the sea closes over him, deserves praise even though he be shipwrecked.

VI. It is your grief, Marcia, that has been addressed here. Areus has been sitting beside your couch as you mourn. Change the characters, and you are the one he has been comforting. But suppose, Marcia, that you have suffered a greater loss than any mother before you. Look, I am not trying to soothe you or make light of your misfortune. If tears can overcome fate, let us use tears against it. Let every day be spent in mourning, every night in sorrow instead of sleep. Tear your breast with your own hands, and attack your face as well. Let your grief inflict every kind of cruelty on you, if doing so will help you. But what if the dead cannot be brought back to life, however much we beat our breasts? What if destiny remains fixed and unchanging forever, beyond the power of any sorrow, however great? And what if death never releases anything he has once taken away? Then let us put an end to our useless grief. Let us steer our own course, then, instead of letting our misfortune drive us off course. A poor pilot lets the waves wrench the rudder from his hands. He lets the sails flap loose and abandons the ship to the storm. But a pilot who boldly grips the helm and holds on until the sea covers him deserves praise, even if he is shipwrecked.

VII. “But,” say you, “sorrow for the loss of one’s own children is natural.” Who denies it? provided it be reasonable? for we cannot help feeling a pang, and the stoutest-hearted of us are cast down not only at the death of those dearest to us, but even when they leave us on a journey. Nevertheless, the mourning which public opinion enjoins is more than nature insists upon. Observe how intense and yet how brief are the sorrows of dumb animals: we hear a cow lowing for one or two days, nor do mares pursue their wild and senseless gallops for longer: wild beasts after they have tracked their lost cubs throughout the forest, and often visited their plundered dens, quench their rage within a short space of time. Birds circle round their empty nests with loud and piteous cries, yet almost immediately resume their ordinary flight in silence; nor does any creature spend long periods in sorrowing for the loss of its offspring, except man, who encourages his own grief, the measure of which depends not upon his sufferings, but upon his will. You may know that to be utterly broken down by grief is not natural, by observing that the same bereavement inflicts a deeper wound upon women than upon men, upon savages than upon civilised and cultivated persons, upon the unlearned than upon the learned: yet those passions which derive their force from nature are equally powerful in all men: therefore it is clear that a passion of varying strength cannot be a natural one. Fire will burn all people equally, male and female, of every rank and every age: steel will exhibit its cutting power on all bodies alike: and why? Because these things derive their strength from nature, which makes no distinction of persons. Poverty, grief, and ambition,⁴ are felt differently by different people, according as they are influenced by habit: a rooted prejudice about the terrors of these things, though they are not really to be feared, makes a man weak and unable to endure them.

VII. “But,” you say, “grief over losing your own children is natural.” Who denies that, as long as the grief stays within reason? We cannot help feeling a pang. Even the strongest among us feel crushed when those dearest to us die, or even leave on a journey. Yet public opinion demands more mourning than nature does. Notice how intense, yet brief, the grief of animals is. We hear a cow lowing for one or two days. Nor do mares continue their wild, senseless galloping any longer. Wild beasts track their lost cubs throughout the forest and repeatedly visit their plundered dens. Yet within a short time, their rage subsides. Birds circle their empty nests with loud, pitiful cries. Yet almost immediately, the birds return to their usual flight in silence. No creature grieves long over losing its young except humans. Humans encourage their own grief, whose extent depends not on their suffering but on their will. You can see that being utterly broken by grief is not natural by considering the same loss in different people. The same loss wounds women more deeply than men, savages more deeply than civilized and educated people, and the uneducated more deeply than the educated. Yet emotions that draw their strength from nature are equally powerful in everyone. So clearly, an emotion that varies in strength cannot be natural. Fire burns everyone equally, male and female, of every rank and age. Steel cuts all bodies alike. Why? Because fire and steel draw their power from nature, which makes no distinction between people. Poverty, grief, and ambition,⁴ affect different people differently, depending on how habit influences them. Deep-rooted beliefs about the terrors of poverty, grief, and ambition make people weak and unable to bear them. Yet poverty, grief, and ambition are not really to be feared.

VIII. Moreover, that which depends upon nature is not weakened by delay, but grief is gradually effaced by time. However obstinate it may be, though it be daily renewed and be exasperated by all attempts to soothe it, yet even this becomes weakened by time, which is the most efficient means of taming its fierceness. You, Marcia, have still a mighty sorrow abiding with you, nevertheless it already appears to have become blunted: it is obstinate and enduring, but not so acute as it was at first: and this also will be taken from you piecemeal by succeeding years. Whenever you are engaged in other pursuits your mind will be relieved from its burden: at present you keep watch over yourself to prevent this. Yet there is a great difference between allowing and forcing yourself to grieve. How much more in accordance with your cultivated taste it would be to put an end to your mourning instead of looking for the end to come, and not to wait for the day when your sorrow shall cease against your will: dismiss it of your own accord.

VIII. Moreover, what depends on nature is not weakened by time, but grief gradually fades. However stubborn grief may be, even grief weakens with time. This is true even when grief is renewed daily and worsened by every attempt to soothe it. Time is the most effective way to tame its fierceness. You, Marcia, still carry a great sorrow, yet its edge already seems to have dulled. Your sorrow is stubborn and lasting, but less sharp than at first. The coming years will take away even this remaining sorrow, little by little. Whenever you turn to other pursuits, your mind will find relief from its burden. For now, you watch yourself closely to prevent that relief. Yet there is a great difference between allowing yourself to grieve and forcing yourself to grieve. How much more fitting for someone of your cultivated taste to end your mourning rather than wait for its end. Do not wait for the day when your sorrow ends against your will. Let it go of your own accord.

IX. “Why then,” you ask, “do we show such persistence in mourning for our friends, if it be not nature that bids us do so?” It is because we never expect that any evil will befall ourselves before it comes, we will not be taught by seeing the misfortunes of others that they are the common inheritance of all men, but imagine that the path which we have begun to tread is free from them and less beset by dangers than that of other people. How many funerals pass our houses? yet we do not think of death. How many untimely deaths? we think only of our son’s coming of age, of his service in the army, or of his succession to his father’s estate. How many rich men suddenly sink into poverty before our very eyes, without its ever occurring to our minds that our own wealth is exposed to exactly the same risks? When, therefore, misfortune befalls us, we cannot help collapsing all the more completely, because we are struck as it were unawares: a blow which has long been foreseen falls much less heavily upon us. Do you wish to know how completely exposed you are to every stroke of fate, and that the same shafts which have transfixed others are whirling around yourself? then imagine that you are mounting without sufficient armour to assault some city wall or some strong and lofty position manned by a great host, expect a wound, and suppose that all those stones, arrows, and darts which fill the upper air are aimed at your body: whenever any one falls at your side or behind your back, exclaim, “Fortune, you will not outwit me, or catch me confident and heedless: I know what you are preparing to do: you have struck down another, but you aimed at me.” Who ever looks upon his own affairs as though he were at the point of death? which of us ever dares to think about banishment, want, or mourning? who, if advised to meditate upon these subjects, would not reject the idea like an evil omen, and bid it depart from him and alight on the heads of his enemies, or even on that of his untimely adviser? “I never thought it would happen!” How can you think that anything will not happen, when you know that it may happen to many men, and has happened to many? That is a noble verse, and worthy of a nobler source than the stage:—

IX. “Why then,” you ask, “do we keep mourning our friends so persistently, if nature does not tell us to?” Because we never expect any misfortune to happen to us before it arrives. We refuse to learn from other people’s troubles that misfortune is the common lot of all people. Instead, we imagine that the path we have started down is free from misfortune and safer than other people’s paths. How many funerals pass our houses? Yet we do not think of death. How many people die before their time? We think only of our son’s coming of age, his military service, or his inheritance of his father’s estate. How many rich people suddenly fall into poverty before our very eyes? Yet we never think that our own wealth faces exactly the same risks. So when misfortune strikes, we cannot help breaking down all the more completely, because the blow catches us unprepared. A blow we have long expected hits us much less hard. Do you want to know how exposed you are to every blow of fate? Do you want to know that the same arrows that pierced others are flying around you? Then imagine yourself attacking a city wall without enough armor, or storming a strong, high position defended by a great army. Expect to be wounded. Assume that every stone, arrow, and spear filling the air above you is aimed at your body. Whenever someone falls beside you or behind you, cry out, “Fortune, you will not outwit me or catch me careless and sure of my safety. I know what you are preparing to do. You have struck down someone else, but you aimed at me.” Who ever looks at his own affairs as if he were about to die? Which of us ever dares to think about exile, poverty, or grief? If advised to think about these things, who would not reject the suggestion as an evil omen? Who would not tell that omen to leave him and fall on his enemies instead, or even on his unwelcome adviser? “I never thought it would happen!” How can you think something will not happen, when you know it can happen to many people, and has? That is a noble line of verse, worthy of a nobler source than the stage:

That man has lost his children: you may lose yours. That man has been convicted: your innocence is in peril. We are deceived and weakened by this delusion, when we suffer what we never foresaw that we possibly could suffer: but by looking forward to the coming of our sorrows we take the sting out of them when they come.

That man has lost his children. You may lose yours. That man has been convicted. Your innocence is at risk. We fool ourselves by believing we could never suffer such things. This illusion leaves us weaker when we suffer what we never imagined could happen to us. But by anticipating our sorrows, we take the sting out of them when they come.

X. My Marcia, all these adventitious circumstances which glitter around us, such as children, office in the state, wealth, large halls, vestibules crowded with clients seeking vainly for admittance, a noble name, a well-born or beautiful wife, and every other thing which depends entirely upon uncertain and changeful fortune, are but furniture which is not our own, but entrusted to us on loan: none of these things are given to us outright: the stage of our lives is adorned with properties gathered from various sources, and soon to be returned to their several owners: some of them will be taken away on the first day, some on the second, and but few will remain till the end. We have, therefore, no grounds for regarding ourselves with complacency, as though the things which surround us were our own: they are only borrowed: we have the use and enjoyment of them for a time regulated by the lender, who controls his own gift: it is our duty always to be able to lay our hands upon what has been lent us with no fixed date for its return, and to restore it when called upon without a murmur: the most detestable kind of debtor is he who rails at his creditor. Hence all our relatives, both those who by the order of their birth we hope will outlive ourselves, and those who themselves most properly wish to die before us, ought to be loved by us as persons whom we cannot be sure of having with us for ever, nor even for long. We ought frequently to remind ourselves that we must love the things of this life as we would what is shortly to leave us, or indeed in the very act of leaving us. Whatever gift Fortune bestows upon a man, let him think while he enjoys it, that it will prove as fickle as the goddess from whom it came. Snatch what pleasure you can from your children, allow your children in their turn to take pleasure in your society, and drain every pleasure to the dregs without any delay. We cannot reckon on to-night, nay, I have allowed too long a delay, we cannot reckon on this hour: we must make haste: the enemy presses on behind us: soon that society of yours will be broken up, that pleasant company will be taken by assault and dispersed. Pillage is the universal law: unhappy creatures, know you not that life is but a flight? If you grieve for the death of your son, the fault lies with the time when he was born, for at his birth he was told that death was his doom: it is the law under which he was born, the fate which has pursued him ever since he left his mother’s womb. We have come under the dominion of Fortune, and a harsh and unconquerable dominion it is: at her caprice we must suffer all things whether we deserve them or not. She maltreats our bodies with anger, insult, and cruelty: some she burns, the fire being sometimes applied as a punishment and sometimes as a remedy: some she imprisons, allowing it to be done at one time by our enemies, at another by our countrymen: she tosses others naked on the changeful seas, and after their struggle with the waves will not even cast them out upon the sand or the shore, but will entomb them in the belly of some huge sea-monster: she wears away others to a skeleton by divers kinds of disease, and keeps them long in suspense between life and death: she is as capricious in her rewards and punishments as a fickle, whimsical, and careless mistress is with those of her slaves.

