Consolation for Polybius

I. .... compared with ours is firm and lasting; but if you transfer it to the domain of Nature, which destroys everything and calls everything back to the place from whence it came, it is transitory. What, indeed, have mortal hands made that is not mortal? The seven wonders of the world, and any even greater wonders which the ambition of later ages has constructed, will be seen some day levelled with the ground. So it is: nothing lasts for ever, few things even last for long: all are susceptible of decay in one way or another. The ways in which things come to an end are manifold, but yet everything that has a beginning has an end also. Some threaten the world with death, and, though you may think the thought to be impious, this entire universe, containing gods and men and all their works will some day be swept away and plunged a second time into its original darkness and chaos. Weep, if you can, after this, over the loss of any individual life! Can we mourn the ashes of Carthage, Numantia, Corinth, or any city that has fallen from a high estate, when we know that the world must perish, albeit it has no place into which it can fall. Weep, if you can, because Fate has not spared you, she who some day will dare to work so great a wickedness! Who can be so haughtily and peevishly arrogant as to expect that this law of nature by which everything is brought to an end will be set aside in his own case, and that his own house will be exempted from the ruin which menaces the whole world itself? It is, therefore, a great consolation to reflect that what has happened to us has happened to every one before us and will happen to every one after us. In my opinion, nature has made her cruellest acts affect all men alike, in order that the universality of their lot might console them for its hardship.

I. .... compared with ours is firm and lasting. But measured against Nature, it is fleeting. Nature destroys everything and calls everything back to where it came from. Indeed, what have mortal hands made that is not mortal? The seven wonders of the world will one day be leveled to the ground. So will any even greater wonders built by the ambition of later ages. That is how things are: nothing lasts forever, and few things even last long. Everything is subject to decay in one way or another. Things come to an end in many ways, but everything that has a beginning also has an end. Some warn that the world itself will die. Though you may think the idea irreverent, this entire universe will one day be swept away. Gods, humans, and all their works will plunge back into the universe's original darkness and chaos. After that, weep if you can over the loss of any single life! Can we mourn the ashes of Carthage, Numantia, Corinth, or any city that has fallen from greatness? We know that the world must perish, although it has nowhere to fall. Weep, if you can, because Fate has not spared you, when she will one day dare to commit so great an evil! Who could be so proud, resentful, and arrogant as to expect an exception to this law of nature? The law brings everything to an end. Would anyone expect his own household to escape the destruction that threatens the whole world itself? So it is a great comfort to remember that what has happened to us has happened to everyone before us. And the same will happen to everyone after us. In my opinion, nature has made her cruelest acts affect everyone alike for a reason. Our shared fate is meant to comfort us for its harshness.

II. It will also be no small assistance to you to reflect that grief can do no good either to him whom you have lost or to yourself, and you would not wish to protract what is useless: for if we could gain anything by sorrow, I should not refuse to bestow upon your misfortunes whatever tears my own have left at my disposal: I would force some drops to flow from these eyes, exhausted as they are with weeping over my own domestic afflictions, were it likely to be of any service to you. Why do you hesitate? let us lament together, and I will even make this quarrel my own:—“Fortune, whom every one thinks most unjust, you seemed hitherto to have restrained yourself from attacking one who by your favour had become the object of such universal respect that—rare distinction for any one—his prosperity had excited no jealousy: but now, behold! you have dealt him the cruellest wound which, while Caesar lives, he could receive, and after reconnoitring him from all sides you have discovered that on this point alone he was exposed to your strokes. What else indeed could you have done to him? should you take away his wealth? he never was its slave: now he has even as far as possible put it away from him, and the chief thing that he has gained by his unrivalled facilities for amassing money has been to despise it. Should you take away his friends? you knew that he was of so loveable a disposition that he could easily gain others to replace those whom he might lose: for of all the powerful officers of the Imperial household he seems to me to be the only one whom all men wish to have for their friend without considering how advantageous his friendship would be. Should you take away his reputation? it is so firmly established, that even you could not shake it. Should you take away his health? you knew that his mind was so grounded on philosophical studies, in whose schools he was born as well as bred, that it would rise superior to any sufferings of the body. Should you take away his breath? how small an injury would that be to him? fame promised his genius one of the longest of lives: he himself has taken care that his better part should remain alive, and has guarded himself against death by the composition of his admirable works of eloquence: as long as literature shall be held in any honour, as long as the vigour of the Latin or the grace of the Greek language shall endure, he will flourish together with their greatest writers, with whose genius he has measured, or, if his modesty will not let me say this, has connected his own. This, then, was the only means you could devise of doing him a great injury. The better a man is, the more frequently he is wont to suffer from your indiscriminate rage, you who are to be feared even when you are bestowing benefits upon one. How little it would have cost you to avert this blow from one upon whom your favours seemed to be conferred according to some regular plan, and not to be flung at random in your wonted fashion!”

II. It will also help you greatly to remember that grief cannot benefit either the person you lost or yourself. You would not want to prolong something useless. For if sorrow could achieve anything, I would give your misfortunes whatever tears my own have left me. My eyes are exhausted from weeping over my own family troubles. Still, I would force a few more tears from them if those tears were likely to help you. Why do you hesitate? Let us mourn together, and I will even make your quarrel my own: “Fortune, everyone thinks you deeply unjust. Until now, you seemed to have held back from attacking this man. Your favor had earned him universal respect. His prosperity had stirred no jealousy, a rare distinction for anyone. But now, look! You have struck him the cruelest blow he could suffer while Caesar lives. After examining him from every side, you found the one place where he was vulnerable to your blows. “What else could you have done to him? Take away his wealth? He was never its slave. Now he has even distanced himself from wealth as much as possible. His unmatched opportunities to accumulate money have chiefly taught him to despise it. Take away his friends? You knew his nature was so lovable that he could easily replace any friends he lost. Among all the powerful officials of the Imperial household, he seems to me the only one everyone wants as a friend. They want his friendship without considering the advantages it might bring. Take away his reputation? His reputation is so firmly established that even you could not shake it. Take away his health? You knew his mind was firmly grounded in philosophy, in whose schools he was born as well as raised. Because of that grounding, his mind would rise above any bodily suffering. “Take away his life? How little harm that would do him! Fame promised his genius one of the longest lives. He himself has made sure that his better part will live on. Through his admirable works of eloquence, he has protected himself against death. As long as literature is held in any honor, he will flourish alongside its greatest writers. He will do so as long as the Latin language retains its vigor or Greek its grace. He has matched his genius against theirs. Or, if his modesty will not let me say that, he has linked his genius with theirs. “So this was the only way you could find to hurt him deeply. The better a man is, the more often he suffers from your blind rage. You are to be feared even when you grant someone your favors. How little it would have cost you to spare this man such a blow! Your favors seemed to reach him according to a consistent plan, rather than being scattered at random, as you usually scatter them!”

III. Let us add, if you please, to these grounds of complaint the disposition of the youth himself, cut off in the midst of its first growth. He was worthy to be your brother: you most certainly did not deserve to be given any pain through your brother, even though he had been unworthy. All men alike bear witness to his merits: he is regretted for your sake, and is praised for his own. He had no qualities which you would not be glad to recognize. You would indeed have been good to a worse brother, but to him your fraternal love was given all the more freely because in him it found so fitting a field for its exercise. No one ever was made to feel his influence by receiving wrongs at his hands, he never used the fact of your being his brother to threaten any one: he had moulded his character after the pattern of your modesty, and reflected how great a glory and how great a burden you were to your family: the burden he was able to sustain; but, O pitiless Fate, always unjust to virtue—before your brother could taste the happiness of his position, he was called away. I am well aware that I express my feelings inadequately; for nothing is harder than to find words which adequately represent great grief: still, let us again lament for him, if it be of any use to do so:—“What did you mean, Fortune, by being so unjust and so savage? did you so soon repent you of your favour? What cruelty it was to fall upon brothers, to break up so loving a circle by so deadly an attack; why did you bring mourning into a house so plenteously stocked with admirable youths, in which no brother came short of the high standard of the rest, and without any cause pluck one of them away? So, then, scrupulous innocency of life, old-fashioned frugality, the power of amassing vast wealth wielded with the greatest self-denial, a true and imperishable love of literature, a mind free from the least spot of sin, all avail nothing: Polybius is in mourning, and, warned by the fate of one brother what he may have to dread for the rest, he fears for the very persons who soothe his grief. O shame! Polybius is in mourning, and mourns even though he still enjoys the favour of Caesar. No doubt, Fortune, what you aimed at in your impotent rage was to prove that no one could be protected from your attacks, not even by Caesar himself.”

