Seneca · a new plain-English translation from the Latin
[1] Those seem to me mistaken who think that men faithfully devoted to philosophy are stubborn and rebellious, contemptuous of magistrates or kings or whoever administers public affairs. On the contrary, no one is more grateful toward them, and not without reason; for to no one do they grant more than to those who are allowed to enjoy peaceful leisure. [2] And so those for whom public security contributes a great deal toward their purpose of living well cannot help but honor the author of this good as a parent - much more so, indeed, than those restless people caught up in the middle of things, who owe rulers a great deal but also charge them with a great deal, people whom no generosity can ever satisfy so fully that it exhausts their desires, which grow as they are fed. Whoever thinks about receiving more has already forgotten what he's received, and greed has no worse fault than that it is ungrateful. [3] Add to this that none of those engaged in politics looks at how many he outranks, but at those by whom he is outranked; and it's not so pleasant for them to see many below them as it is grievous to see anyone above. Every form of ambition has this flaw: it never looks back. Nor is ambition alone unstable - so is every kind of desire, because it always starts from the finish line. [4] But that sincere and pure man, who has left behind the senate house and the forum and all administration of public affairs in order to withdraw to greater things, cherishes those through whom he is able to do this safely, and he alone renders them a testimony that asks for nothing in return, and owes them a great debt of which they are unaware. Just as he venerates and looks up to his teachers, by whose kindness he finds a way out of pathless places, so too he honors those under whose protection he practices his good arts.
[5] 'But a king protects others too, by his own strength.' Who denies it? But just as a man who has carried more valuable cargo across that same sea, enjoying the same calm, judges that he owes more to Neptune than others do - a vow is paid more eagerly by the merchant than by the passenger, and among the merchants themselves more lavishly by the one who carried perfumes and purple cloth and goods weighed out in gold than by the one who had loaded up nothing but the cheapest stuff, fit only for ballast - so too the benefit of this peace, which touches everyone, reaches more deeply into those who make good use of it. [6] For there are many among these toga-wearing citizens for whom peace is more burdensome than war: do you think those who spend it on drunkenness or lust or other vices - vices that even war would be needed to break up - owe as much for peace as anyone else? Unless perhaps you think it so unfair of the sage that he should judge he owes nothing individually for the common good. I owe a very great deal to the sun and moon, and yet they don't rise for me alone; I am bound privately to the god who tempers the year and rules it, even though nothing has been arranged specially in my honor. [7] The foolish greed of mortals distinguishes possession from ownership and believes that nothing that is public can be its own; but the sage judges nothing more his own than that in which he shares in common with the human race. For these things wouldn't be common at all unless some portion of them belonged to each individual; even the smallest share in something common makes one a partner in it.
[8] Add to this that great and true goods are not divided up so that only a small portion falls to each person: the whole reaches every single one. From a public handout people carry off only as much as was promised per head; a public feast and the meat distributed and whatever else is taken by hand is split into shares; but these indivisible goods, peace and liberty, belong just as wholly to everyone as they do to each individual. [9] And so he reflects on the man through whom he comes to enjoy the use and benefit of these things, through whom public necessity does not call him to arms, nor to standing watches, nor to guarding the walls, nor to the manifold tribute of war, and he gives thanks to his helmsman. This is what philosophy teaches above all: to owe benefits well, and to repay them well; and sometimes the very acknowledgment is itself the repayment. [10] He will confess, then, that he owes a great deal to the one through whose administration and foresight he comes to enjoy a rich leisure and control over his own time and an untroubled quiet, free from public business.
O Meliboeus, a god has granted us this leisure;
for he will always be a god to me.
[11] If even that other leisure owes a great debt to its own author, whose greatest gift is this -
he allowed my cattle to wander, as you see, and allowed me myself
to play what I wished on my rustic pipe -
how much do we value this leisure, which is spent among the gods, which makes us gods?
[12] That's how I put it, Lucilius, and I'm calling you to heaven by a shortcut. Sextius used to say that Jupiter can do no more than a good man. Jupiter has more things to grant to men, but between two good men the one who is wealthier is not the better one - any more than, between two men equally skilled at handling the tiller, you'd call the one with the bigger and more splendid ship the better sailor. [13] In what does Jupiter surpass a good man? He is good for a longer time. The sage rates himself no less because his virtues are confined within a shorter span. Just as, of two sages, the one who died older is not happier than the one whose virtue was bounded within fewer years, so god does not surpass the sage in happiness, even if he surpasses him in age; virtue is not greater for being longer. [14] Jupiter has everything, but of course he's handed it over to others to hold; to himself belongs this one use of it, that it is the reason for everyone else's use of things. The sage looks upon everything held by others, and scorns it, with a mind just as untroubled as Jupiter's - and he looks up to himself all the more for this, that Jupiter cannot make use of these things, while the sage does not wish to. [15] So let's trust Sextius, who points out the most beautiful path and cries out, 'this way -
this way, following frugality; this way, following self-control; this way, following courage.' The gods are not disdainful, not envious; they let you in, and reach out a hand to those climbing up. [16] Are you surprised that a man goes to the gods? God comes to men - or rather, closer still, he comes into men: no mind is good without god. Divine seeds are scattered through human bodies, and if a good farmer receives them, they spring up resembling their origin and rise equal to the things from which they arose; if a bad one, they die no differently than barren, marshy ground, and thereafter produce weeds instead of crops. Farewell.