X. My Marcia, all the outward advantages that glitter around us depend entirely on uncertain, changing fortune. These include children, public office, wealth, grand halls, and entrance halls crowded with clients seeking admission in vain. They include a noble name, a wife of noble birth or great beauty, and everything else fortune controls. All these things are furnishings that do not belong to us. They have only been lent to us. None are given to us outright. The stage of our lives is decorated with props borrowed from various sources. Soon those props must return to their separate owners. Some will be taken away on the first day, some on the second. Only a few will remain until the end. So we have no reason to feel pleased with ourselves, as though everything around us belonged to us. These things are only borrowed. We may use and enjoy them for as long as the lender allows. The lender controls his own gift. We must always be ready to hand back whatever was lent to us without a fixed return date. When called upon, we must return it without complaint. The most hateful debtor is the one who abuses his creditor. So we should love all our relatives knowing we cannot count on keeping them forever, or even for long. This includes younger relatives whom we hope will outlive us, and older relatives who rightly wish to die before us. We should often remind ourselves to love everything in life as something soon to leave us, or already leaving. Whatever gift Fortune gives a man, he should remember this while enjoying it: the gift will prove as fickle as the goddess who gave it. Seize whatever pleasure you can from your children. Let your children, in turn, enjoy your company. Drink every pleasure to the last drop, without delay. We cannot count on tonight. No, even that allows too much time. We cannot count on this hour. We must hurry. The enemy presses close behind us. Soon your gathering will be broken up. Your happy company will be stormed and scattered. Plunder is the universal law. Unhappy creatures, do you not know that life is nothing but a flight? If you grieve over your son's death, the fault lies with the moment of his birth. For at birth he was told that death was his fate. He was born under this law. This fate has pursued him ever since he left his mother's womb. We have fallen under Fortune's rule, and her rule is harsh and impossible to defeat. At her whim, we must suffer everything, whether we deserve it or not. She abuses our bodies with anger, contempt, and cruelty. Some she burns, sometimes as punishment and sometimes as treatment. Some she imprisons, sometimes through our enemies and sometimes through our own countrymen. Others she throws naked onto the shifting seas. After their struggle with the waves, she will not even cast them onto the sand or shore. Instead, she buries them in the belly of some huge sea monster. Others she wastes to skeletons through various diseases, keeping them suspended for a long time between life and death. In rewards and punishments, she is as unpredictable as a fickle, whimsical, and careless mistress dealing with her slaves.

XI. Why need we weep over parts of our life? the whole of it calls for tears: new miseries assail us before we have freed ourselves from the old ones. You, therefore, who allow them to trouble you to an unreasonable extent ought especially to restrain yourselves, and to muster all the powers of the human breast to combat your fears and your pains. Moreover, what forgetfulness of your own position and that of mankind is this? You were born a mortal, and you have given birth to mortals: yourself a weak and fragile body, liable to all diseases, can you have hoped to produce anything strong and lasting from such unstable materials? Your son has died: in other words he has reached that goal towards which those whom you regard as more fortunate than your offspring are still hastening: this is the point towards which move at different rates all the crowds which are squabbling in the law courts, sitting in the theatres, praying in the temples. Those whom you love and those whom you despise will both be made equal in the same ashes. This is the meaning of that command, KNOW THYSELF, which is written on the shrine of the Pythian oracle. What is man? a potter’s vessel, to be broken by the slightest shake or toss: it requires no great storm to rend you asunder: you fall to pieces wherever you strike. What is man? a weakly and frail body, naked, without any natural protection, dependent on the help of others, exposed to all the scorn of Fortune; even when his muscles are well trained he is the prey and the food of the first wild beast he meets, formed of weak and unstable substances, fair in outward feature, but unable to endure cold, heat, or labour, and yet falling to ruin if kept in sloth and idleness, fearing his very victuals, for he is starved if he has them not, and bursts if he has too much. He cannot be kept safe without anxious care, his breath only stays in the body on sufferance, and has no real hold upon it; he starts at every sudden danger, every loud and unexpected noise that reaches his ears. Ever a cause of anxiety to ourselves, diseased and useless as we are, can we be surprised at the death of a creature which can be killed by a single hiccup? Is it a great undertaking to put an end to us? why, smells, tastes, fatigue and want of sleep, food and drink, and the very necessaries of life, are mortal. Whithersoever he moves he straightway becomes conscious of his weakness, not being able to bear all climates, falling sick after drinking strange water, breathing an air to which he is not accustomed, or from other causes and reasons of the most trifling kind, frail, sickly, entering upon his life with weeping: yet nevertheless what a disturbance this despicable creature makes! what ideas it conceives, forgetting its lowly condition! It exercises its mind upon matters which are immortal and eternal, and arranges the affairs of its grandchildren and great-grandchildren, while death surprises it in the midst of its far-reaching schemes, and what we call old age is but the round of a very few years.

XI. Why should we weep over individual parts of our lives? The whole of life calls for tears. New miseries attack us before we have escaped the old ones. So those of you who let these troubles overwhelm you beyond reason must make a special effort to control yourselves. You must gather all the strength of the human heart to fight your fears and pain. Besides, how can you forget your own condition and the condition of all humanity? You were born mortal, and you have given birth to mortals. Your own body is weak and fragile, vulnerable to every disease. Could you have hoped to produce anything strong and lasting from such unstable materials? Your son has died. In other words, he has reached the destination that others are still hurrying toward. Yet you consider those others more fortunate than your child. All the crowds arguing in the courts, sitting in theaters, and praying in temples are moving toward that same destination. They move at different speeds. Those you love and those you despise will all become equal in the same ashes. This is the meaning of the command KNOW THYSELF, written on the shrine of the Pythian oracle. What is a human being? A clay pot that the slightest shake or jolt can break. No great storm is needed to tear you apart. Wherever you strike something, you shatter. What is a human being? A weak, fragile body, naked and without natural protection, dependent on others for help, exposed to every insult from Fortune. Even with well-trained muscles, he is prey and food for the first wild beast he meets. He is made of weak, unstable materials, handsome on the outside, but unable to endure cold, heat, or hard work. Yet rest and idleness also bring him to ruin. He fears even his food, because without food he starves, and with too much he bursts. Keeping him safe requires anxious care. His breath remains in his body only by permission and has no firm hold on him. He jumps at every sudden danger and every loud, unexpected noise that reaches his ears. Sickly and useless as we are, we are always a source of anxiety to ourselves. Can we be surprised by the death of a creature that a single hiccup can kill? Does ending our lives take much effort? Why, smells, tastes, exhaustion, lack of sleep, food, drink, and the very necessities of life can kill us. Wherever a person goes, he immediately feels his weakness. He cannot tolerate every climate. Unfamiliar water or air makes him ill, as do other causes of the most trivial kind. He is fragile and sickly, and begins his life in tears. Yet what an uproar this contemptible creature makes! What ideas he dreams up, forgetting his lowly condition! He turns his mind to immortal and eternal matters. He plans the affairs of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Yet death catches him in the middle of these far-reaching plans. And what we call old age is only the passing of a very few years.

XII. Supposing that your sorrow has any method at all, is it your own sufferings or those of him who is gone that it has in view? Why do you grieve over your lost son? is it because you have received no pleasure from him, or because you would have received more had he lived longer? If you answer that you have received no pleasure from him you make your loss more endurable: for men miss less when lost what has given them no enjoyment or gladness. If, again, you admit that you have received much pleasure, it is your duty not to complain of that part which you have lost, but to return thanks for that which you have enjoyed. His rearing alone ought to have brought you a sufficient return for your labours, for it can hardly be that those who take the greatest pains to rear puppies, birds, and such like paltry objects of amusement derive a certain pleasure from the sight and touch and fawning caresses of these dumb creatures, and yet that those who rear children should not find their reward in doing so. Thus, even though his industry may have gained nothing for you, his carefulness may have saved nothing for you, his foresight may have given you no advice, yet you found sufficient reward in having owned him and loved him. “But,” say you, “it might have lasted longer.” True, but you have been better dealt with than if you had never had a son, for, supposing you were given your choice, which is the better lot, to be happy for a short time or not at all? It is better to enjoy pleasures which soon leave us than to enjoy none at all. Which, again, would you choose? to have had one who was a disgrace to you, and who merely filled the position and owned the name of your son, or one of such noble character as your son’s was? a youth who soon grew discreet and dutiful, soon became a husband and a father, soon became eager for public honours, and soon obtained the priesthood, winning his way to all these admirable things with equally admirable speed. It falls to scarcely any one’s lot to enjoy great prosperity, and also to enjoy it for a long time: only a dull kind of happiness can last for long and accompany us to the end of our lives. The immortal gods, who did not intend to give you a son for long, gave you one who was straightway what another would have required long training to become. You cannot even say that you have been specially marked by the gods for misfortune because you have had no pleasure in your son. Look at any company of people, whether they be known to you or not: everywhere you will see some who have endured greater misfortunes than your own. Great generals and princes have undergone like bereavements: mythology tells us that the gods themselves are not exempt from them, its aim, I suppose, being to lighten our sorrow at death by the thought that even deities are subject to it. Look around, I repeat, at every one: you cannot mention any house so miserable as not to find comfort in the fact of another being yet more miserable. I do not, by Hercules, think so ill of your principles as to suppose that you would bear your sorrow more lightly were I to show you an enormous company of mourners: that is a spiteful sort of consolation which we derive from the number of our fellow-sufferers: nevertheless I will quote some instances, not indeed in order to teach you that this often befalls men, for it is absurd to multiply examples of man’s mortality, but to let you know that there have been many who have lightened their misfortunes by patient endurance of them. I will begin with the luckiest man of all. Lucius Sulla lost his son, yet this did not impair either the spitefulness or the brilliant valour which he displayed at the expense of his enemies and his countrymen alike, nor did it make him appear to have assumed his well-known title untruly that he did so after his son’s death, fearing neither the hatred of men, by whose sufferings that excessive prosperity of his was purchased, nor the ill-will of the gods, to whom it was a reproach that Sulla should be so truly The Fortunate. What, however, Sulla’s real character was may pass among questions still undecided: even his enemies will admit that he took up arms with honour, and laid them aside with honour: his example proves the point at issue, that an evil which befalls even the most prosperous cannot be one of the first magnitude.