III. Let us add, if you please, another reason for grief: the young man’s character, cut short just as he began to mature. He was worthy to be your brother. You certainly did not deserve to suffer through your brother, even if he had been unworthy. Everyone alike testifies to his merits. People mourn him for your sake and praise him for his own. He had no qualities you would not gladly acknowledge. You would have been kind even to a worse brother. But you gave him your brotherly love all the more freely because he deserved that love so well. No one ever felt his power through harm he did them. He never threatened anyone by invoking you as his brother. He had modeled his character on your modesty. He understood how much honor you brought your family, and how great a burden that honor placed on them. He could bear the burden. But, O merciless Fate, always unjust to virtue, your brother was taken away before he could enjoy his fortunate position. I know my words do not fully express my feelings. Nothing is harder than finding words that do justice to great grief. Still, let us mourn him again, if doing so can help: “What did you mean, Fortune, by being so unjust and savage? Did you regret your kindness so soon? How cruel to strike at brothers and shatter such a loving circle with a deadly blow. Why bring mourning into a house so full of admirable young men? No brother fell short of the high standard set by the others. Why snatch one away without cause? So, then, a life of blameless integrity and old-fashioned thrift count for nothing. Neither does the power to gather vast wealth, exercised with the greatest self-restraint. Neither does a true and lasting love of literature, nor a mind free from the slightest stain of wrongdoing. Polybius is in mourning. One brother’s fate has warned him what he may have to fear for the others. Now he fears for the very people who comfort him in his grief. What a disgrace! Polybius is in mourning, even though he still enjoys Caesar’s favor. No doubt, Fortune, your aim in your powerless rage was to prove that no one was safe from your attacks. Not even Caesar himself could protect them.”

IV. We might go on blaming fate much longer, but we cannot alter it: it stands harsh and inexorable: no one can move it by reproaches, by tears, or by justice. Fate never spares any one, never makes allowances to any one. Let us, then, refrain from unprofitable tears: for our grief will carry us away to join him sooner than it will bring him back to us: and if it tortures us without helping us, we ought to lay it aside as soon as possible, and restore the tone of our minds after their indulgence in that vain solace and the bitter luxury of woe: for unless reason puts an end to our tears, fortune will not do so. Look around, I pray you, upon all mortals: everywhere there is ample and constant reason for weeping: one man is driven to daily labour by toilsome poverty, another is tormented by never-resting ambition, another fears the very riches that he once wished for, and suffers from the granting of his own prayer: one man is made wretched by loneliness, another by labour, another by the crowds which always besiege his antechamber. This man mourns because he has children, that one because he has lost them. Tears will fail us sooner than causes for shedding them. Do you not see what sort of a life it must be that Nature has promised to us men when she makes us weep as soon as we are born? We begin life in this fashion, and all the chain of years that follow it is in harmony with it. Thus we pass our lives, and consequently we ought to be sparing in doing what we have to do so often, and when we look back upon the mass of sorrows that hangs over us, we ought, if not to end our tears, at any rate to reserve them. There is nothing that we ought to husband more carefully than this, which we are so often obliged to expend.

IV. We could go on blaming fate much longer, but we cannot change it. Fate remains harsh and unyielding. No one can move it with accusations, tears, or appeals to justice. Fate never spares anyone or makes allowances for anyone. So let us stop our useless tears. Our grief will carry us off to join him sooner than it will bring him back to us. And if grief torments us without helping us, we should set it aside as soon as possible. We should restore our minds to strength after indulging in that empty comfort and the bitter luxury of sorrow. For unless reason ends our tears, fortune will not. Look around, I beg you, at all humanity. Everywhere there are constant and abundant reasons to weep. One man is driven to daily work by grinding poverty. Another is tormented by restless ambition. Another fears the very riches he once longed for and suffers because his own prayer was answered. One man is miserable because he is alone, another because of his work. Another suffers because crowds constantly fill his waiting room. One man mourns because he has children, another because he has lost them. We will run out of tears before we run out of reasons to shed them. Do you not see what kind of life Nature has promised us by making us weep as soon as we are born? We begin life in tears, and every year that follows continues in the same way. Since we spend our lives like this, we should be sparing with tears we must shed so often. And when we consider all the sorrows hanging over us, we should at least save our tears, if not stop them. Nothing needs to be saved more carefully than what we are so often forced to spend.

V. It will also be no small assistance to you to consider that there is no one to whom your grief is more offensive than he upon whom it is nominally bestowed: he either does not wish you to suffer or does not understand why you suffer. There is, therefore, no reason for a service which is useless if it is not felt by him who is the object of it, and which is displeasing to him if it is. I can boldly affirm that there is no one in the whole world who derives any pleasure from your tears. What then? do you suppose that your brother has a feeling against you which no one else has, that he wishes you to be injured by your self-torture, that he desires to separate you from the business of your life, that is, from philosophy and from Caesar? that is not likely: for he always gave way to you as a brother, respected you as a parent, courted you as a superior. He wishes to be fondly remembered by you, but not to be a source of agony to you. Why, then, should you insist upon pining away with a grief which, if the dead have any feelings, your brother wishes to bring to an end? If it were any other brother about whose affection there could be any question, I should put all this vaguely, and say, “If your brother wishes you to be tortured with endless mourning, he does not deserve such affection: if he does not wish it, dismiss the grief which affects you both: an unnatural brother ought not, a good brother would not wish to be so mourned for,” but with one whose brotherly love has been so clearly proved, we may be quite sure that nothing could hurt him more than that you should be hurt by his loss, that it should agonize you, that your eyes, most undeserving as they are of such a fate, should be by the same cause continually filled and drained of never-ceasing tears.

V. It will also help you greatly to consider this: no one is more troubled by your grief than the person you supposedly grieve for. He either does not want you to suffer or does not understand why you suffer. So there is no reason to offer him this tribute. If he cannot feel it, the tribute is useless. If he can, it displeases him. I can confidently say that no one in the whole world takes any pleasure in your tears. What, then? Do you suppose your brother feels toward you as no one else does? Do you think he wants you to hurt yourself through self-torment? Does he want to draw you away from your life's work, namely, philosophy and Caesar? That is unlikely. He always yielded to you as a brother, respected you as a parent, and sought your favor as a superior. He wants you to remember him fondly, but not to suffer agony because of him. Why, then, insist on wasting away with grief when, if the dead have feelings, your brother wants your grief to end? If this were another brother, whose affection might be in doubt, I would speak less definitely. I would say, “If your brother wants you tortured by endless mourning, he does not deserve such affection. If he does not, let go of the grief that troubles you both. An unloving brother should not be mourned this way, and a good brother would not wish to be.” But your brother's love has been so clearly proved that we can be quite sure of his feelings. Nothing could hurt him more than knowing that his loss hurts you and causes you agony. Nothing could hurt him more than knowing that his loss keeps filling and draining your eyes with endless tears. Your eyes deserve such a fate least of all.

Nothing however will restrain your loving nature from these useless tears so effectually as the reflexion that you ought to show your brothers an example by bearing this outrage of fortune bravely. You ought to imitate great generals in times of disaster, when they are careful to affect a cheerful demeanour, and conceal misfortunes by a counterfeited joyousness, lest, if the soldiers saw their leader cast down, they should themselves become dispirited. This must now be done by you also. Put on a countenance that does not reflect your feelings, and if you possibly can, cast out conceal it within you and hide it away so that it may not be seen, and take care that your brothers, who will think everything honourable that they see you doing, imitate you in this and take courage from the sight of your looks. It is your duty to be both their comfort and their consoler; but you will have no power to check their grief if you humour your own.

Yet nothing will hold back your loving nature from these useless tears as effectively as this thought: you ought to set an example for your brothers by bravely bearing this cruel blow of fortune. You ought to imitate great generals in times of disaster. They take care to appear cheerful and hide misfortunes behind a show of happiness. They do this so their soldiers will not lose heart at the sight of their leader looking defeated. You must now do the same. Put on an expression that does not reveal your feelings. If you possibly can, drive your grief away. Conceal your grief within yourself and keep it out of sight. Your brothers will consider everything they see you do honorable. So make sure they follow your example in hiding their grief and draw courage from your expression. Your duty is both to give them comfort and to console them. But you will have no power to restrain their grief if you indulge your own.

VI. It may also keep you from excessive grief if you remind yourself that nothing which you do can be done in secret: all men agree in regarding you as an important personage, and you must keep up this character: you are encompassed by all that mass of offerers of consolation who all are peering into your mind to learn how much strength it has to resist grief, and whether you merely know how to avail yourself cunningly of prosperity, or whether you can also bear adversity with a manly spirit: the expression of your very eyes is watched. Those who are able to conceal their feelings may indulge them more freely; but you are not free to have any secresy: your fortune has set you in so brilliant a position, that nothing which you do can be hid: all men will know how you have borne this wound of yours, whether you laid down your arms at the first shock or whether you stood your ground. Long ago the love of Caesar raised you, and your own literary pursuits brought you, to the highest rank in the state: nothing vulgar, nothing mean befits you: yet what can be meaner or more womanish than to make oneself a victim to grief? Although your sorrow is as great as that of your brothers, yet you may not indulge it as much as they: the ideas which the public have formed about your philosophic learning and your character make many things impossible for you. Men demand much, and expect much from you: you ought not to have drawn all eyes upon yourself, if you wished to be allowed to act as you pleased: as it is, you must make good that of which you have given promise. All those, who praise the works of your genius, who make copies of them, who need your genius if they do not need your fortune, are as guards set over your mind: you cannot, therefore, ever do anything unworthy of the character of a thorough philosopher and sage, without many men feeling sorry that they ever admired you. You may not weep beyond reason: nor is this the only thing that you may not do: you may not so much as remain asleep after daybreak, or retreat from the noisy troubles of public business to the peaceful repose of the country, or refresh yourself with a pleasure tour when wearied by constant attendance to the duties of your toilsome post, or amuse yourself with beholding various shows, or even arrange your day according to your own wish. Many things are forbidden to you which are permitted to the poorest beggars that lie about in holes and corners. A great fortune is a great slavery; you may not do anything according to your wish: you must give audiences to all those thousands of people, you must take charge of all those petitions: you must cheer yourself up, in order that all this mass of business which flows hither from every part of the world may be offered in due order for the consideration of our excellent emperor. I repeat, you yourself are forbidden to weep, that you may be able to listen to so many weeping petitioners: your own tears must be dried, in order that the tears of those who are in peril and who desire to obtain the gracious pardon of the kindest-hearted of Caesars may be dried.

VI. Remembering that nothing you do can remain secret may also keep you from excessive grief. Everyone agrees that you are an important person, and you must live up to that position. You are surrounded by crowds offering comfort. All of them are searching your mind to see how strongly you can resist grief. They want to know whether you merely know how to use good fortune cleverly. Can you also face hardship with a manly spirit? Even the expression in your eyes is watched. Those who can hide their feelings may indulge those feelings more freely. But you have no freedom to keep anything private. Your fortune has placed you in so prominent a position that nothing you do can stay hidden. Everyone will know how you have borne this wound. They will know whether you dropped your weapons at the first blow or stood your ground. Long ago, Caesar’s affection and your own literary work raised you to the highest rank in the state. Nothing common or low is fitting for you. Yet what could be lower or more womanish than letting yourself become a victim of grief? Although your sorrow is as great as your brothers’ sorrow, you may not indulge your grief as much as they may. The public’s opinion of your philosophical learning and character puts many things beyond your freedom. People demand much and expect much from you. You should not have drawn everyone’s attention if you wanted permission to act as you pleased. As things stand, you must fulfill the promise you have shown. Everyone who praises your writing or makes copies of your works stands guard over your mind. So does everyone who needs your talent, even if they do not need your wealth. Therefore, you can never act beneath the character of a true philosopher and sage without disappointing many people. They would regret ever having admired you. You may not weep beyond reason. Nor is weeping the only freedom denied you. You may not even sleep past daybreak. You may not escape the noisy troubles of public business for the quiet rest of the countryside. When constant work in your demanding post exhausts you, you may not refresh yourself with a pleasure trip. You may not entertain yourself by watching various shows, or even arrange your day as you wish. Many things are forbidden to you but allowed to the poorest beggars lying in out-of-the-way corners. Great fortune means great slavery. You may not do anything simply because you wish to. You must grant audiences to all those thousands of people and take charge of all those petitions. You must lift your spirits so that you can properly organize the business pouring in from every part of the world. All that business must be presented in due order for our excellent emperor to consider. I repeat, you yourself are forbidden to weep so that you can listen to so many weeping petitioners. Your own tears must be dried so that you can dry the tears of people in danger. Those people seek a gracious pardon from the kindest-hearted of Caesars.

VII. These reflexions will serve you as partial remedies for your grief, but if you wish to forget it altogether, remember Caesar: think with what loyalty, with what industry you are bound to requite the favours which he has shown you: you will then see that you can no more sink beneath your burden than could he of whom the myths tells us, he whose shoulders upheld the world. Even Caesar, who may do all things, may not do many things for this very reason: his watchfulness protects all men’s sleep, his labour guarantees their leisure, his toil ensures their pleasures, his work preserves their holidays. On the day on which Caesar devoted his services to the universe, he lost them for himself, and like the planets which ever unrestingly pursue their course, he can never halt or attend to any affair of his own. After a certain fashion this prohibition is imposed upon you also; you may not consider your own interests, or devote yourself to your own studies: while Caesar owns the world, you cannot allow either joy or grief, or anything else to occupy any part of you: you owe your entire self to Caesar. Add to this that, since you have always declared that Caesar was dearer to you than your own life, you have no right to complain of misfortune as long as Caesar is alive: while he is safe all your friends are alive, you have lost nothing, your eyes ought not only to be dry, but glad. In him is your all, he stands in the place of all else to you: you are not grateful enough for your present happy state (which God forbid that one of your most wise and loyal disposition should be) if you permit yourself to weep at all while Caesar is safe.

VII. These reflections will help ease your grief, but if you want to forget your grief altogether, remember Caesar. Think how loyally and diligently you must repay the favors he has shown you. Then you will see that you can no more collapse under your burden than the figure in the myths could. His shoulders held up the world. Even Caesar, who can do anything, is forbidden many things for that very reason. His watchfulness protects everyone’s sleep. His labor secures their leisure. His toil ensures their pleasures. His work preserves their holidays. On the day Caesar devoted his services to the whole world, he could no longer use them for himself. Like the planets, which constantly follow their courses without rest, he can never stop or attend to his own affairs. In a sense, the same restriction applies to you. You may not put your own interests first or devote yourself to your own studies. While Caesar rules the world, you cannot let joy, grief, or anything else occupy any part of you. You owe your whole self to Caesar. Besides, you have always declared that Caesar is dearer to you than your own life. So you have no right to complain of misfortune as long as Caesar lives. While he is safe, all your friends are alive, and you have lost nothing. Your eyes should not merely be dry, but bright with joy. He is everything to you and takes the place of everything else. If you allow yourself to weep at all while Caesar is safe, you are not grateful enough for your present happiness. God forbid that someone as wise and loyal as you should show such ingratitude.

VIII. I will now point out to you yet another remedy, of a more domestic, though not of a more efficacious character. Your sorrow is most to be feared when you have retired to your own home: for as long as your divinity is before your eyes, it can find no means of access to you, but Caesar will possess your entire being; when you have left his presence, grief, as though it then had an opportunity of attack, will lie in ambush for you in your loneliness, and creep by degrees over your mind as it rests from its labours. You ought not, therefore, to allow any moment to be unoccupied by literary pursuits: at such times let literature repay to you the debt which your long and faithful love has laid upon it, let it claim you for its high priest and worshipper: at such times let Homer¹ and Virgil be much in your company, those poets to whom the human race owes as much as every one owes to you, and they especially, because you have made them known to a wider circle than that for which they wrote. All time which you entrust to their keeping will be safe. At such times, as far as you are able, compile an account of your Caesar’s acts, that they may be read by all future ages in a panegyric written by one of his own household: for he himself will afford you both the noblest subject and the noblest example for putting together and composing a history. I dare not go so far as to advise you to write in your usual elegant style a version of Aesop’s fables, a work which no Roman intellect has hitherto attempted. It is hard, no doubt, for a mind which has received so rude a shock to betake itself so quickly to these livelier pursuits: but if it is able to pass from more serious studies to these lighter ones, you must regard it as a proof that it has recovered its strength, and is itself again. In the former case, although it may suffer and hang back, still it will be led on by the serious nature of the subject under consideration to take an interest in it: but, unless it has thoroughly recovered, it will not endure to treat of subjects which must be written of in a cheerful spirit. You ought, therefore, first to exercise your mind upon grave studies, and then to enliven it with gayer ones.

VIII. I will now suggest another remedy, one closer to home, though no more effective. Your sorrow is most dangerous when you have returned home. For as long as your divine ruler is before your eyes, sorrow cannot reach you. Caesar will occupy your whole being. But once you leave his presence, grief will lie in wait for you in your solitude, as though ready to attack. It will gradually creep over your mind as you rest from your work. You should therefore leave no moment free from literary study. At such times, let literature repay the debt it owes your long and faithful devotion. Let literature claim you as its high priest and worshipper. At such times, spend much time with Homer¹ and Virgil. Humanity owes these poets as much as everyone owes you. The poets especially owe you that debt, because you have brought their work to readers beyond their original audience. All the time you entrust to their care will be safe. At such times, as far as you can, compile an account of your Caesar’s deeds. Then all future ages may read his praises, written by a member of his own household. For Caesar himself will give you both the finest subject and the finest example for writing and arranging a history. I dare not go so far as to advise you to retell Aesop’s fables in your usual elegant style. No Roman writer has yet attempted such a work. A mind that has suffered so harsh a shock will doubtless struggle to turn so quickly to these livelier pursuits. But if your mind can move from serious studies to lighter ones, consider that proof of recovery. Your mind has regained its strength and is itself again. With serious studies, although your mind may suffer and resist, the weight of the subject will draw you into it. But unless your mind has fully recovered, you will not bear to handle subjects that require a cheerful spirit. You should therefore first exercise your mind with serious studies, then brighten it with lighter ones.