XII. Suppose your sorrow has any reason behind it. Are you concerned with your own suffering or with the suffering of the son you have lost? Why do you grieve for your lost son? Is it because he gave you no pleasure, or because he would have given you more if he had lived longer? If you say he gave you no pleasure, you make your loss easier to bear. For people miss less what brought them no enjoyment or happiness. But if you admit he gave you much pleasure, you should not complain about the pleasure you have lost. Instead, you should give thanks for what you enjoyed. Raising him alone should have rewarded you enough for your efforts. People take enormous pains to raise puppies, birds, and other trivial sources of amusement. They get some pleasure from seeing and touching these speechless creatures and receiving their affectionate attention. Yet surely those who raise children must also find a reward in raising them. So perhaps his hard work earned you nothing, his care saved you nothing, and his foresight offered you no advice. Even so, having him as your son and loving him gave you reward enough. “But,” you say, “it might have lasted longer.” True, but you were treated better than if you had never had a son. Suppose you could choose. Which is better, to be happy for a short time or never to be happy at all? It is better to enjoy pleasures that soon leave us than to enjoy none at all. Again, which would you choose? A son who disgraced you, who merely occupied a son's place and bore the name? Or a son with the noble character yours possessed? He was a young man who quickly became sensible and dutiful, and soon became a husband and father. He soon sought public honors and soon gained the priesthood. He reached all these admirable goals with equally admirable speed. Hardly anyone enjoys both great prosperity and prosperity that lasts a long time. Only a dull kind of happiness can last long and stay with us until life's end. The immortal gods did not intend to give you a son for long. So they gave you a son who immediately became what another would have needed long training to become. You cannot even say the gods singled you out for misfortune because your son gave you no pleasure. Look at any group of people, whether you know them or not. Everywhere you will see some who have suffered greater misfortunes than yours. Great generals and rulers have suffered losses like yours. Mythology tells us that even the gods are not spared such losses. Its purpose, I suppose, is to ease our grief at death by reminding us that even gods face bereavement. Look around, I repeat, at everyone. You cannot name a household so miserable that it cannot find comfort in another household's greater misery. By Hercules, I do not think so poorly of your principles. I do not suppose that showing you a vast crowd of mourners would make your grief easier to bear. Taking comfort in the number of others who suffer with us is a spiteful kind of consolation. Still, I will give some examples, but not to show you that such losses often happen. Piling up examples of human mortality would be absurd. Instead, I want you to know that many people have eased their misfortunes by bearing them patiently. I will begin with the luckiest man of all. Lucius Sulla lost his son. Yet his loss weakened neither his malice nor his brilliant courage against his enemies and his fellow citizens alike. Nor did his loss make his famous title seem undeserved. He adopted that title after his son's death. He did not fear the hatred of those whose suffering had bought his extraordinary prosperity. Nor did he fear the gods' resentment. That Sulla should so truly be The Fortunate was a reproach to them. But Sulla's true character may remain an open question. Even his enemies will admit that he took up arms honorably and laid them down honorably. His example proves the point at issue. A misfortune that strikes even the most prosperous cannot be among the greatest evils.

XIII. That Greece cannot boast unduly of that father who, being in the act of offering sacrifice when he heard the news of his son’s death, merely ordered the flute-player to be silent, and removed the garland from his head, but accomplished all the rest of the ceremony in due form, is due to a Roman, Pulvillus the high priest. When he was in the act of holding the doorpost⁵ and dedicating the Capitol the news of his son’s death was brought to him. He pretended not to hear it, and pronounced the form of words proper for the high priest on such an occasion, without his prayer being interrupted by a single groan, begging that Jupiter would show himself gracious, at the very instant that he heard his son’s name mentioned as dead. Do you imagine that this man’s mourning knew no end, if the first day and the first shook could not drive him, though a father, away from the public altar of the state, or cause him to mar the ceremony of dedication by words of ill omen? Worthy, indeed, of the most exalted priesthood was he who ceased not to revere the gods even when they were angry. Yet he, after he had gone home, filled his eyes with tears, said a few words of lamentation, and performed the rites with which it was then customary to honour the dead, resumed the expression of countenance which he had worn in the Capitol.

XIII. Greece cannot boast too much about the father who heard of his son’s death while offering a sacrifice. He merely ordered the flute-player to stop and removed the garland from his head. But he completed all the rest of the ceremony according to custom. Greece owes this limit on its pride to a Roman, Pulvillus the high priest. While holding the doorpost⁵ and dedicating the Capitol, Pulvillus received news of his son’s death. He pretended not to hear and spoke the words required of the high priest on such an occasion. Not a single groan interrupted his prayer. He begged Jupiter to show his kindness at the very moment he heard his son named as dead. Do you imagine his mourning never ended, if even the first day and the first shock could not move him? Though a father, he could not be driven from the state’s public altar. Nor could the news make him spoil the dedication ceremony with words of ill omen. He was truly worthy of the highest priesthood, for he never stopped honoring the gods, even when they were angry. Yet after going home, he filled his eyes with tears and spoke a few words of grief. He performed the rites then customary for honoring the dead. Then he returned to the expression he had worn in the Capitol.

Paulus,⁶ about the time of his magnificent triumph, in which he drove Perses in chains before his car, gave two of his sons to be adopted into other families, and buried those whom he had kept for himself. What, think you, must those whom he kept have been, when Scipio was one of those whom he gave away? It was not without emotion that the Roman people looked upon Paulus’s empty chariot:⁷ nevertheless he made a speech to them, and returned thanks to the gods for having granted his prayer: for he had prayed that, if any offering to Nemesis were due in consequence of the stupendous victory which he had won, it might be paid at his own expense rather than at that of his country. Do you see how magnanimously he bore his loss? he even congratulated himself on being left childless, though who had more to suffer by such a change? he lost at once his comforters and his helpers. Yet Perses did not have the pleasure of seeing Paulus look sorrowful.

Paulus,⁶ around the time of his magnificent triumph, gave two of his sons up for adoption into other families. In that triumph, he led Perses in chains before his chariot. He buried the sons he had kept for himself. What must the sons he kept have been like, when Scipio was one of those he gave away? The Roman people were deeply moved by the sight of Paulus’s empty chariot:⁷ nevertheless, he addressed them. He thanked the gods for granting his prayer. For he had prayed that, if his tremendous victory required an offering to Nemesis, he alone might pay the price. He had asked that his country be spared that cost. Do you see how nobly he bore his loss? He even congratulated himself on being left childless, though who had more to lose from such a change? He lost both his comforters and his helpers at once. Yet Perses did not have the pleasure of seeing Paulus look sorrowful.

XIV. Why should I lead you on through the endless series of great men and pick out the unhappy ones, as though it were not more difficult to find happy ones? for how few households have remained possessed of all their members until the end? what one is there that has not suffered some loss? Take any one year you please and name the consuls for it: if you like, that of⁸ Lucius Bibulus and Gaius Caesar; you will see that, though these colleagues were each other’s bitterest enemies, yet their fortunes agreed. Lucius Bibulus, a man more remarkable for goodness than for strength of character, had both his sons murdered at the same time, and even insulted by the Egyptian soldiery, so that the agent of his bereavement was as much a subject for tears as the bereavement itself. Nevertheless Bibulus, who during the whole of his year of office had remained hidden in his house, to cast reproach upon his colleague Caesar on the day following that upon which he heard of both his sons’ deaths, came forth and went through the routine business of his magistracy. Who could devote less than one day to mourning for two sons? Thus soon did he end his mourning for his children, although he had mourned a whole year for his consulship. Gaius Caesar, after having traversed Britain, and not allowed even the ocean to set bounds to his successes, heard of the death of his daughter, which hurried on the crisis of affairs. Already Gnaeus Pompeius stood before his eyes, a man who would ill endure that any one besides himself should become a great power in the state, and one who was likely to place a check upon his advancement, which he had regarded as onerous even when each gained by the other’s rise: yet within three days’ time he resumed his duties as general, and conquered his grief as quickly as he was wont to conquer everything else.

XIV. Why should I take you through an endless list of great men and single out the unhappy ones? As though happy men were not harder to find! How few households have kept all their members to the end! What household has suffered no loss? Choose any year you please and name its consuls. If you like, choose the year of⁸ Lucius Bibulus and Gaius Caesar. Although these colleagues were bitter enemies, you will see that their fortunes were alike. Lucius Bibulus was more remarkable for goodness than for strength of character. Both his sons were murdered at the same time and even subjected to insults by the Egyptian soldiers. So the men responsible for his loss gave him as much reason to weep as the loss itself. Throughout his year in office, Bibulus had stayed hidden in his house to express his disapproval of his colleague Caesar. Yet the day after hearing of both his sons’ deaths, he came out and performed his routine duties as magistrate. Who could spend less than one day mourning two sons? That was how quickly he ended his mourning for his children, although he had mourned his consulship for a whole year. Gaius Caesar had traveled across Britain and had not let even the ocean limit his successes. Then he heard of his daughter’s death, which hastened the political crisis. Already Gnaeus Pompeius loomed before him, a man who could hardly tolerate anyone else becoming a great power in the state. Pompeius was likely to check Caesar’s rise. He had resented Caesar’s advancement even when each man benefited from the other’s rise. Yet within three days Caesar resumed his duties as general. He conquered his grief as quickly as he usually conquered everything else.

XV. Why need I remind you of the deaths of the other Caesars, whom fortune appears to me sometimes to have outraged in order that even by their deaths they might be useful to mankind, by proving that not even they, although they were styled “sons of gods,” and “fathers of gods to come,” could exercise the same power over their own fortunes which they did over those of others? The Emperor Augustus lost his children and his grandchildren, and after all the family of Caesar had perished was obliged to prop his empty house by adopting a son: yet he bore his losses as bravely as though he were already personally concerned in the honour of the gods, and as though it were especially to his interest that no one should complain of the injustice of Heaven. Tiberius Caesar lost both the son whom he begot and the son whom he adopted, yet he himself pronounced a panegyric upon his son from the Rostra, and stood in full view of the corpse, which merely had a curtain on one side to prevent the eyes of the high priest resting upon the dead body, and did not change his countenance, though all the Romans wept: he gave Sejanus, who stood by his side, a proof of how patiently he could endure the loss of his relatives. See you not what numbers of most eminent men there have been, none of whom have been spared by this blight which prostrates us all: men, too, adorned with every grace of character, and every distinction that public or private life can confer. It appears as though this plague moved in a regular orbit, and spread ruin and desolation among us all without distinction of persons, all being alike its prey. Bid any number of individuals tell you the story of their lives: you will find that all have paid some penalty for being born.

XV. Why should I remind you of the deaths of the other Caesars? Fortune sometimes seems to me to have mistreated them so that even their deaths might benefit humanity. Their deaths proved that even Caesars could not control their own fortunes as they controlled those of others. This was true although they were called “sons of gods,” and “fathers of gods to come.” The Emperor Augustus lost his children and grandchildren. After the whole family of Caesar had died, he had to support his empty household by adopting a son. Yet he bore his losses as bravely as though he already had a personal stake in the gods’ honour. He acted as though he had a special interest in ensuring that no one complained of Heaven’s injustice. Tiberius Caesar lost both his natural son and his adopted son. Yet he himself delivered a speech praising his son from the Rostra, the public speaking platform. He stood with the corpse in full view. There was only a curtain on one side, to keep the high priest from seeing the dead body. Though all the Romans wept, his expression did not change. Sejanus stood beside him, and Tiberius showed him how patiently he could bear the loss of his relatives. Do you not see how many outstanding men have suffered the same devastating loss that strikes us all? Not one of them has been spared. These men, too, possessed every excellence of character and every honour that public or private life can offer. This plague seems to follow a regular course, spreading ruin and desolation among us all without distinction. Everyone is equally its prey. Ask any number of people to tell you their life stories. You will find that all have paid some penalty for being born.