IX. It will also be a great solace to you if you often ask yourself: “Am I grieving on my own account or on that of him who is gone? if on my own, I have no right to boast of my affectionate sensibility; grief is only excusable as long as it is honourable; but when it is only caused by personal interests, it no longer springs from tenderness: nothing can be less becoming to a good man than to make a calculation about his grief for his brother. If I grieve on his account, I must necessarily take one of the two following views: if the dead retain no feeling whatever, my brother has escaped from all the troubles of life, has been restored to the place which he occupied before his birth, and, being free from every kind of ill, can neither fear, nor desire, nor suffer: what madness then for me never to cease grieving for one who will never grieve again? If the dead have any feeling, then my brother is now like one who has been let out of a prison in which he has long been confined, who at last is free and his own master, and who enjoys himself, amuses himself with viewing the works of Nature, and looks down from above the earth upon all human things, while he looks at things divine, whose meaning he has long sought in vain, from a much nearer standpoint. Why then am I wasting away with grief for one who is either in bliss or non-existent? it would be envy to weep for one who is in bliss, it would be madness to weep for one who has no existence whatever.” Are you affected by the thought that he appears to have been deprived of great blessings just at the moment when they came crowding upon him? after thinking how much he has lost, call to mind how much more he has ceased to fear: anger will never more wring his heart, disease will not crush him, suspicion will not disquiet him, the gnawing pain of envy which we feel at the successes of others will not attend him, terror will not make him wretched, the fickleness of fortune who quickly transfers her favours from one man to another will not alarm him. If you reckon it up properly, he has been spared more than he has lost. He will not enjoy wealth, or your influence at Court, or his own: he will not receive benefits, and will not confer them: do you imagine him to be unhappy, because he has lost these things, or happy because he does not miss them? Believe me, he who does not need good fortune is happier than he on whom it attends: all those good things which charm us by the attractive but unreal pleasures which they afford, such as money, high office, influence, and many other things which dazzle the stupid greed of mankind, require hard labour to keep, are regarded by others with bitter jealousy, and are more of a menace than an advantage to those who are bedecked and encumbered by them. They are slippery and uncertain; one never can enjoy them in comfort; for, even setting aside anxiety about the future, the present management of great prosperity is an uneasy task. If we are to believe some profound seekers after truth, life is all torment: we are flung, as it were, into this deep and rough sea, whose tides ebb and flow, at one time raising us aloft by sudden accessions of fortune, at another bringing down low by still greater losses, and for ever tossing us about, never letting us rest on firm ground. We roll and plunge upon the waves, and sometimes strike against one another, sometimes are shipwrecked, always are in terror. For those who sail upon this stormy sea, exposed as it is to every gale, there is no harbour save death. Do not, then, grudge your brother his rest: he has at last become free, safe, and immortal: he leaves surviving him Caesar and all his family, yourself, and his and your brothers. He left Fortune before she had ceased to regard him with favour, while she stood still by him, offering him gifts with a full hand. He now ranges free and joyous through the boundless heavens; he has left this poor and low-lying region, and has soared upwards to that place, whatever it may be, which receives in its happy bosom the souls which have been set free from the chains of matter: he now roams there at liberty, and enjoys with the keenest delight all the blessings of Nature. You are mistaken! your brother has not lost the light of day, but has obtained a more enduring light: whither he has gone, we all alike must go: why then do we weep for his fate? He has not left us, but has gone on before us. Believe me, there is great happiness in a happy death. We cannot be sure of anything even for one whole day: since the truth is so dark and hard to come at, who can tell whether death came to your brother out of malice or out of kindness?

IX. You will also find great comfort in often asking yourself: “Am I grieving for myself or for the man who has died? If I grieve for myself, I have no right to boast about my loving heart. Grief is excusable only as long as it is honorable. But when grief comes only from self-interest, it no longer comes from love. Nothing is less fitting for a good man than to calculate his own interests when grieving for his brother. If I grieve for my brother, I must take one of two views. If the dead feel nothing at all, my brother has escaped all life's troubles. He has returned to the state he was in before his birth. Free from every kind of suffering, he can neither fear nor desire nor suffer. How mad, then, to grieve endlessly for someone who will never grieve again! If the dead can feel anything, then my brother is like someone released from a prison after long confinement. At last he is free and his own master. He enjoys himself and takes pleasure in looking at Nature's works. From above the earth, he looks down on all human affairs. He also sees divine things much more closely, after long searching in vain for their meaning. Why, then, am I wasting away with grief for someone who is either happy or no longer exists? To weep for someone who is happy would be envy. To weep for someone who no longer exists at all would be madness.” Does it trouble you that he seems to have lost great blessings just as they were coming to him? After considering how much he has lost, remember how much more he no longer needs to fear. Anger will never again torment his heart. Illness will not crush him, and suspicion will not disturb him. He will not feel the gnawing envy that other people's success arouses in us. Terror will not make him miserable. Fortune's fickleness will not alarm him, though she quickly transfers her favors from one person to another. If you weigh everything properly, he has been spared more than he has lost. He will not enjoy wealth, your influence at Court, or his own. He will neither receive favors nor grant them. Do you think him unhappy because he has lost these things, or happy because he does not miss them? Believe me, someone who does not need good fortune is happier than someone who enjoys it. Money, high office, influence, and many other good things charm us with pleasures that are attractive but unreal. Such things dazzle humanity's foolish greed. They take hard work to keep and arouse bitter jealousy in others. They threaten those adorned and burdened with them more than they benefit them. These advantages are unstable and uncertain. No one can ever enjoy them at ease. Even without anxiety about the future, managing great prosperity in the present is a difficult task. If we believe some deep thinkers who seek the truth, life is nothing but torment. We are thrown, so to speak, into a deep, rough sea with tides that rise and fall. Sometimes sudden gains in fortune lift us high. Sometimes still greater losses bring us low. The sea keeps tossing us about and never lets us rest on solid ground. We roll and plunge among the waves. Sometimes we collide with one another, and sometimes we are shipwrecked. We are always afraid. Those who sail this stormy sea, exposed to every wind, have no harbor except death. So do not begrudge your brother his rest. At last he is free, safe, and immortal. Caesar and all his family survive him, as do you and the brothers you shared. He left Fortune before she stopped favoring him. She was still beside him, offering gifts with a generous hand. Now he wanders freely and joyfully through the boundless heavens. He has left this lowly region below and soared to another place, wherever that may be. That place welcomes into its happy embrace souls freed from the chains of matter. Now he roams there freely, taking the greatest delight in all Nature's blessings. You are mistaken! Your brother has not lost the light of day. He has gained a light that lasts longer. We must all go where he has gone. Why, then, do we weep over his fate? He has not left us but gone ahead of us. Believe me, there is great happiness in a happy death. We cannot be certain of anything even for one whole day. Since the truth is so obscure and hard to find, who can tell whether death treated your brother cruelly or kindly?

X. One who is as just in all things as you are, must find comfort in the thought that no wrong has been done you by the loss of so noble a brother, but that you have received a benefit by having been permitted for so long a time to enjoy his affection. He who will not allow his benefactor to choose his own way of bestowing a gift upon him, is unjust: he who does not reckon what he receives as gain, and yet reckons what he gives back again as loss, is greedy: he who says that he has been wronged, because his pleasure has come to an end, is ungrateful: he who thinks that we gain nothing from good things beyond the present enjoyment of them, is a fool, because he finds no pleasure in past joys, and does not regard those which are gone as his most certain possessions, since he need not fear that they will come to an end. A man limits his pleasures too narrowly if he believes that he enjoys those things only which he touches and sees, if he counts the having enjoyed them for nothing: for all pleasure quickly leaves us, seeing that it flows away, flits across our lives, and is gone almost before it has come. We ought, therefore, to make our mind travel back over past time, to bring back whatever we once took pleasure in, and frequently to ruminate over it in our thoughts: the remembrance of pleasures is truer and more trustworthy than their reality. Regard it, then, among your greatest blessings that you have had an excellent brother: you need not think for how much longer you might have had him, but for how long you did have him. Nature gave him to you, as she gives others to other brothers, not as an absolute property, but as a loan: afterwards when she thought proper she took him back again, and followed her own rules of action, instead of waiting until you had indulged your love to satiety. If any one were to be indignant at having to repay a loan of money, especially if he had been allowed to use it without having to pay any interest, would he not be thought an unreasonable man? Nature gave your brother his life, just as she gave you yours: exercising her lawful rights, she has chosen to ask one of you to repay her loan before the other: she cannot be blamed for this, for you knew the conditions on which you received it: you must blame the greedy hopes of mortal men’s minds, which every now and then forget what Nature is, and never remember their own lot unless reminded of it. Rejoice, then, that you have had so good a brother, and be grateful for having had the use and enjoyment of him, though it was for a shorter time than you wished. Reflect that what you have had of him was most delightful, that your having lost him is an accident common to mankind. There is nothing more inconsistent than that a man should grieve that so good a brother was not long enough with him, and should not rejoice that he nevertheless has been with him.

X. You are just in all things, so you must find comfort in knowing that losing so noble a brother did you no wrong. Instead, you received a gift in being allowed to enjoy his affection for so long. Anyone who refuses to let a benefactor choose how to give a gift is unjust. Anyone who counts what he receives as no gain, but what he returns as a loss, is greedy. Anyone who claims he has been wronged because his pleasure has ended is ungrateful. Anyone who thinks good things benefit us only while we enjoy them is a fool. For he takes no pleasure in past joys. He does not see those vanished joys as his surest possessions, since he need not fear that they will end. A man limits his pleasures too narrowly if he believes he enjoys only what he can touch and see. He does the same if he places no value on having enjoyed those things. For all pleasure leaves us quickly. Pleasure flows away, passes swiftly through our lives, and is gone almost before it arrives. So we should turn our minds back to the past and recall whatever once gave us pleasure. We should return to those pleasures often in our thoughts. The memory of pleasures is more lasting and dependable than the pleasures themselves. Count having had an excellent brother among your greatest blessings. Do not think about how much longer you might have had him, but how long you did have him. Nature gave him to you, just as she gives brothers to others, not as a permanent possession, but as a loan. Later, when she thought the time was right, she took him back. She followed her own rules rather than waiting until you had fully satisfied your love. Suppose someone resented having to repay a loan of money, especially after being allowed to use it without paying interest. Would we not think him unreasonable? Nature gave your brother his life, just as she gave you yours. She has exercised her rightful power by asking one of you to repay her loan before the other. Nature cannot be blamed for asking, because you knew the terms on which you received the loan. Instead, blame the greedy hopes of mortal minds. From time to time, those minds forget what Nature is. They never remember their own fate unless reminded of it. So rejoice that you had so good a brother. Be grateful for the time you shared and enjoyed with him, though you had less time than you wished. Remember that the time you had with him was deeply delightful. Remember, too, that losing him is a misfortune common to humanity. Nothing is more inconsistent than grieving that so good a brother stayed too briefly, without rejoicing that he was here at all.

XI. “But,” you say, “he was taken away unexpectedly.” Every man is deceived by his own willingness to believe what he wishes, and he chooses to forget that those whom he loves are mortal: yet Nature gives us clear proofs that she will not suspend her laws in favour of any one: the funeral processions of our friends and of strangers alike pass daily before our eyes, yet we take no notice of them, and when an event happens which our whole life warns us will some day happen, we call it sudden. This is not, therefore, the injustice of fate, but the perversity and insatiable universal greediness of the human mind, which is indignant at having to leave a place to which it was only admitted on sufferance. How far more righteous was he who, on hearing of the death of his son, made a speech worthy of a great man, saying: “When I begat him, I knew that he would die some day.” Indeed, you need not be surprised at the son of such a man being able to die bravely. He did not receive the tidings of his son’s death as news: for what is there new in a man’s dying, when his whole life is merely a journey towards death? “When I begat him, I knew that he would die some day,” said he: and then he added, what showed even more wisdom and courage, “It was for this that I brought him up.” It is for this that we have all been brought up: every one who is brought into life is intended to die. Let us enjoy what is given to us, and give it back when it is asked for: the Fates lay their hands on some men at some times, and on other men at other times, but they will never pass any one by altogether. Our mind ought always to be on the alert, and while it ought never to fear what is certain to happen, it ought always to be ready for what may happen at any time. Why need I tell you of generals and the children of generals, of men ennobled by many consulships and triumphs, who have succumbed to pitiless fate? whole kingdoms together with their kings, whole nations with all their component tribes, have all submitted to their doom. All men, nay, all things look forward to an end of their days: yet all do not come to the same end: one man loses his life in the midst of his career, another at the very beginning of it, another seems hardly able to free himself from it when worn out with extreme old age, and eager to be released: we are all going to the same place, but we all go thither at different times, I know not whether it is more foolish not to know the law of mortality, or more presumptuous to refuse to obey it. Come, take into your hands the poems² of whichever you please of those two authors upon whom your genius has expended so much labour, whom you have so well paraphrased, that although the structure of the verse be removed, its charm nevertheless is preserved; for you have transferred them from one language to another so well as to effect the most difficult matter of all, that of making all the beauties of the original reappear in a foreign speech: among their works you will find no volume which will not offer you numberless instances of the vicissitudes of human life, of the uncertainty of events, and of tears shed for various reasons. Read with what fire you have thundered out their swelling phrases: you will feel ashamed of suddenly failing and falling short of the elevation of their magnificent language. Do not commit the fault of making every one, who according to his ability admires your writings, ask how so frail a mind can have formed such stable and well-connected ideas.

XI. “But,” you say, “he was taken away unexpectedly.” Everyone is misled by a willingness to believe what they wish. Everyone chooses to forget that the people they love are mortal. Yet Nature gives us clear proof that she will not suspend her laws for anyone. Funeral processions for friends and strangers alike pass before our eyes daily, yet we pay no attention. Our whole lives warn us that death will come someday, yet when death comes, we call it sudden. The fault, then, is not the injustice of fate. The fault is the human mind’s perversity and its endless greed for everything. We resent having to leave a place where we were allowed to stay only by permission. How much wiser and more just was the man who spoke these words on hearing of his son’s death. His words were worthy of a great man: “When I fathered him, I knew that he would die someday.” Indeed, you need not be surprised that such a man’s son could die bravely. The father did not treat the report of his son’s death as something new. For what is new about a man dying, when his whole life is merely a journey toward death? “When I fathered him, I knew that he would die someday,” he said. Then he added words that showed even greater wisdom and courage: “It was for this that I raised him.” We have all been raised for this: everyone brought into life is destined to die. Let us enjoy what we are given and give it back when asked. The Fates seize some people at one time and others at another, but they will never spare anyone altogether. Our minds should always be alert. We should never fear what is certain to happen, but we should always be ready for what may happen anytime. Why need I tell you about generals and their children who have fallen to pitiless fate? Or about men honored with many consulships and triumphs who have met the same fate? Whole kingdoms and their kings, whole nations and all their tribes, have submitted to their doom. All people, indeed, all things, face an end to their days. Yet not everyone reaches the same end. One man loses his life midway through his career, another at its very beginning. Another, exhausted by extreme old age and eager for release, seems hardly able to free himself from life. We are all going to the same place, but we arrive at different times. I do not know which is more foolish or presumptuous: not knowing mortality’s law, or refusing to obey it. Come, pick up the poems² of either of those two authors on whom you have spent so much talent and effort. You have paraphrased their work so well that its charm survives even without the structure of verse. In translating them from one language into another, you have achieved the hardest task of all. You have made all the original’s beauties reappear in a foreign language. Every volume of their works will offer you countless examples of life’s changing fortunes, uncertain events, and tears shed for different reasons. Read the fiery energy with which you have thundered out their lofty words. You will feel ashamed of suddenly faltering and failing to rise to the heights of their magnificent language. Do not make this mistake: do not make everyone who admires your writing, each according to their ability, question you. Do not make them ask how so fragile a mind could have produced such firm and coherent ideas.

XII. Turn yourself away from these thoughts which torment you, and look rather at those numerous and powerful sources of consolation which you possess: look at your excellent brothers, look at your wife and your son. It is to guarantee the safety of all these that Fortune³ has struck you in this quarter: you have many left in whom you can take comfort. Guard yourself from the shame of letting all men think that a single grief has more power with you than these many consolations. You see all of them cast down into the same despondency as yourself, and you know that they cannot help you, nay, that on the other hand they look to you to encourage them: wherefore, the less learning and the less intellect they possess, the more vigorously you ought to withstand the evil which has fallen upon you all. The very fact of one’s grief being shared by many persons acts as a consolation, because if it be distributed among such a number the share of it which falls upon you must be small. I shall never cease to recall your thoughts to Caesar. While he governs the earth, and shows how far better the empire may be maintained by kindnesses than by arms, while he presides over the affairs of mankind, there is no danger of your feeling that you have lost anything: in this fact alone you will find ample help and ample consolation; raise yourself up, and fix your eyes upon Caesar whenever tears rise to them; they will become dry on beholding that greatest and most brilliant light; his splendour will attract them and firmly attach them to himself, so that they are able to see nothing else. He whom you behold both by day and by night, from whom your mind never deviates to meaner matters, must occupy your thoughts and be your defence against Fortune; indeed, so kind and gracious as he is towards all his followers that he has already, I doubt not, laid many healing balms upon this wound of yours, and furnished you with many antidotes for your sorrow. Why, even had he done nothing of the kind, is not the mere sight and thought of Caesar in itself your greatest consolation? May the gods and goddesses long spare him to the earth: may he rival the deeds of the Emperor Augustus, and surpass him in length of days! as long as he remains among mortals, may he never be reminded that any of his house are mortal: may he train up his son by long and faithful service to be the ruler of the Roman people, and see him share his father’s power before he succeeds to it: may the day on which his kindred shall claim him for heaven be far distant, and may our grandchildren alone be alive to see it.