XVI. I know what you will say, “You quote men as examples: you forget that it is a woman that you are trying to console.” Yet who would say that nature has dealt grudgingly with the minds of women, and stunted their virtues? Believe me, they have the same intellectual power as men, and the same capacity for honourable and generous action. If trained to do so, they are just as able to endure sorrow or labour. Ye good gods, do I say this in that very city in which Lucretia and Brutus removed the yoke of kings from the necks of the Romans? We owe liberty to Brutus, but we owe Brutus to Lucretia—in which Cloelia, for the sublime courage with which she scorned both the enemy and the river, has been almost reckoned as a man. The statue of Cloelia, mounted on horseback, in that busiest of thoroughfares, the Sacred Way, continually reproaches the youth of the present day, who never mount anything but a cushioned seat in a carriage, with journeying in such a fashion through that very city in which we have enrolled even women among our knights. If you wish me to point out to you examples of women who have bravely endured the loss of their children, I shall not go far afield to search for them: in one family I can quote two Cornelias, one the daughter of Scipio, and the mother of the Gracchi, who made acknowledgment of the birth of her twelve children by burying them all: nor was it so hard to do this in the case of the others, whose birth and death were alike unknown to the public, but she beheld the murdered and unburied corpses of both Tiberius Gracchus and Gaius Gracchus, whom even those who will not call them good must admit were great men. Yet to those who tried to console her and called her unfortunate, she answered, “I shall never cease to call myself happy, because I am the mother of the Gracchi.” Cornelia, the wife of Livius Drusus, lost by the hands of an unknown assassin a young son of great distinction, who was treading in the footsteps of the Gracchi, and was murdered in his own house just when he had so many bills half way through the process of becoming law: nevertheless she bore the untimely and unavenged death of her son with as lofty a spirit as he had shown in carrying his laws. Will you not, Marcia, forgive fortune because she has not refrained from striking you with the darts with which she launched at the Scipios, and the mothers and daughters of the Scipios, and with which she has attacked the Caesars themselves? Life is full of misfortunes; our path is beset with them: no one can make a long peace, nay, scarcely an armistice with fortune. You, Marcia, have borne four children: now they say that no dart which is hurled into a close column of soldiers can fail to hit one,—ought you then to wonder at not having been able to lead along such a company without exciting the ill-will of Fortune, or suffering loss at her hands? “But,” say you, “Fortune has treated me unfairly, for she not only has bereaved me of my son, but chose my best beloved to deprive me of.” Yet you never can say that you have been wronged, if you divide the stakes equally with an antagonist who is stronger than yourself: Fortune has left you two daughters, and their children: she has not even taken away altogether him who you now mourn for, forgetful of his elder brother: you have two daughters by him, who if you support them ill will prove great burdens, but if well, great comforts to you. You ought to prevail upon yourself, when you see them, to let them remind you of your son, and not of your grief. When a husbandman’s trees have either been torn up, roots and all, by the wind, or broken off short by the force of a hurricane, he takes care of what is left of their stock, straightway plants seeds or cuttings in the place of those which he has lost, and in a moment—for time is as swift in repairing losses as in causing them—more flourishing trees are growing than were there before. Take, then, in the place of your Metilius these his two daughters, and by their twofold consolation lighten your single sorrow. True, human nature is so constituted as to love nothing so much as what it has lost, and our yearning after those who have been taken from us makes us judge unfairly of those who are left to us: nevertheless, if you choose to reckon up how merciful Fortune has been to you even in her anger, you will feel that you have more than enough to console you. Look at all your grandchildren, and your two daughters: and say also, Marcia:—“I should indeed be cast down, if everyone’s fortune followed his deserts, and if no evil ever befel good men: but as it is I perceive that no distinction is made, and that the bad and the good are both harassed alike.”

XVI. I know what you will say: “You offer men as examples. You forget that you are trying to console a woman.” Yet who would say that nature has been stingy with women’s minds and limited their virtues? Believe me, women have the same intellectual power as men, and the same capacity for honorable and generous action. With training, women are just as able to endure sorrow or hard work. Good gods, am I saying this in the very city where Lucretia and Brutus freed the Romans from kings? We owe our freedom to Brutus, but we owe Brutus to Lucretia. In this city, Cloelia has almost been counted as a man for her extraordinary courage in defying both enemy and river. Cloelia’s statue stands on horseback along the Sacred Way, one of the busiest streets. The statue constantly rebukes today’s young men, who never mount anything but a cushioned carriage seat. They travel this way through the very city where we have admitted even women to the ranks of our knights. If you want examples of women who bravely endured losing their children, I need not look far. I can name two Cornelias from one family. One was Scipio’s daughter and the mother of the Gracchi. She marked the birth of her twelve children by burying them all. Burying the others was less difficult, since their births and deaths alike escaped public notice. But she saw the murdered, unburied bodies of both Tiberius Gracchus and Gaius Gracchus. Even those who refuse to call these men good must admit they were great. Yet when people tried to console her and called her unfortunate, she answered: “I shall never stop calling myself happy, because I am the mother of the Gracchi.” Cornelia, the wife of Livius Drusus, lost a highly distinguished young son to an unknown assassin. Her son was following in the footsteps of the Gracchi. He was murdered in his own house, with so many of his bills halfway to becoming law. Yet she endured her son’s early, unavenged death with the same noble spirit he had shown in advancing his laws. Marcia, will you not forgive Fortune for striking you with the same darts she aimed at the Scipios? She aimed those darts at their mothers and daughters too, and has attacked the Caesars themselves. Life is full of misfortunes. They surround us on our path. No one can make lasting peace with Fortune, or even much of a truce. You, Marcia, have had four children. Now, people say that a dart thrown into a tightly packed column of soldiers cannot fail to hit someone. Should you wonder, then, that you could not lead such a company through life without provoking Fortune’s hostility or suffering loss? “But,” you say, “Fortune has treated me unfairly. She not only took my son, but chose to take the one I loved best.” Yet you can never claim you have been wronged if you divide the stakes equally with a stronger opponent. Fortune has left you two daughters and their children. She has not even taken away entirely the son you now mourn, forgetting his older brother. Your son has left you two daughters. If you care for them badly, they will be great burdens. If you care for them well, they will be great comforts. When you see them, you must persuade yourself to think of your son, not your grief. Suppose a farmer’s trees are uprooted by the wind or snapped off by a hurricane. He tends what remains of the trees and immediately plants seeds or cuttings to replace those he has lost. In no time, trees more flourishing than the old ones are growing there. For time repairs losses as swiftly as it causes them. Take these two daughters, then, in place of your Metilius. Let their double comfort lighten your single sorrow. True, human nature leads us to love nothing so much as what we have lost. Our longing for those taken from us makes us judge unfairly those who remain. Nevertheless, consider how merciful Fortune has been to you even in her anger. If you choose to count her mercies, you will feel that you have more than enough to console you. Look at all your grandchildren and your two daughters. And say this too, Marcia: “I would indeed be crushed if everyone’s fortune matched their worth, and good people never suffered evil. But as things are, I see that no distinction is made. The bad and the good are troubled alike.”

XVII. “Still, it is a sad thing to lose a young man whom you have brought up, just as he was becoming a defence and a pride both to his mother and to his country.” No one denies that it is sad: but it is the common lot of mortals. You were born to lose others, to be lost, to hope, to fear, to destroy your own peace and that of others, to fear and yet to long for death, and, worst of all, never to know what your real position is. If you were about to journey to Syracuse, and some one were to say:—“Learn beforehand all the discomforts, and all the pleasures of your coming voyage, and then set sail. The sights which you will enjoy will be as follows: first, you will see the island itself, now separated from Italy by a narrow strait, but which, we know, once formed part of the mainland. The sea suddenly broke through, and

XVII. “Still, it is sad to lose a young man you have raised. He was just becoming a protector and a source of pride for both his mother and his country.” No one denies that such a loss is sad. But loss is the common fate of mortals. You were born to lose others and to be lost yourself, to hope and to fear. You were born to destroy your own peace and the peace of others, to fear death yet long for death. And worst of all, you were born never to know where you really stand. If you were about to travel to Syracuse, and someone were to say: “Learn beforehand all the discomforts and all the pleasures of your coming voyage. Then set sail. Here are the sights you will enjoy. First, you will see the island itself, now separated from Italy by a narrow strait. But we know the island was once part of the mainland. The sea suddenly broke through, and

Next, as you will be able to sail close to Charybdis, of which the poets have sung, you will see that greediest of whirlpools, quite smooth if no south wind be blowing, but whenever there is a gale from that quarter, sucking down ships into a huge and deep abyss. You will see the fountain of Arethusa, so famed in song, with its waters bright and pellucid to the very bottom, and pouring forth an icy stream which it either finds on the spot or else plunges it under ground, conveys it thither as a separate river beneath so many seas, free from any mixture of less pure water, and there brings it again to the surface. You will see a harbour which is more sheltered than all the others in the world, whether they be natural or improved by human art for the protection of shipping; so safe, that even the most violent storms are powerless to disturb it. You will see the place where the power of Athens was broken, where that natural prison, hewn deep among precipices of rock, received so many thousands of captives: you will see the great city itself, occupying a wider site than many capitals, an extremely warm resort in winter, where not a single day passes without sunshine: but when you have observed all this, you must remember that the advantages of its winter climate are counterbalanced by a hot and pestilential summer: that here will be the tyrant Dionysius, the destroyer of freedom, of justice, and of law, who is greedy of power even after conversing with Plato, and of life even after he has been exiled; that he will burn some, flog others, and behead others for slight offences; that he will exercise his lust upon both sexes . . . . . You have now heard all that can attract you thither, all that can deter you from going: now, then, either set sail or remain at home!” If, after this declaration, anybody were to say that he wished to go to Syracuse, he could blame no one but himself for what befel him there, because he would not stumble upon it unknowingly, but would have gone thither fully aware of what was before him. To everyone Nature says: “I do not deceive any person. If you choose to have children, they may be handsome, or they may be deformed; perhaps they will be born dumb. One of them may perhaps prove the saviour of his country, or perhaps its betrayer. You need not despair of their being raised to such honour that for their sake no one will dare to speak evil of you: yet remember that they may reach such a pitch of infamy as themselves to become curses to you. There is nothing to prevent their performing the last offices for you, and your panegyric being spoken by your children: but hold yourself prepared nevertheless to place a son as boy, man, or greybeard, upon the funeral pyre: for years have nothing to do with the matter, since every sort of funeral in which a parent buries his child must alike be untimely.¹⁰ If you still choose to rear children, after I have explained these conditions to you, you render yourself incapable of blaming the gods, for they never guaranteed anything to you.”

Next, you will be able to sail close to Charybdis, celebrated by the poets. You will see that greediest of whirlpools, quite calm when no south wind blows. But whenever a gale blows from the south, the whirlpool sucks ships into a vast, deep abyss. You will see the fountain of Arethusa, so famous in song, with water clear and bright to the very bottom. The fountain pours out an icy stream, either drawn from the spot itself or brought there underground. In the latter case, the stream travels as a separate river beneath so many seas, unmixed with less pure water. Then it rises to the surface there. You will see a harbour more sheltered than all others in the world. None can match it, whether naturally sheltered or improved by human skill to protect ships. It is so safe that even the fiercest storms cannot disturb it. You will see the place where Athens' power was broken. There, a natural prison cut deep among steep rock faces held so many thousands of captives. You will see the great city itself, covering more ground than many capitals. It is an exceptionally warm winter resort, where not a single day passes without sunshine. But after seeing all this, remember that a hot, disease-ridden summer offsets the benefits of its winter climate. Remember, too, that the tyrant Dionysius will be there, the destroyer of freedom, justice, and law. Even after talking with Plato, he remains hungry for power. Even after exile, he clings greedily to life. He will burn some people, flog others, and behead others for minor offences. He will satisfy his lust on both sexes . . . . . You have now heard everything that might attract you there, and everything that might keep you away. Now, then, either set sail or stay home!” If, after this warning, anyone said he wanted to go to Syracuse, he could blame only himself for what happened there. He would not encounter those dangers unknowingly, but would have gone fully aware of what awaited him. Nature says to everyone: “I deceive no one. If you choose to have children, they may be handsome, or they may have physical deformities. Perhaps they will be born unable to speak. One may perhaps save his country, or perhaps betray it. You need not give up hope that your children will receive great honours. Their standing may be so high that no one will dare speak ill of you for their sake. Yet remember that your children may become so infamous that they themselves become a curse to you. Nothing prevents your children from performing your funeral rites and delivering a speech in your praise. But be prepared, nevertheless, to place a son on the funeral pyre, whether he is a boy, a man, or grey-haired. Age makes no difference, because every funeral where a parent buries a child is equally untimely.¹⁰ If you still choose to raise children after I have explained these conditions, you have no grounds to blame the gods. They never guaranteed you anything.”

XVIII. You may make this simile apply to your whole entrance into life. I have explained to you what attractions and what drawbacks there would be if you were thinking of going to Syracuse: now suppose that I were to come and give you advice when you were going to be born. “You are about,” I should say, “to enter a city of which both gods and men are citizens, a city which contains the whole universe, which is bound by irrevocable and eternal laws, and wherein the heavenly bodies run their unwearied courses: you will see therein innumerable twinkling stars, and the sun, whose single light pervades every place, who by his daily course marks the times of day and night, and by his yearly course makes a more equal division between summer and winter. You will see his place taken by night by the moon, who borrows at her meetings with her brother a gentle and softer light, and who at one time is invisible, at another hangs full-faced above the earth, ever waxing and waning, each phase unlike the last. You will see five stars, moving in the opposite direction to the others, stemming the whirl of the skies towards the West: on the slightest motions of these depend the fortunes of nations, and according as the aspect of the planets is auspicious or malignant, the greatest empires rise and fall: you will see with wonder the gathering clouds, the falling showers, the zigzag lightning, the crashing together of the heavens. When, sated with the wonders above, you turn your eyes towards the earth, they will be met by objects of a different yet equally admirable aspect: on one side a boundless expanse of open plains, on another the towering peaks of lofty and snow-clad mountains: the downward course of rivers, some streams running eastward, some westward from the same source: the woods which wave even on the mountain tops, the vast forests with all the creatures that dwell therein, and the confused harmony of the birds: the variously-placed cities, the nations which natural obstacles keep secluded from the world, some of whom withdraw themselves to lofty mountains, while others dwell in fear and trembling on the sloping banks of rivers: the crops which are assisted by cultivation, and the trees which bear fruit even without it: the rivers that flow gently through the meadows, the lovely bays and shores that curve inwards to form harbours: the countless islands scattered over the main, which break and spangle the seas. What of the brilliancy of stones and gems, the gold that rolls amid the sands of rushing streams, the heaven-born fires that burst forth from the midst of the earth and even front the midst of the sea; the ocean itself, that binds land to land, dividing the nations by its threefold indentations, and boiling up with mighty rage? Swimming upon its waves, making them disturbed and swelling without wind, you will see animals exceeding the size of any that belong to the land, some clumsy and requiring others to guide their movements, some swift and moving faster than the utmost efforts of rowers, some of them that drink in the waters and blow them out again to the great perils of those who sail near them: you will see here ships seeking for unknown lands: you will see that man’s audacity leaves nothing unattempted, and you will yourself be both a witness and a sharer in great attempts. You will both learn and teach the arts by which men’s lives are supplied with necessaries, are adorned, and are ruled: but in this same place there will be a thousand pestilences fatal to both body and mind, there will be wars and highway robberies, poisonings and shipwrecks, extremes of climate and excesses of body, untimely griefs for our dearest ones, and death for ourselves, of which we cannot tell whether it will be easy or by torture at the hands of the executioner. Now consider and weigh carefully in your own mind which you would choose. If you wish to enjoy these blessings you must pass through these pains. Do you answer that you choose to live? ‘Of course.’ Nay, I thought you would not enter upon that of which the least diminution causes pain. Live, then, as has been agreed on. You say, “No one has asked my opinion.” Our parents’ opinion was taken about us, when, knowing what the conditions of life are, they brought us into it.

XVIII. You can apply this comparison to your whole entry into life. I have explained the attractions and drawbacks you would face if you were thinking of going to Syracuse. Now suppose I came to advise you just before you were born. “You are about to enter a city,” I would say, “whose citizens include both gods and humans. This city contains the whole universe. Unchanging, eternal laws govern it, and the heavenly bodies follow their tireless courses within it. You will see countless twinkling stars and the sun, whose light alone reaches everywhere. The sun’s daily course marks day and night. Its yearly course divides time more evenly between summer and winter. You will see the moon take the sun’s place at night. When she meets her brother, she borrows his light, making it gentler and softer. Sometimes she is invisible. At other times, her full face hangs above the earth. She is always growing or shrinking, each phase different from the last. “You will see five stars moving against the others, resisting the sky’s westward sweep. The fortunes of nations depend on the slightest movements of these planets. The greatest empires rise and fall according to whether the planets’ positions promise good or evil. You will marvel at gathering clouds, falling rain, zigzagging lightning, and the crashing heavens. “When you have seen enough wonders above, you will turn your eyes toward the earth. There you will find sights different from those above, but equally wonderful. On one side lie endless open plains. On another rise the towering peaks of high, snow-covered mountains. Rivers flow downhill, some running east and others west from the same source. Woods sway even on mountaintops. Vast forests shelter all their creatures, and birds fill the air with mingled harmonies. You will see cities in many different settings, and nations cut off from the world by natural barriers. Some peoples retreat to high mountains. Others live in fear and trembling on sloping riverbanks. You will see crops helped by cultivation, and trees that bear fruit without it. Rivers flow gently through meadows, and beautiful bays and curving shores form harbors. Countless islands scatter across the open sea, breaking up its surface and studding it like jewels. “What about the brilliance of stones and gems, or the gold rolling through the sands of rushing streams? What about the heaven-born fires bursting from within the earth and even from within the sea? What about the ocean itself, linking land to land, separating nations with its three great inlets, and seething with mighty rage? You will see creatures swimming on its waves, churning and swelling the water even without wind. These creatures exceed the size of any land animal. Some are clumsy and need others to guide their movements. Some are swift, moving faster than rowers can drive a boat, however hard they try. Some take in water and blow it out again, putting nearby sailors in great danger. You will see ships searching for unknown lands. You will see that human daring leaves nothing untried. You yourself will both witness and take part in great ventures. “You will learn and teach the skills that provide life’s necessities, enrich life, and govern it. But in this same place, a thousand deadly plagues will attack both body and mind. There will be wars, highway robberies, poisonings, and shipwrecks. There will be extremes of climate and bodily excesses. We will lose our dearest loved ones too soon and grieve for them. We ourselves will die, without knowing whether death will come easily or through torture at an executioner’s hands. “Now consider your choice and weigh it carefully. If you want to enjoy these blessings, you must go through these sufferings. Do you answer that you choose to live? ‘Of course.’ Really? I thought you would refuse to enter a life whose slightest loss causes pain. Live, then, on the agreed terms. You say, “No one has asked my opinion.” Our parents were asked for their opinion about us. They knew the conditions of life when they brought us into it.

XIX. But, to come to topics of consolation, in the first place consider if you please to what our remedies must be applied, and next, in what way. It is regret for the absence of his loved one which causes a mourner to grieve: yet it is clear that this in itself is bearable enough; for we do not weep at their being absent or intending to be absent during their lifetime, although when they leave our sight we have no more pleasure in them. What tortures us, therefore, is an idea. Now every evil is just as great as we consider it to be: we have, therefore, the remedy in our own hands. Let us suppose that they are on a journey, and let us deceive ourselves: we have sent them away, or, rather, we have sent them on in advance to a place whither we shall soon follow them.¹¹ Besides this, mourners are wont to suffer from the thought, “I shall have no one to protect me, no one to avenge me when I am scorned.” To use a very disreputable but very true mode of consolation, I may say that in our country the loss of children bestows more influence than it takes away, and loneliness, which used to bring the aged to ruin, now makes them so powerful that some old men have pretended to pick quarrels with their sons, have disowned their own children, and have made themselves childless by their own act. I know what you will say: “My own losses do not grieve me:” and indeed a man does not deserve to be consoled if he is sorry for his son’s death as he would be for that of a slave, who is capable of seeing anything in his son beyond his son’s self. What then, Marcia, is it that grieves you? is it that your son has died, or that he did not live long? If it be his having died, then you ought always to have grieved, for you always knew that he would die. Reflect that the dead suffer no evils, that all those stories which make us dread the nether world are mere fables, that he who dies need fear no darkness, no prison, no blazing streams of fire, no river of Lethe, no judgment seat before which he must appear, and that Death is such utter freedom that, he need fear no more despots. All that is a phantasy of the poets, who have terrified us without a cause. Death is a release from and an end of all pains: beyond it our sufferings cannot extend: it restores us to the peaceful rest in which we lay before we were born. If any one pities the dead, he ought also to pity those who have not been born. Death is neither a good nor a bad thing, for that alone which is something can be a good or a bad thing: but that which is nothing, and reduces all things to nothing, does not hand us over to either fortune, because good and bad require some material to work upon. Fortune cannot take hold of that which Nature has let go, nor can a man be unhappy if he is nothing. Your son has passed beyond the border of the country where men are forced to labour; he has reached deep and everlasting peace. He feels no fear of want, no anxiety about his riches, no stings of lust that tears the heart in guise of pleasure: he knows no envy of another’s prosperity, he is not crushed by the weight of his own; even his chaste ears are not wounded by any ribaldry: he is menaced by no disaster, either to his country or to himself. He does not hang, full of anxiety, upon the issue of events, to reap even greater uncertainty as his reward: he has at last taken up a position from which nothing can dislodge him, where nothing can make him afraid.

XIX. But let us turn to consolation. First, consider what needs our remedies, and then how we should apply them. A mourner grieves because he misses someone he loves. Yet absence itself is clearly bearable enough. We do not weep when loved ones are away during their lives, or when they plan to leave. Yet once they are out of sight, we can no longer enjoy their company. So what torments us is an idea. Every evil is just as great as we consider it to be. We therefore hold the remedy in our own hands. Let us imagine that our loved ones are on a journey, and let us deceive ourselves. We have sent them away. Or rather, we have sent them ahead to a place where we will soon follow them.¹¹ Mourners also commonly suffer from the thought, “I shall have no one to protect me, no one to avenge me when I am scorned.” I can offer a very disreputable but very true consolation. In our country, losing children gives people more influence than it takes away. Having no family once brought the elderly to ruin. Now it makes them so powerful that some old men have pretended to quarrel with their sons. They have disowned their own children and made themselves childless by choice. I know what you will say: “My own losses do not grieve me.” Indeed, a man does not deserve consolation if he mourns his son’s death as he would a slave’s. Such a man sees something in his son beyond the son himself. What, then, Marcia, grieves you? Is it that your son died, or that he did not live long? If his death grieves you, you should always have grieved, because you always knew he would die. Remember that the dead suffer no evils. All the stories that make us fear the underworld are mere fables. The dead need fear no darkness, no prison, no blazing rivers of fire, and no river of Lethe. They face no judgment seat before which they must appear. Death brings such complete freedom that they need fear no more tyrants. All these terrors are inventions of poets, who have frightened us without cause. Death releases us from all pain and ends it. Our suffering cannot reach beyond death. Death restores us to the peaceful rest we knew before we were born. Anyone who pities the dead should also pity those who have not been born. Death is neither good nor bad, because only something that exists can be good or bad. But death is nothing and reduces everything to nothing. It therefore leaves us exposed to neither good nor bad fortune, because both require something to act upon. Fortune cannot take hold of someone whom Nature has released. Nor can a man be unhappy if he no longer exists. Your son has crossed the border of the country where people are forced to labor. He has reached deep and everlasting peace. He has no fear of poverty, no anxiety about his wealth. He feels none of the stings of lust, which tears the heart while pretending to give pleasure. He does not envy another’s prosperity, nor is he crushed by the weight of his own. No obscene talk offends his modest ears. No disaster threatens him, whether disaster to his country or to himself. He no longer anxiously waits for events to unfold, only to gain still greater uncertainty as his reward. At last he has reached a position from which nothing can dislodge him, where nothing can make him afraid.