XII. Turn away from these tormenting thoughts. Look instead at the many powerful sources of comfort you have. Look at your excellent brothers, your wife, and your son. Fortune³ has struck you this blow to guarantee the safety of all these loved ones. You still have many people who can comfort you. Do not bring shame on yourself by letting everyone think one sorrow outweighs so many comforts. You see all your loved ones sunk in the same despair as you. You know they cannot help you. Instead, they look to you for encouragement. So the less learning and understanding they have, the more firmly you must resist the misfortune you all share. The very fact that many people share your grief brings comfort. If grief is divided among so many people, your share must be small. I will never stop turning your thoughts back to Caesar. While he governs the earth, he shows how much better kindness can preserve the empire than force. While he oversees human affairs, there is no danger that you will feel you have lost anything. That fact alone will give you abundant help and comfort. Lift yourself up, and whenever tears fill your eyes, turn them toward Caesar. Your tears will dry at the sight of that greatest and brightest light. His brilliance will draw your eyes and hold them so firmly that they can see nothing else. You see him day and night, and your mind never turns from him to lesser matters. He must fill your thoughts and defend you against Fortune. Indeed, he is so kind and gracious to all his followers that I have no doubt about his care. He has already applied many healing balms to your wound and given you many remedies for sorrow. Even if he had done none of this, is not simply seeing and thinking of Caesar your greatest comfort? May the gods and goddesses long preserve him on earth. May he match the deeds of the Emperor Augustus and surpass him in length of life! As long as he lives among mortals, may he never be reminded that anyone in his family is mortal. May he prepare his son, through long and faithful service, to rule the Roman people. May he see his son share his power before succeeding him. May the day when his divine relatives claim him for heaven be far away. May only our grandchildren live to see that day.

XIII. Fortune, refrain your hands from him, and show your power over him only in doing him good: allow him to heal the long sickness from which mankind has suffered; to replace and restore whatever has been shattered by the frenzy of our late sovereign: may this star, which has shed its rays upon a world overthrown and cast into darkness, ever shine brightly: may he give peace to Germany, open Britain to us, and lead through the city triumphs, both over the nations whom his fathers conquered, and over new ones. Of these his clemency, the first of his many virtues, gives me hopes of being a spectator: for he has not so utterly cast me down that he will never raise me up again; nay, he has not cast me down at all; rather he has supported me when I was struck by evil fortune and was tottering, and has gently used his godlike hand to break my headlong fall: he pleaded with the Senate on my behalf, and not only gave me my life but even begged it for me. He will see to my cause: let him judge my cause to be such as he would desire; let his justice pronounce it good or his clemency so regard it: his kindness to me will be equal in either case, whether he knows me to be innocent or chooses that I should be thought so. Meanwhile it is a great comfort to me for my own miseries to behold his pardons travelling throughout the world: even from the corner in which I am confined his mercy has unearthed and restored to light many exiles who had been buried and forgotten here for long years, and I have no fear that I alone shall be passed over by it. He best knows the time at which he ought to show favour to each man: I will use my utmost efforts to prevent his having to blush when he comes to me. O how blessed is your clemency, Caesar, which makes exiles live more peacefully during your reign than princes did in that of Gaius! We do not tremble or expect the fatal stroke every hour, nor are we terrified whenever a ship comes in sight: you have set bounds to the cruelty of Fortune towards us, and have given us present peace and hopes of a happier future. You may indeed be sure that those thunderbolts alone are just which are worshipped even by those who are struck by them.

XIII. Fortune, keep your hands off him, and use your power over him only to do him good. Allow him to heal the long sickness mankind has suffered. Let him repair and restore everything shattered by the madness of our late ruler. May this star always shine brightly, having cast its light on a world brought down and plunged into darkness. May he bring peace to Germany and open Britain to us. May he lead triumphal processions through the city, celebrating victories over nations his fathers conquered and over new ones. His mercy, the foremost of his many virtues, gives me hope that I will witness these triumphs. For he has not brought me so low that he will never raise me again. Indeed, he has not brought me low at all. Instead, he supported me when misfortune struck and I was losing my footing. With his godlike hand, he gently broke my headlong fall. He pleaded with the Senate on my behalf. He not only spared my life but even begged for it. He will consider my case. Let him judge my case to be as he would wish. Let his justice find it sound, or let his mercy regard it that way. His kindness to me will be equally great in either case. He may know me to be innocent, or choose to have me thought innocent. Meanwhile, amid my own misery, I find great comfort in seeing his pardons reach throughout the world. Even in the remote place where I am confined, his mercy has found many exiles buried and forgotten for years. He has brought them back into the light, and I have no fear that his mercy will overlook me alone. He knows best when to show favor to each man. I will do everything I can to ensure he need not feel ashamed when my turn comes. How blessed is your mercy, Caesar! Under your rule, exiles live more peacefully than princes did under Gaius! We do not tremble or expect a fatal blow every hour. Nor are we terrified whenever a ship comes into sight. You have set limits on Fortune’s cruelty toward us. You have given us peace now and hope for a happier future. Indeed, you may be sure that only those thunderbolts worshipped even by their victims are just.

XIV. Thus this prince, who is the universal consoler of all men, has, unless I am altogether mistaken, already revived your spirit and applied more powerful remedies to so severe a wound than I can: he has already strengthened you in every way: his singularly retentive memory has already furnished you with all the examples which will produce tranquillity: his practised eloquence has already displayed before you all the precepts of sages. No one therefore could console you as well as he: when he speaks his words have greater weight, as though they were the utterances of an oracle: his divine authority will crush all the strength of your grief. Think, then, that he speaks to you as follows:—“Fortune has not chosen you as the only man in the world to receive so severe a blow: there is no house in all the earth, and never has been one, that has not something to mourn for: I will pass over examples taken from the common herd, which, while they are of less importance, are also endless in number, and I will direct your attention to the Calendar and the State Chronicles. Do you see all these images which fill the hall of the Caesars? there is not one of these men who was not especially afflicted by domestic sorrows: no one of those men who shine there as the ornament of the ages was not either tortured by grief for some of his family or most bitterly mourned for by those whom he left behind. Why need I remind you of Scipio Africanus, who heard the news of his brother’s death when he was himself in exile? he who saved his brother from prison could not save him from his fate. Yet all men saw how impatient Africanus’s brotherly affection was even of equal law: on the same day on which Scipio Africanus rescued his brother from the hands of the apparitor, he, although not holding any office, protested against the action of the tribune of the people. He mourned for his brother as magnanimously as he had defended him. Why need I remind you of Scipio Aemilianus,⁴ who almost at one and the same time beheld his father’s triumph and the funeral of his two brothers? yet, although a stripling and hardly more than a boy, he bore the sudden bereavement which befel his family at the very time of Paulus’s triumph with all the courage which beseemed one who was born that Rome might not be without a Scipio and that she might be without a Carthage.

XIV. This prince comforts all people. Unless I am completely mistaken, he has already revived your spirit. He has treated your deep wound with more powerful remedies than I can offer. He has already strengthened you in every way. His remarkably strong memory has already supplied every example that will bring you peace. His practiced eloquence has already set before you all the teachings of the wise. No one, therefore, could comfort you as well as he can. When he speaks, his words carry greater weight, as though an oracle were speaking. His divine authority will crush the full force of your grief. Imagine, then, that he speaks to you as follows: “Fortune has not singled you out as the only man in the world to suffer so severe a blow. No household anywhere on earth is without something to mourn, nor has any household ever been. I will pass over examples from ordinary people. Those examples are less important, but they are also endless in number. Instead, I will direct your attention to the Calendar and the State Chronicles. Do you see all these images filling the hall of the Caesars? Not one of these men escaped especially painful sorrows within his family. All these men, who shine there as glories of the ages, suffered one of two fates. Either grief for a family member tormented them, or those they left behind mourned them most bitterly. Why need I remind you of Scipio Africanus? He heard the news of his brother’s death while he himself was in exile. He had saved his brother from prison, but he could not save him from his fate. Yet everyone saw how Africanus’s brotherly love resisted even the equal application of the law. Scipio Africanus rescued his brother from the hands of the apparitor, an officer of the court. That same day, although he held no public office, he protested against the action of the tribune of the people. He mourned his brother with the same greatness of spirit he had shown in defending him. Why need I remind you of Scipio Aemilianus,⁴ who witnessed his father’s triumph and his two brothers’ funerals almost simultaneously? He was still a youth, hardly more than a boy. Yet he bore his family’s sudden loss, coming at the very time of Paulus’s triumph, with fitting courage. Such courage befitted a man born so that Rome would not lack a Scipio, and would no longer face a Carthage.

XV. Why should I speak of the intimacy of the two Luculli, which was broken only by their death? or of the Pompeii? whom the cruelty of Fortune did not even allow to perish by the same catastrophe; for Sextus Pompeius in the first place survived his sister,⁵ by whose death the firmly knit bond of peace in the Roman empire was broken, and he also survived his noble brother, whom Fortune had raised so high in order that she might cast him down from as great a height as she had already cast down his father; yet after this great misfortune Sextus Pompeius was able not only to endure his grief but even to make war. Innumerable instances occur to me of brothers who were separated by death: indeed on the other hand we see very few pairs of brothers growing old together: however, I shall content myself with examples from my own family. No one can be so devoid of feeling or of reason as to complain of Fortune’s having thrown him into mourning when he learns that she has coveted the tears of the Caesars themselves. The Emperor Augustus lost his darling sister Octavia, and though Nature destined him for heaven, yet she did not relax her laws to spare him from mourning while on earth: nay, he suffered every kind of bereavement, losing his sister’s son,⁶ who was intended to be his heir. In fine, not to mention his sorrows in detail, he lost his son-in-law, his children, and his grandchildren, and, while he remained among men, no mortal was more often reminded that he was a man. Yet his mind, which was able to bear all things, bore all these heavy sorrows, and the blessed Augustus was the conqueror, not only of foreign nations, but also of his own sorrows. Gaius Caesar,⁷ the grandson of the blessed Augustus, my maternal great uncle, in the first years of manhood, when Prince of the Roman Youth, as he was preparing for the Parthian war, lost his darling brother Lucius⁸ who was also ‘Prince of the Roman Youth,’ and suffered more thereby in his mind than he did afterwards in his body, though he bore both afflictions with the greatest piety and fortitude. Tiberius Caesar, my paternal uncle, lost his younger brother Drusus Germanicus,⁹ my father, when he was opening out the innermost fastnesses of Germany, and bringing the fiercest tribes under the dominion of the Roman empire; he embraced him and received his last kiss, but he nevertheless restrained not only his own grief but that of others, and when the whole army, not merely sorrowful but heartbroken, claimed the corpse of their Drusus for themselves, he made them grieve only as it became Romans to grieve, and taught them that they must observe military discipline not only in fighting but also in mourning. He could not have checked the tears of others had he not first repressed his own.