XX. O how little do men understand their own misery, that they do not praise and look forward to death as the best discovery of Nature, whether because it hedges in happiness, or because it drives away misery: because it puts an end to the sated weariness of old age, cuts down youth in its bloom while still full of hope of better things, or calls home childhood before the harsher stages of life are reached: it is the end of all men, a relief to many, a desire to some, and it treats none so well as those to whom it comes before they call for it. Death frees the slave though his master wills it not, it lightens the captive’s chains: it leads out of prison those whom headstrong power has forbidden to quit it: it points out to exiles, whose minds and eyes are ever turned towards their own country, that it makes no difference under what people’s soil one lies. When Fortune has unjustly divided the common stock, and has given over one man to another, though they were born with equal rights. Death makes them all equal. After Death no one acts any more at another’s bidding: in death no man suffers any more from the sense of his low position. It is open to all: it was what your father, Marcia, longed for: it is this, I say, that renders it no misery to be born, which enables me to face the threatenings of misfortune without quailing, and to keep my mind unharmed and able to command itself. I have a last appeal. I see before me crosses not all alike, but differently made by different peoples: some hang a man head downwards, some force a stick upwards through his groin, some stretch out his arms on a forked gibbet. I see cords, scourges, and instruments of torture for each limb and each joint: but I see Death also. There are bloodthirsty enemies, there are overbearing fellow-countrymen, but where they are there I see Death also. Slavery is not grievous if a man can gain his freedom by one step as soon as he becomes tired of thraldom. Life, it is thanks to Death that I hold thee so dear. Think how great a blessing is a timely death, how many have been injured by living longer than they ought. If sickness had carried off that glory and support of the empire, Gnaeus Pompeius, at Naples, he would have died the undoubted head of the Roman people, but as it was, a short extension of time cast him down from his pinnacle of fame: he beheld his legions slaughtered before his eyes: and what a sad relic of that battle, in which the Senate formed the first line, was the survival of the general. He saw his Egyptian butcher, and offered his body, hallowed by so many victories, to a guardsman’s sword, although even had he been unhurt, he would have regretted his safety: for what could have been more infamous than that a Pompeius should owe his life to the clemency of a king? If Marcus Cicero had fallen at the time when he avoided those daggers which Catiline aimed equally at him and at his country, he might have died as the saviour of the commonwealth which he had set free: if his death had even followed upon that of his daughter, he might have died happy. He would not then have seen swords drawn for the slaughter of Roman citizens, the goods of the murdered divided among the murderers that men might pay from their own purse the price of their own blood, the public auction of the consul’s spoil in the civil war, the public letting out of murder to be done, brigandage, war, pillage, hosts of Catilines. Would it not have been a good thing for Marcus Cato if the sea had swallowed him up when he was returning from Cyprus after sequestrating the king’s hereditary possessions, even if that very money which he was bringing to pay the soldiers in the civil war had been lost with him? He certainly would have been able to boast that no one would dare to do wrong in the presence of Cato: as it was, the extension of his life for a very few more years forced one who was born for personal and political freedom to flee from Caesar and to become Pompeius’s follower. Premature death therefore did him no evil: indeed, it put an end to the power of any evil to hurt him.

XX. How little people understand their own misery! Otherwise, they would praise death and welcome it as Nature’s best discovery. Death sets a limit to happiness or drives misery away. It ends the weary boredom of old age. It cuts down youth in full bloom, still full of hope for better things. Or it calls children home before they reach life’s harsher stages. Death is the end of everyone, a relief to many, and something some desire. It treats no one better than those it reaches before they ask for it. Death frees slaves against their masters’ wishes and eases prisoners’ chains. It releases people from prisons that tyrannical rulers have forbidden them to leave. Exiles keep their thoughts and eyes turned toward their homeland. Death shows them that it makes no difference which people’s soil covers their bodies. Fortune has unfairly divided what belongs to everyone. She has handed one person over to another, though both were born with equal rights. Death makes them all equal. After death, no one follows another person’s orders. In death, no one suffers any longer from knowing their low status. Death is open to everyone. It was what your father longed for, Marcia. Death, I say, makes being born no misery. It lets me face the threats of misfortune without flinching and keeps my mind unharmed and in control of itself. I have one final appeal. I see crosses before me, not all alike, but made differently by different peoples. Some hang a man upside down. Some drive a stake up through his groin. Some stretch his arms out on a forked gibbet. I see ropes, whips, and instruments of torture for every limb and joint. But I see Death too. There are bloodthirsty enemies and overbearing fellow citizens. But wherever they are, I see Death too. Slavery is no great hardship if a man can gain freedom in one step whenever he tires of bondage. Life, I owe my love for you to Death. Think what a blessing a timely death can be. Think how many people have suffered by living longer than they should. Suppose sickness had carried off Gnaeus Pompeius at Naples, that glory and support of the empire. He would have died the undisputed leader of the Roman people. Instead, a little more time brought him down from the height of his fame. He saw his legions slaughtered before his eyes. What a sad remnant of that battle was the surviving general, when the Senate had stood in the front line! He saw his Egyptian butcher. He offered his body, made sacred by so many victories, to a guardsman’s sword. Yet even if he had escaped unharmed, he would have regretted his survival. For what could have been more shameful than for a Pompeius to owe his life to a king’s mercy? Suppose Marcus Cicero had died when he escaped the daggers Catiline aimed at both him and his country. He might have died as the savior of the republic he had freed. Even if he had died after his daughter’s death, he might have died happy. He would not have seen swords drawn to slaughter Roman citizens. He would not have seen the murdered citizens’ property divided among their murderers. The victims thus paid for their own blood from their own purses. He would not have seen the public auction of the consul’s plunder during the civil war. Nor would he have seen murder contracts publicly offered, banditry, war, looting, and armies of Catilines. Would it not have been better for Marcus Cato if the sea had swallowed him on his return from Cyprus? He had confiscated the king’s inherited property there. Would it not have been better even if the money he carried to pay the civil war’s soldiers had also sunk? He could certainly have boasted that no one would dare do wrong in Cato’s presence. Instead, a few more years forced him to flee from Caesar and become Pompeius’s follower. Yet he had been born for personal and political freedom. An early death therefore did him no harm. Indeed, death ended the power of any evil to hurt him.

XXI. “Yet,” say you, “he perished too soon and untimely.” In the first place, suppose that he had lived to extreme old age: let him continue alive to the extreme limits of human existence: how much is it after all? Born for a very brief space of time, we regard this life as an inn which we are soon to quit that it may be made ready for the coming guest. Do I speak of our lives, which we know roll away incredibly fast? Reckon up the centuries of cities: you will find that even those which boast of their antiquity have not existed for long. All human works are brief and fleeting; they take up no part whatever of infinite time. Tried by the standard of the universe, we regard this earth of ours, with all its cities, nations, rivers, and sea-board as a mere point: our life occupies less than a point when compared with all time, the measure of which exceeds that of the world, for indeed the world is contained many times in it. Of what importance, then, can it be to lengthen that which, however much you add to it, will never be much more than nothing? We can only make our lives long by one expedient, that is, by being satisfied with their length: you may tell me of long-lived men, whose length of days has been celebrated by tradition, you may assign a hundred and ten years apiece to them: yet when you allow your mind to conceive the idea of eternity, there will be no difference between the shortest and the longest life, if you compare the time during which any one has been alive with that during which he has not been alive. In the next place, when he died his life was complete: he had lived as long as he needed to live: there was nothing left for him to accomplish. All men do not grow old at the same age, nor indeed do all animals: some are wearied out by life at fourteen years of age, and what is only the first stage of life with man is their extreme limit of longevity. To each man a varying length of days has been assigned: no one dies before his time, because he was not destined to live any longer than he did. Everyone’s end is fixed, and will always remain where it has been placed: neither industry nor favour will move it on any further. Believe, then, that you lost him by advice: he took all that was his own,

XXI. “Yet,” you say, “he died too soon, before his time.” First, suppose he had lived to a very old age. Let him live to the furthest limits of human life. How long is that, after all? We are born to live only briefly. We see this life as an inn we must soon leave to make room for the next guest. Am I speaking only of our own lives, which we know pass incredibly quickly? Count the centuries that cities have stood. You will find that even cities proud of their ancient origins have not existed long. All human works are brief and fleeting. They occupy no part at all of infinite time. Measured against the universe, our earth is a mere point, with all its cities, nations, rivers, and coastlines. Our life is less than a point compared with all time. Time's scale exceeds the world's, for the world fits into time many times over. Why, then, does it matter to extend a life that will always amount to little more than nothing? No matter how much you add, that remains true. We can make our lives long in only one way: by being satisfied with their length. You may tell me of people whose long lives have become legendary. You may give each of them a hundred and ten years. Yet once you let your mind imagine eternity, the shortest and longest lives will seem no different. Compare how long anyone has been alive with how long he has not been alive. Next, when he died, his life was complete. He had lived as long as he needed to live. He had nothing left to accomplish. Not all people grow old at the same age, and neither do all animals. Some animals are worn out by life at fourteen. What is only the first stage of human life is the furthest limit of theirs. Each person has been given a different number of days. No one dies before his time, because no one was destined to live longer than he did. Everyone's end is fixed and will always remain where it was set. Neither effort nor favor will move that end any further away. Believe, then, that you lost him on advice: he took all that was his own,

so you need not burden yourself with the thought, “He might have lived longer.” His life has not been cut short, nor does chance ever cut short our years: every man receives as much as was promised to him: the Fates go their own way, and neither add anything nor take away anything from what they have once promised. Prayers and endeavours are all in vain: each man will have as much life as his first day placed to his credit: from the time when he first saw the light he has entered on the path that leads to death, and is drawing nearer to his doom: those same years which were added to his youth were subtracted from his life. We all fall into this mistake of supposing that it is only old men, already in the decline of life, who are drawing near to death, whereas our first infancy, our youth, indeed every time of life leads thither. The Fates ply their own work: they take from us the consciousness of our death, and, the better to conceal its approaches, death lurks under the very names we give to life: infancy changes into boyhood, maturity swallows up the boy, old age the man; these stages themselves, if you reckon them properly, are so many losses.

So you need not burden yourself with the thought, “He might have lived longer.” His life has not been cut short, nor does chance ever cut our years short. Every man receives as much life as he was promised. The Fates follow their own course, neither adding to nor taking away from what they once promised. Prayers and efforts are all in vain. Each man will have as much life as his first day allotted him. From the moment he first saw the light, he began the journey toward death and has been drawing nearer ever since. The very years added to his youth were taken from his remaining life. We all make the mistake of thinking that only old men, whose lives are already declining, are approaching death. Yet infancy, youth, and every stage of life lead toward death. The Fates carry on their work. They keep us unaware of our own death. To hide its approach more effectively, death lurks beneath the very names we give to life's stages. Infancy becomes boyhood, adulthood swallows up the boy, and old age swallows up the man. These stages themselves, if you count them properly, are so many losses.

XXII. Do you complain, Marcia, that your son did not live as long as he might have done? How do you know that it was to his advantage to live longer? whether his interest was not served by this death? Whom can you find at the present time whose fortunes are grounded on such sure foundations that they have nothing to fear in the future? All human affairs are evanescent and perishable, nor is any part of our life so frail and liable to accident as that which we especially enjoy. We ought, therefore, to pray for death when our fortune is at its best, because so great is the uncertainty and turmoil in which we live, that we can be sure of nothing but what is past. Think of your son’s handsome person, which you had guarded in perfect purity among all the temptations of a voluptuous capital. Who could have undertaken to keep that clear of all diseases, so that it might preserve its beauty of form unimpaired even to old age? Think of the many taints of the mind: for fine dispositions do not always continue to their life’s end to make good the promise of their youth, but have often broken down: either extravagance, all the more shameful for being indulged in late in life, takes possession of men and makes their well-begun lives end in disgrace, or they devote their entire thoughts to the eating-house and the belly, and they become interested in nothing save what they shall eat and what they shall drink. Add to this conflagrations, falling houses, shipwrecks, the agonizing operations of surgeons, who cut pieces of bone out of men’s living bodies, plunge their whole hands into their entrails, and inflict more than one kind of pain to effect the cure of shameful diseases. After these comes exile; your son was not more innocent than Rutilius: imprisonment; he was not wiser than Socrates: the piercing of one’s breast by a self-inflicted wound; he was not of holier life than Cato. When you look at these examples, you will perceive that nature deals very kindly with those whom she puts speedily in a place of safety because there awaited them the payment of some such price as this for their lives. Nothing is so deceptive, nothing is so treacherous as human life; by Hercules, were it not given to men before they could form an opinion, no one would take it. Not to be born, therefore, is the happiest lot of all, and the nearest thing to this, I imagine, is that we should soon finish our strife here and be restored again to our former rest. Recall to your mind that time, so painful to you, during which Sejanus handed over your father as a present to his client Satrius Secundus: he was angry with him about something or other which he had said with too great freedom, because he was not able to keep silence and see Sejanus climbing up to take his seat upon our necks, which would have been bad enough had he been placed there by his master. He was decreed the honour of a statue, to be set up in the theatre of Pompeius, which had been burned down and was being restored by Caesar. Cordus exclaimed that “Now the theatre was really destroyed.” What then? should he not burst with spite at a Sejanus being set up over the ashes of Gnaeus Pompeius, at a faithless soldier being commemorated within the memorial of a consummate commander? The inscription was put up:¹² and those keen-scented hounds whom Sejanus used to feed on human blood, to make them tame towards himself and fierce to all the world beside, began to bay around their victim and even to make premature snaps at him. What was he to do? If he chose to live, he must gain the consent of Sejanus; if to die, he must gain that of his daughter; and neither of them could have been persuaded to grant it: he therefore determined to deceive his daughter, and having taken a bath in order to weaken himself still further, he retired to his bed-chamber on the pretence of taking a meal there. After dismissing his slaves he threw some of the food out of the window, that he might appear to have eaten it: then he took no supper, making the excuse that he had already had enough food in his chamber. This he continued to do on the second and the third day: the fourth betrayed his condition by his bodily weakness; so, embracing you, “My dearest daughter,” said he, “from whom I have never throughout your whole life concealed aught but this, I have begun my journey towards death, and have already travelled half-way thither. You cannot and you ought not to call me back.” So saying he ordered all light to be excluded from the room and shut himself up in the darkness. When his determination became known there was a general feeling of pleasure at the prey being snatched out of the jaws of those ravening wolves. His prosecutors, at the instance of Sejanus, went to the judgment-seat of the consuls, complained that Cordus was dying, and begged the consuls to interpose to prevent his doing what they themselves had driven him to do; so true was it that Cordus appeared to them to be escaping: an important matter was at stake, namely, whether the accused should lose the right to die. While this point was being debated, and the prosecutors were going to attend the court a second time, he had set himself free from them. Do you see, Marcia, how suddenly evil days come upon a man? and do you weep because one of your family could not avoid dying? one of your family was within a very little of not being allowed to die.

XXII. Do you complain, Marcia, that your son did not live as long as he might have? How do you know that living longer would have benefited him? How do you know that his death did not serve his interests? Can you find anyone today whose fortunes are so secure that they have nothing to fear from the future? All human affairs are fleeting and perishable. No part of our life is so fragile and exposed to misfortune as the part we especially enjoy. We should therefore pray for death when our fortune is at its best. For we live amid such uncertainty and turmoil that we can be sure of nothing but the past. Think of your son’s handsome body. You had kept him entirely pure amid all the temptations of a pleasure-loving capital. Who could have promised to protect his body from every disease, preserving his beauty undamaged into old age? Think of the many ways the mind can be corrupted. Fine characters do not always fulfill the promise of their youth throughout their lives. They have often broken down instead. Sometimes extravagance takes hold of men and brings their well-begun lives to a disgraceful end. Such extravagance is all the more shameful when it begins late in life. Or they think of nothing but taverns and their stomachs. They care only about what they will eat and drink. Add to these dangers fires, collapsing houses, shipwrecks, and agonizing surgery. Surgeons cut pieces of bone from living bodies and plunge their whole hands into people’s guts. They inflict several kinds of pain to cure shameful diseases. Then there is exile. Your son was no more innocent than Rutilius. There is imprisonment. He was no wiser than Socrates. There is piercing one’s own chest with a self-inflicted wound. He lived no holier a life than Cato. Consider these examples, and you will see how kindly nature treats those she quickly takes to safety. Otherwise, some such price awaited them in return for their lives. Nothing is so deceptive, nothing so treacherous, as human life. By Hercules, if life were not given to us before we could form an opinion, no one would accept it. Never to be born, then, is the happiest fate of all. The next best thing, I imagine, is to finish our struggle here quickly and return to our former rest. Recall that time, so painful to you, when Sejanus handed your father over as a gift to his client Satrius Secundus. Sejanus was angry about something or other your father had said too freely. Your father could not remain silent while watching Sejanus climb up to sit upon our necks. Even if his master had put Sejanus there, that would have been bad enough. Sejanus had been granted the honor of a statue in the theatre of Pompeius. The theatre had burned down, and Caesar was rebuilding it. Cordus exclaimed, “Now the theatre was really destroyed.” Well, then? Was he not bound to burst with outrage at seeing a Sejanus raised above the ashes of Gnaeus Pompeius? At seeing a disloyal soldier honored within the memorial to a masterful commander? The inscription was put up:¹² and Sejanus’s sharp-scented hounds began to bay around their victim and snap at him before their time. Sejanus used to feed those hounds on human blood. He wanted them tame toward himself and savage toward everyone else. What was your father to do? If he chose to live, he needed Sejanus’s consent. If he chose to die, he needed his daughter’s. Neither could have been persuaded to agree. So he decided to deceive his daughter. He took a bath to weaken himself still further. Then he went to his bedroom, pretending that he would eat there. After dismissing his slaves, he threw some food out of the window to make it look as though he had eaten. Then he skipped supper, saying he had already eaten enough in his room. He did the same on the second and third days. On the fourth day, his physical weakness revealed his condition. Then he embraced you and said, “My dearest daughter, I have never hidden anything from you throughout your life except this. I have begun my journey toward death, and I am already halfway there. You cannot and should not call me back.” With those words, he ordered all light shut out of the room and closed himself away in darkness. When people learned of his decision, they generally rejoiced that the prey was being snatched from those ravenous wolves’ jaws. At Sejanus’s urging, his prosecutors went before the consuls’ tribunal. They complained that Cordus was dying. They begged the consuls to stop him from doing what they themselves had driven him to do. So clearly did they see Cordus’s death as an escape. An important issue was at stake: whether the accused should lose the right to die. While the question was being debated, and the prosecutors were on their way to court again, Cordus freed himself from them. Do you see, Marcia, how suddenly evil days can fall upon a man? And do you weep because one of your family could not escape death? Another member of your family came very close to being forbidden to die.

XXIII. Besides the fact that everything that is future is uncertain, and the only certainty is that it is more likely to turn out ill than well, our spirits find the path to the Gods above easiest when it is soon allowed to leave the society of mankind, because it has then contracted fewest impurities to weigh it down: if set free before they become hardened worldlings, before earthly things have sunk too deep into them, they fly all the more lightly back to the place from whence they came, and all the more easily wash away the stains and defilements which they may have contracted. Great minds never love to linger long in the body: they are eager to burst its bonds and escape from it, they chafe at the narrowness of their prison, having been wont to wander through space, and from aloft in the upper air to look down with contempt upon human affairs. Hence it is that Plato declares that the wise man’s mind is entirely given up to death, longs for it, contemplates it, and through his eagerness for it is always striving after things which lie beyond this life. Why, Marcia, when you saw him while yet young displaying the wisdom of age, with a mind that could rise superior to all sensual enjoyments, faultless and without a blemish, able to win riches without greediness, public office without ambition, pleasure without extravagance, did you suppose it would long be your lot to keep him safe by your side? Whatever has arrived at perfection, is ripe for dissolution. Consummate virtue flees away and betakes itself out of our sight, and those things which come to maturity in the first stage of their being do not wait for the last. The brighter a fire glows, the sooner it goes out: it lasts longer when it is made up with bad and slowly burning fuel, and shows a dull light through a cloud of smoke: its being poorly fed makes it linger all the longer. So also the more brilliant men’s minds, the shorter lived they are: for when there is no room for further growth, the end is near. Fabianus tells us, what our parents themselves have seen, that there was at Rome a boy of gigantic stature, exceeding that of a man: but he soon died, and every sensible person always said that he would soon die, for he could not live to reach the age which he had assumed before it was due. So it is: too complete maturity is a proof that destruction is near, and the end approaches when growth is over.

XXIII. Everything in the future is uncertain. The only certainty is that things are more likely to turn out badly than well. Besides, our spirits find the easiest path to the Gods above when allowed to leave humanity early. They have then gathered the fewest impurities to weigh them down. If freed before becoming hardened by the world, before earthly things sink too deeply into them, they fly back more lightly. They return to the place they came from. They also wash away more easily whatever stains and impurities they may have gathered. Great minds never love to stay long in the body. They are eager to break its bonds and escape. They resent the cramped space of their prison. They are accustomed to roaming through space and looking down with contempt on human affairs from high above. That is why Plato says the wise man’s mind is wholly devoted to death. It longs for death, contemplates death, and eagerly reaches toward things beyond this life. Why, Marcia, you saw him show the wisdom of old age while he was still young. His mind could rise above all sensual pleasures, faultless and without a blemish. He could gain wealth without greed, public office without ambition, and pleasure without excess. Did you suppose you would be allowed to keep him safely beside you for long? Whatever has reached perfection is ready to fall apart. Perfect virtue takes flight and passes out of our sight. Things that mature in the first stage of life do not wait for the last. The brighter a fire burns, the sooner it goes out. A fire lasts longer when fed with poor, slow-burning fuel, giving a dull light through a cloud of smoke. The poor fuel makes the fire linger all the longer. So too, the more brilliant people’s minds are, the shorter their lives. For when there is no room for further growth, the end is near. Fabianus tells us about something our parents themselves witnessed. In Rome, there was a boy of gigantic size, taller than a grown man. But he soon died, and every sensible person had always said he would die soon. For he could not live to reach the age whose stature he had gained too early. So it is: reaching full maturity too early proves that destruction is near. The end approaches when growth is over.

XXIV. Begin to reckon his age, not by years, but by virtues: he lived long enough. He was left as a ward in the care of guardians up to his fourteenth year, and never passed out of that of his mother: when he had a household of his own he was loth to leave yours, and continued to dwell under his mother’s roof, though few sons can endure to live under their father’s. Though a youth whose height, beauty, and vigour of body destined him for the army, yet he refused to serve, that he might not be separated from you. Consider, Marcia, how seldom mothers who live in separate houses see their children: consider how they lose and pass in anxiety all those years during which they have sons in the army, and you will see that this time, none of which you lost, was of considerable extent: he never went out of your sight: it was under your eyes that he applied himself to the cultivation of an admirable intellect and one which would have rivalled that of his grandfather, had it not been hindered by shyness, which has concealed many men’s accomplishments: though a youth of unusual beauty, and living among such throngs of women who made it their business to seduce men, he gratified the wishes of none of them, and when the effrontery of some led them so far as actually to tempt him, he blushed as deeply at having found favour in their eyes as though he had been guilty. By this holiness of life he caused himself, while yet quite a boy, to be thought worthy of the priesthood, which no doubt he owed to his mother’s influence; but even his mother’s influence would have had no weight if the candidate for whom it was exerted had been unfit for the post. Dwell upon these virtues, and nurse your son as it were in your lap: now he is more at leisure to respond to your caresses, he has nothing to call him away from you, he will never be an anxiety or a sorrow to you. You have grieved at the only grief so good a son could cause you: all else is beyond the power of fortune to harm, and is full of pleasure, if only you know how to make use of your son, if you do but know what his most precious quality was. It is merely the outward semblance of your son that has perished, his likeness, and that not a very good one; he himself is immortal, and is now in a far better state, set free from the burden of all that was not his own, and left simply by himself: all this apparatus which you see about us of bones and sinews, this covering of skin, this face, these our servants the hands, and all the rest of our environment, are but chains and darkness to the soul: they overwhelm it, choke it, corrupt it, fill it with false ideas, and keep it at a distance from its own true sphere: it has to struggle continually against this burden of the flesh, lest it be dragged down and sunk by it. It ever strives to rise up again to the place from whence it was sent down on earth: there eternal rest awaits it, there it will behold what is pure and clear, in place of what is foul and turbid.