XV. Why should I speak of the closeness of the two Luculli, which only death broke? Or of the Pompeii? Fortune’s cruelty did not even let them perish in the same disaster. First, Sextus Pompeius outlived his sister,⁵ whose death broke the firm bond that held the Roman empire at peace. He also outlived his noble brother. Fortune had raised his brother so high only to cast him down as far as she had already cast their father. Yet after this great misfortune, Sextus Pompeius could not only bear his grief but even wage war. Countless examples come to mind of brothers separated by death. Indeed, we see very few pairs of brothers grow old together. Still, I will limit myself to examples from my own family. No one can be so lacking in feeling or reason as to complain that Fortune has plunged him into mourning once he learns that she has sought tears even from the Caesars themselves. The Emperor Augustus lost his beloved sister Octavia. Although Nature destined him for heaven, she did not relax her laws to spare him grief on earth. Indeed, he suffered every kind of loss. He lost his sister’s son,⁶ who was meant to be his heir. In short, without listing his sorrows in detail, he lost his son-in-law, his children, and his grandchildren. While he lived among men, no mortal was reminded more often that he was human. Yet his mind, capable of bearing everything, bore all these heavy sorrows. The blessed Augustus conquered not only foreign nations but also his own grief. Gaius Caesar,⁷ grandson of the blessed Augustus and my mother’s uncle, lost his beloved brother Lucius⁸ in early manhood. Gaius was then Prince of the Roman Youth and was preparing for war with Parthia. Lucius was also ‘Prince of the Roman Youth.’ The loss hurt Gaius more deeply in spirit than his later suffering hurt him in body. Yet he bore both afflictions with the greatest devotion and courage. Tiberius Caesar, my father’s brother, lost his younger brother Drusus Germanicus,⁹ my father. Drusus was then penetrating Germany’s deepest strongholds and bringing its fiercest tribes under the Roman empire’s rule. Tiberius embraced Drusus and received his last kiss. Yet Tiberius restrained not only his own grief but also the grief of others. The whole army, not merely sorrowful but heartbroken, demanded the body of their Drusus for themselves. But Tiberius made the soldiers grieve only as Romans should. He taught them to observe military discipline not only in battle but also in mourning. He could not have checked the tears of others without first holding back his own.

XVI. “Marcus Antonius, my grandfather, who was second to none save his conqueror, received the news of his brother’s execution at the very time when the state was at his disposal, and when, as a member of the triumvirate, he saw no one in the world superior to himself in power, nay, when, with the exception of his two colleagues, every man was subordinate to himself. O wanton Fortune, what sport you make for yourself out of human sorrows! At the very time when Marcus Antonius was enthroned with power of life and death over his countrymen, Marcus Antonius’s brother was being led to his death: yet Antonius bore this cruel wound with the same greatness of mind with which he had endured all his other crosses; and he mourned for his brother by offering the blood of twenty legions to his manes. However, to pass by all other instances, not to speak of the other deaths which have occurred in my own house. Fortune has twice assailed me through the death of a brother; she has twice learned that she could wound me but could not overthrow me. I lost my brother Germanicus, whom I loved in a manner which any one will understand if he thinks how affectionate brothers love one another; yet I so restrained my passion of grief as neither to leave undone anything which a good brother could be called upon to do, nor yet to do anything which a sovereign could be blamed for doing.”

XVI. “Marcus Antonius, my grandfather, was second to no one except the man who defeated him. He learned of his brother’s execution at the very moment when he controlled the state. As a member of the triumvirate, he saw no one in the world with greater power than his own. Indeed, apart from his two colleagues, everyone was under his authority. O reckless Fortune, how you amuse yourself with human sorrow! At the very moment Marcus Antonius held the power of life and death over his fellow citizens, his brother was being led to execution. Yet Antonius bore this cruel blow with the same strength of spirit he had shown in all his other troubles. And he mourned his brother by offering the blood of twenty legions to his brother’s spirit. But let me pass over all other examples, without mentioning the other deaths in my own family. Fortune has attacked me twice through a brother’s death. Twice she has learned that she could wound me but could not bring me down. I lost my brother Germanicus. Anyone who considers how deeply affectionate brothers love each other will understand how I loved him. Yet I kept my grief under such control that I left nothing undone that a good brother should do. Nor did I do anything that a ruler could be blamed for doing.”

Think, then, that our common parent quotes these instances to you, and that he points out to you how nothing is respected or held inviolable by Fortune, who actually dares to send out funeral processions from the very house in which she will have to look for gods: so let no one be surprised at her committing any act of cruelty or injustice; for how could she show any humanity or moderation in her dealings with private families, when her pitiless fury has so often hung the very throne¹⁰ itself with black? She will not change her habits even though reproached, not by my voice alone, but by that of the entire nation: she will hold on her course in spite of all prayers and complaints. Such has Fortune always been, and such she ever will be in connexion with human affairs: she has never shrunk from attacking anything, and she will never let anything alone: she will rage everywhere terribly, as she has always been wont to do: she will dare to enter for evil purposes into those houses whose entrance lies through the temples of the gods, and will hang signs of mourning upon laurelled door-posts. However, if she has not yet determined to destroy the human race: if she still looks with favour upon the Roman nation, may our public and private prayers prevail upon her to regard as sacred from her violence this prince, whom all men think to be sacred, who has been granted them by heaven to give them rest after their misfortunes: let her learn clemency from him, and let the mildest of all sovereigns teach her mildness.

Imagine, then, that our common parent gives you these examples. He shows you that Fortune respects nothing and holds nothing sacred. She even dares to send funeral processions from the very house where she will have to look for gods. So let no one be surprised by any act of cruelty or injustice she commits. For how could she treat private families with humanity or restraint? Her merciless fury has so often draped even the throne¹⁰ itself in mourning. She will not change her ways, even when reproached, not just by me but by the entire nation. She will continue on her course despite all prayers and complaints. Fortune has always treated human affairs this way, and she always will. She has never hesitated to attack anything, and she will never leave anything alone. She will rage terribly everywhere, as she always has. She will dare to bring harm into houses whose entrances lead through the temples of the gods. She will hang signs of mourning on doorposts crowned with laurel. Yet if she has not already decided to destroy the human race, if she still favors the Roman nation, may she hear our public and private prayers. May those prayers persuade her to protect this prince from her violence as someone sacred. All people consider him sacred, and heaven has given him to them to bring them peace after their misfortunes. Let her learn mercy from him, and let the gentlest of all rulers teach her gentleness.

XVII. You ought, therefore, to fix your eyes upon all the persons whom I have just mentioned, who have either been deified or were nearly related to those who have been deified, and when Fortune lays her hands upon you to bear it calmly, seeing that she does not even respect those by whose names we swear. It is your duty to imitate their constancy in enduring and triumphing over suffering, as far as it is permitted to a mere man to follow in the footsteps of the immortals. Albeit in all other matters rank and birth make great distinctions between men, yet virtue is open to all; she despises no one provided he thinks himself worthy to possess her. Surely you cannot do better than follow the example of those who, though they might have been angry at not being exempt from this evil, nevertheless have decided to regard this, the only thing which brings them down to the level of other men, not as a wrong done to themselves, but as the law of our mortal nature, and to bear what befals them without undue bitterness and wrath, and yet in no base or cowardly spirit: for it is not human not to feel our sorrows, while it is unmanly not to bear them. When I glance through the roll of all the Caesars whom fate has bereaved of sisters or brothers, I cannot pass over that one who is unworthy to figure on the list of Caesars, whom Nature produced to be the ruin and the shame of the human race, who utterly wrecked and destroyed the state which is now recovering under the gentle rule of the most benign of princes. On losing his sister Drusilla, Gaius Caesar, a man who could neither mourn nor rejoice as becomes a prince, shrank from seeing and speaking to his countrymen, was not present at his sister’s funeral, did not pay her the conventional tribute of respect, but tried to forget the sorrows caused by this most distressing death by playing at dice in his Alban villa, and by sitting on the judgment-seat, and the like customary engagements. What a disgrace to the Empire! a Roman emperor solaced himself by gambling for his grief at the loss of his sister! This same Gaius, with frantic levity, at one time let his beard and hair grow long, at another wandered aimlessly along the coast of Italy and Sicily. He never clearly made up his mind whether he wished his sister to be mourned for or to be worshipped, and during all the time that he was raising temples and shrines¹¹ in her honour he punished those who did not manifest sufficient sorrow with the most cruel tortures:¹² for his mind was so ill-balanced, that he was as much cast down by adversity as he was unbecomingly elated and puffed up by success. Far be it from every Roman to follow such an example, either to divert his mind from his grief by unreasonable amusements, to stimulate it by unseemly squalor and neglect, or to be so inhuman as to console himself by taking pleasure in the sufferings of others.