XXIV. Begin to measure his life not by years, but by virtues. He lived long enough. He remained in his guardians’ care until he was fourteen, and he never left his mother’s care. When he had his own household, he was reluctant to leave yours and continued living under your roof. Yet few sons can bear to live under their father’s roof. His height, beauty, and physical strength marked him out for military service. Yet he refused to serve so that he would not be separated from you. Consider, Marcia, how rarely mothers see their children when they live in separate homes. Consider how mothers lose all the years their sons spend in the army, passing those years in anxiety. Then you will see how much time you had with him, without losing any of it. He never left your sight. Before your eyes, he developed an admirable mind that would have rivaled his grandfather’s, had shyness not held him back. Shyness has hidden many men’s talents. Though unusually handsome, he lived among crowds of women who made a business of seducing men. Yet he satisfied none of their desires. Some were bold enough to try to seduce him outright. He blushed as deeply at their attraction to him as if he had done something wrong. His pure life made him seem worthy of the priesthood while he was still a boy. He undoubtedly owed the appointment to his mother’s influence. But even his mother’s influence would have counted for nothing if he had been unfit for the position. Dwell on these virtues, and cradle your son in your lap, so to speak. Now he has more time to respond to your affection. Nothing can call him away from you. He will never cause you anxiety or sorrow. You have suffered the only grief so good a son could cause you. Everything else lies beyond fortune’s power to harm and is full of joy, if you know how to draw on your son. You need only understand what was most precious in him. Only your son’s outward appearance has perished, his likeness, and not a very good likeness at that. He himself is immortal and now exists in a far better state. He is free from the burden of everything that was not truly his, with only his true self remaining. All this bodily equipment around us is nothing but chains and darkness for the soul. The bones and sinews, the covering of skin, the face, the hands that serve us, and everything else surrounding us. All these overwhelm the soul, choke it, corrupt it, fill it with false ideas, and keep it far from its true home. The soul must struggle constantly against this burden of flesh, so that the flesh does not drag it down and drown it. The soul always strives to return to the place from which it was sent down to earth. There, eternal rest awaits the soul. There, the soul will see what is pure and clear, instead of what is foul and murky.

XXV. You need not, therefore, hasten to the burial-place of your son: that which lies there is but the worst part of him and that which gave him most trouble, only bones and ashes, which are no more parts of him than clothes or other coverings of his body. He is complete, and without leaving any part of himself behind on earth has taken wing and gone away altogether: he has tarried a brief space above us while his soul was being cleansed and purified from the vices and rust which all mortal lives must contract, and from thence he will rise to the high heavens and join the souls of the blessed: a saintly company will welcome him thither,—Scipios and Catos; and among the rest of those who have held life cheap and set themselves free, thanks to death, albeit all there are alike akin, your father, Marcia, will embrace his grandson as he rejoices in the unwonted light, will teach him the motion of the stars which are so near to them, and introduce him with joy into all the secrets of nature, not by guesswork but by real knowledge. Even as a stranger is grateful to one who shows him the way about an unknown city, so is a searcher after the causes of what he sees in the heavens to one of his own family who can explain them to him. He will delight in gazing deep down upon the earth, for it is a delight to look from aloft at what one has left below. Bear yourself, therefore, Marcia, as though you were placed before the eyes of your father and your son, yet not such as you knew them, but far loftier beings, placed in a higher sphere. Blush, then, to do any mean or common action, or to weep for those your relatives who have been changed for the better. Free to roam through the open, boundless realms of the everliving universe, they are not hindered in their course by intervening seas, lofty mountains, impassable valleys, or the treacherous fiats of the Syrtes: they find a level path everywhere, are swift and ready of motion, and are permeated in their turn by the stars and dwell together with them.

XXV. So you need not hurry to your son’s burial place. What lies there is only the worst part of him, the part that caused him the most trouble. Those bones and ashes are no more part of him than his clothes or other coverings of his body. He is whole and has left no part of himself behind on earth. He has taken wing and flown away entirely. He has lingered briefly above us while his soul was cleansed and purified. That cleansing removed the vices and rust that all mortal lives must gather. From there he will rise to the highest heavens and join the souls of the blessed. A holy company will welcome him there, including the Scipios and Catos. Others there valued life little and gained their freedom through death. Among them, your father, Marcia, will embrace his grandson, although all souls there are equally related. As your son delights in the unfamiliar light, your father will teach him how the stars move, so close above them. Your father will joyfully introduce him to all nature’s secrets, through true knowledge rather than guesswork. A stranger is grateful to someone who shows him around an unfamiliar city. So too is someone seeking the causes of what he sees in the heavens. He is grateful to a member of his own family who can explain those causes. Your son will delight in looking far down upon the earth. For looking down from above at what one has left below is a delight. So conduct yourself, Marcia, as though your father and your son were watching you. Yet imagine them not as you knew them, but as far greater beings, living in a higher realm. Be ashamed, then, to do anything base or common, or to weep for relatives who have changed for the better. They are free to roam the open, boundless regions of the ever-living universe. No intervening seas, high mountains, impassable valleys, or treacherous sandbanks of the Syrtes block their way. Everywhere they find a level path, and they move swiftly and freely. The stars, in turn, pass through them, and they live together with the stars.

XXVI. Imagine then, Marcia, that your father, whose influence over you was as great as yours over your son, no longer in that frame of mind in which he deplored the civil wars, or in which he for ever proscribed those who would have proscribed him, but in a mood as much more joyful as his abode now is higher than of old, is saying, as he looks down from the height of heaven, “My daughter, why does this sorrow possess you for so long? why do you live in such ignorance of the truth, as to think that your son has been unfairly dealt with because he has returned to his ancestors in his prime, without decay of body or mind, leaving his family flourishing? Do you not know with what storms Fortune unsettles everything? how she proves kind and compliant to none save to those who have the fewest possible dealings with her? Need I remind you of kings who would have been the happiest of mortals had death sooner withdrawn them from the ruin which was approaching them? or of Roman generals, whose greatness, had but a few years been taken from their lives, would have wanted nothing to render it complete? or of men of the highest distinction and noblest birth who have calmly offered their necks to the stroke of a soldier’s sword? Look at your father and your grandfather: the former fell into the hands of a foreign murderer: I allowed no man to take any liberties with me, and by abstinence from food showed that my spirit was as great as my writings had represented it. Why, then, should that member of our household who died most happily of all be mourned in it the longest? We have all assembled together, and, not being plunged in utter darkness, we see that with you on earth there is nothing to be wished for, nothing grand or magnificent, but all is mean, sad, anxious, and hardly receives a fractional part of the clear light in which we dwell. I need not say that here are no frantic charges of rival armies, no fleets shattering one another, no parricides, actual or meditated, no courts where men babble over lawsuits for days together, here is nothing underhand, all hearts and minds are open and unveiled, our life is public and known to all, and that we command a view of all time and of things to come. I used to take pleasure in compiling the history of what took place in one century among a few people in the most out-of-the-way corner of the world: here I enjoy the spectacle of all the centuries, the whole chain of events from age to age as long as years have been. I may view kingdoms when they rise and when they fall, and behold the ruin of cities and the new channels made by the sea. If it will be any consolation to you in your bereavement to know that it is the common lot of all, be assured that nothing will continue to stand in the place in which it now stands, but that time will lay everything low and bear it away with itself: it will sport, not only with men—for how small a part are they of the dominion of Fortune? —but with districts, provinces, quarters of the world: it will efface entire mountains, and in other places will pile new rocks on high: it will dry up seas, change the course of rivers, destroy the intercourse of nation with nation, and break up the communion and fellowship of the human race: in other regions it will swallow up cities by opening vast chasms in the earth, will shake them with earthquakes, will breathe forth pestilence from the nether world, cover all habitable ground with inundations and destroy every creature in the flooded world, or burn up all mortals by a huge conflagration. When the time shall arrive for the world to be brought to an end, that it may begin its life anew, all the forces of nature will perish in conflict with one another, the stars will be dashed together, and all the lights which now gleam in regular order in various parts of the sky will then blaze in one fire with all their fuel burning at once. Then we also, the souls of the blest and the heirs of eternal life, whenever God thinks fit to reconstruct the universe, when all things are settling down again, we also, being a small accessory to the universal wreck,¹³ shall be changed into our old elements. Happy is your son, Marcia, in that he already knows this.”

XXVI. Imagine, then, Marcia, that your father is speaking to you. His influence over you was as great as yours over your son. He no longer feels as he did when he mourned the civil wars. Nor does he feel as he did when he forever condemned those who would have condemned him. His mood is now as much more joyful as his home is higher than before. Imagine him looking down from the heights of heaven and saying, “My daughter, why has this sorrow held you for so long? Why do you live with so little understanding of the truth? You think your son was treated unfairly because he returned to his ancestors in his prime. Yet neither his body nor his mind had declined, and he left his family flourishing. Do you not know what storms Fortune brings to unsettle everything? Do you not know that she is kind and agreeable only to those who have the fewest possible dealings with her? “Must I remind you of kings who would have been the happiest of mortals if death had taken them sooner? They would then have escaped the ruin approaching them. Or of Roman generals whose greatness would have been complete if their lives had been a few years shorter? Or of men of the highest standing and noblest birth who calmly offered their necks to a soldier’s sword? Look at your father and your grandfather. Your grandfather fell into the hands of a foreign murderer. I let no one do as he pleased with me. By refusing food, I showed that my spirit was as great as my writings had portrayed it. Why, then, should our household mourn longest for the member who died most happily of all? “We have all gathered together here, and we are not plunged into utter darkness. We see that your earthly world holds nothing worth wishing for, nothing grand or magnificent. Instead, everything there is petty, sad, and full of anxiety. Your world receives hardly a fraction of the clear light in which we live. I need hardly say that here no rival armies charge wildly against each other, and no fleets smash one another. No one murders a parent or plans such a murder. There are no courts where people chatter over lawsuits for days at a time. Nothing here is underhanded. All hearts and minds are open, with nothing concealed. Our lives are public and known to everyone. We can see all time and everything yet to come. “I used to enjoy writing the history of one century among a few people in the world’s most remote corner. Here I enjoy watching all the centuries. I see the whole chain of events through the ages, for as long as years have existed. I can watch kingdoms rise and fall, cities collapse, and the sea carve new channels. “Perhaps knowing that loss is everyone’s fate will comfort you in your grief. If so, be certain that nothing will remain where it now stands. Time will bring everything down and carry everything away. Time will play not only with human beings, who form such a small part of Fortune’s realm. Time will also play with districts, provinces, and regions of the world. Time will erase whole mountains and pile new rocks high elsewhere. Time will dry up seas and change the courses of rivers. Time will destroy contact between nations and break the bonds and fellowship of the human race. In other regions, time will open huge cracks in the earth and swallow cities. Time will shake cities with earthquakes and breathe disease out of the world below. Time will flood all habitable land and destroy every creature in the flooded world. Or time will burn all mortals in a vast fire. “The time will come for the world to end so that its life can begin again. Then all the forces of nature will perish in conflict with one another. The stars will crash together. All the lights now shining in orderly patterns across the sky will blaze in a single fire. All their fuel will burn at once. Then we too, the souls of the blessed and heirs to eternal life, will return to our original elements. This will happen whenever God chooses to rebuild the universe, as everything is settling into place again. We too will be a small part of the universal destruction,¹³ and undergo that change. Your son is happy, Marcia, because he already knows this.”