XVII. You should therefore look to all the people I have just mentioned. They either became gods or were close relatives of those who did. When Fortune strikes you, bear it calmly. She does not spare even those by whose names we swear. You must imitate their strength in enduring and overcoming suffering. Do so as far as a mere mortal can follow in the footsteps of the immortals. Although rank and birth create great differences between people in all other matters, virtue is open to everyone. She rejects no one who considers himself worthy of her. Surely you can do no better than follow these people's example. They might have been angry that they were not spared this suffering. Instead, they chose to accept the only thing that brings them down to the level of other people. They saw their suffering not as a personal wrong, but as the law of our mortal nature. They bore what happened without excessive bitterness or anger, yet without weakness or cowardice. To feel no sorrow is inhuman, but to fail to bear sorrow is unmanly. When I review all the Caesars whom fate deprived of sisters or brothers, I cannot pass over one of them. He is unworthy of a place among the Caesars. Nature produced him to bring ruin and shame upon the human race. He utterly wrecked and destroyed the state. That state is now recovering under the gentle rule of the kindest of rulers. Gaius Caesar could neither mourn nor rejoice as a prince should. When his sister Drusilla died, he avoided seeing or speaking to his fellow citizens. He did not attend his sister's funeral or pay her the customary respects. Instead, he tried to forget the grief caused by her deeply distressing death. He played dice at his Alban villa, sat in judgment, and took up other routine duties. What a disgrace to the Empire! A Roman emperor sought relief from grief over his sister's death by gambling! This same Gaius, in his frenzied fickleness, sometimes let his beard and hair grow long. At other times, he wandered aimlessly along the coast of Italy and Sicily. He never clearly decided whether he wanted his sister mourned or worshipped. Throughout the time he was building temples and shrines¹¹ in her honor, he demanded displays of grief. He punished those who showed too little sorrow with the cruelest tortures:¹² his mind was so unbalanced. Adversity crushed him just as much as success made him improperly elated and swollen with pride. May no Roman ever follow such an example. Let no one distract himself from grief with senseless amusements, or intensify grief through shameful filth and self-neglect. Nor should anyone be so inhuman as to find comfort in enjoying the suffering of others.

XVIII. You, however, need change none of your ordinary habits, since you have taught yourself to love those studies which, while they are pre-eminently fitted for perfecting our happiness, at the same time teach us how we may bear misfortune most lightly, and which are at the same time a man’s greatest honour and greatest comfort. Now, therefore, immerse yourself even more deeply in your studies, now surround your mind with them like fortifications, so that grief may not find any place at which it can gain entrance. At the same time, prolong the remembrance of your brother by inserting some memoir of him among your other writings: for that is the only sort of monument that can be erected by man which no storm can injure, no time destroy. The others, which consist of piles of stone, masses of marble, or huge mounds of earth heaped on high, cannot preserve his memory for long, because they themselves perish; but the memorials which genius raises are everlasting. Lavish these upon your brother, embalm him in these: you will do better to immortalise him by an everlasting work of genius than to mourn over him with useless grief. As for Fortune herself, although I cannot just now plead her cause before you, because all that she has given us is now hateful to you, because she has taken something away from you, yet I will plead her cause as soon as time shall have rendered you a more impartial judge of her action: indeed she has bestowed much upon you to make amends for the injury which she has done you, and she will give more hereafter by way of atonement for it: and, after all, it was she herself who gave you this brother whom she has taken away. Forbear, then, to display your abilities against your own self, or to take part with your grief against yourself: your eloquence, can, no doubt, make trifles appear great, and, conversely, can disparage and depreciate great things until they seem the merest trifles; but let it reserve those powers and use them on some other subject, and at the present time devote its entire strength to the task of consoling you. Yet see whether even this task be not unnecessary. Nature demands from us a certain amount of grief, our imagination adds some more to it; but I will never forbid you to mourn at all. I know, indeed, that there are some men, whose wisdom is of a harsh rather than a brave character, who say that the wise man never would mourn. It seems to me that they never can have been in the position of mourners, for otherwise their misfortune would have shaken all their haughty philosophy out of them, and, however much against their will, would have forced them to confess their sorrow. Reason will have done enough if she does but cut off from our grief all that is superfluous and useless: as for her not allowing us to grieve at all, that we ought neither to expect nor to wish for. Let her rather restrain us within the bounds of a chastened grief, which partakes neither of indifference nor of madness, and let her keep our minds in that attitude which becomes affection without excitement: let your tears flow, but let them some day cease to flow: groan as deeply as you will, but let your groans cease some day: regulate your conduct so that both philosophers and brothers may approve of it. Make yourself feel pleasure in often thinking about your brother, talk constantly about him, and keep him ever present in your memory; which you cannot succeed in doing unless you make the remembrance of him pleasant rather than sad: for it is but natural that the mind should shrink from a subject which it cannot contemplate without sadness. Think of his retiring disposition, of his abilities for business, his diligence in carrying it out, his loyalty to his word. Tell other men of all his sayings and doings, and remind your own self of them: think how good he was and how great you hoped he might become: for what success is there which you might not safely have wagered that such a brother would win?

XVIII. You, however, need not change any of your usual habits. You have taught yourself to love studies especially suited to making our happiness complete. Those studies also teach us how to bear misfortune as lightly as possible. They are both a person’s greatest honor and greatest comfort. So now, immerse yourself even more deeply in your studies. Build them like fortifications around your mind, so that grief can find no way in. At the same time, keep your brother’s memory alive by including an account of him among your other writings. Writing is the only monument a person can create that no storm can damage and no passage of time can destroy. Other monuments consist of piles of stone, masses of marble, or great mounds of earth. They cannot preserve his memory for long, because they too perish. But the memorials created by genius last forever. Honor your brother generously with such memorials, and preserve him in them. You will do better to immortalize him through an enduring work of genius than to mourn him with useless grief. As for Fortune herself, I cannot defend her before you just now. Everything she has given us is now hateful to you because she has taken something from you. Yet I will defend her once time has made you a fairer judge of her actions. Indeed, she has given you much to make up for the injury she has done you. She will give you more in the future to atone for that injury. And, after all, Fortune herself gave you the brother she has taken away. So stop using your talents against yourself, or siding with your grief against your own interests. Your eloquence can certainly make small things seem great. Equally, it can belittle and diminish great things until they seem utterly trivial. But save those powers for another subject. For now, devote all your eloquence to consoling yourself. Yet consider whether even this effort to console yourself may be unnecessary. Nature requires a certain amount of grief from us, and our imagination adds more. But I will never forbid you to mourn altogether. I know some men whose wisdom is harsh rather than brave. They say that a wise person would never mourn. It seems to me that they can never have suffered such a loss. Otherwise, their misfortune would have shaken all their arrogant philosophy out of them. However unwilling they were, their loss would have forced them to admit their sorrow. Reason will have done enough if she removes everything excessive and useless from our grief. We should neither expect nor wish for reason to prevent us from grieving at all. Instead, let her keep our grief within measured bounds, neither indifferent nor frenzied. Let her keep our minds in a state that expresses affection without agitation. Let your tears flow, but let them stop someday. Groan as deeply as you wish, but let your groans stop someday. Govern your conduct so that both philosophers and brothers can approve of it. Teach yourself to take pleasure in thinking often about your brother. Speak of him constantly, and keep him always present in your memory. You cannot do this unless you make remembering him pleasant rather than sad. The mind naturally turns away from a subject it cannot consider without sadness. Think of his quiet, reserved nature, his ability in business, his diligence in handling it, and his faithfulness to his word. Tell others about all he said and did, and remind yourself of his words and actions. Think how good he was, and how great you hoped he might become. For what success could you not confidently have bet that such a brother would achieve?

I have thrown together these reflexions in the best way that I could, for my mind is dimmed and stupefied with the tedium of my long exile: if, therefore, you should find them unworthy of the consideration of a person of your intelligence, or unable to console you in your grief, remember how impossible it is for one who is full of his own sorrows to find time to minister to those of others, and how hard it is to express oneself in the Latin language, when all around one hears nothing but a rude foreign jargon, which even barbarians of the more civilised sort regard with disgust.

I have put these reflections together as best I could. The boredom of my long exile has dulled and clouded my mind. So you may find these thoughts unworthy of someone of your intelligence, or unable to comfort you in your grief. If so, remember how impossible it is for someone overwhelmed by his own sorrows to find time to ease another’s. Remember, too, how hard it is to express yourself in Latin when you hear nothing around you but crude foreign speech. Even the more civilized barbarians find that speech disgusting.