Seneca · a new plain-English translation from the Latin
Seneca to his dear Lucilius: greetings. I suffered a shipwreck before I ever boarded a ship. I won't tell you how it happened, so you don't think it belongs among the Stoic paradoxes - none of which is false, and none as strange as it seems at first sight, as I will prove to you whenever you like, or even if you don't like.
In the meantime this trip has taught me how many things we have that are superfluous, and how easily we could set them aside by our own judgment, since when necessity takes them away we do not even notice they are gone. With the fewest possible slaves - as many as one carriage could hold - and with nothing but what our own bodies could carry, my Maximus and I are now spending the happiest two days imaginable. A mattress lies on the ground, and I lie on the mattress. Of my two travelling-cloaks, one has become a groundsheet, the other a blanket. Nothing could be cut from our lunch: it was ready in no time at all, and never without dried figs, never without writing tablets. The figs serve as a side dish if I have bread, and as bread itself if I don't. Every day they make a New Year for me, which I turn into a lucky and happy one through good thoughts and greatness of soul - and the soul is never greater than when it has set aside everything that belongs to others, and made peace for itself by fearing nothing, and made itself rich by wanting nothing. The carriage I have been put into is a farm cart; the mules show they are alive by walking; the muleteer goes barefoot, and not because of the heat. I can hardly bring myself to admit that I am willing to have this carriage seen as mine: a perverse false modesty about what is right still lingers in me, and every time I run into some more elegant company on the road, I blush against my will, which proves that these things I approve of, that I praise, still have no fixed and unshakable place in me. A man who blushes at a shabby carriage will boast of an expensive one. I have made too little progress so far: I do not yet dare to display my frugality openly; even now I care what travelers think of me.
A voice ought to have been raised against the opinions of the whole human race: "You are mad, you are wrong, you are struck dumb with admiration for superfluous things, you value no one at his own worth. When it comes to a man's estate, you are the most careful accountants, working out the balance sheet for each person to whom you are about to lend either money or favors (for you nowadays enter these too on the expense side): he holds broad lands, but he owes a great deal; he has a beautiful house, but it was bought with someone else's money; no one will parade a finer household of slaves, but he cannot meet his debts; if he paid his creditors, nothing would be left to him. You ought to do the same in all other cases too, and shake out how much each man really has of his own." You think that man rich because his gold plate follows him even on the road, because he farms in every province, because a huge ledger of accounts is unrolled for him, because he owns as much land near the city as he would own, to everyone's envy, in the deserts of Apulia: say everything you like about him, and still he is poor. Why? Because he owes. "How much?" you ask. Everything - unless perhaps you think it makes a difference whether a man has borrowed from another man or from Fortune. What does it matter that his fattened mules are all the same color? What do those carved carriages matter?
steeds draped in purple and embroidered blankets,
golden collars hanging down over their chests,
champing under their teeth on tawny gold covered in gold.
None of that can make the owner any better, nor the mule either. Marcus Cato the Censor, whose birth was as much a boon to the republic as Scipio's - one waged war on our enemies, the other on our vices - used to ride a plow-horse, and with saddlebags loaded on it, so that he might carry useful things along with him. Oh, how I wish that one of those dandies today could meet him on the road - one of the rich men, with his runners and his Numidian outriders and a great cloud of dust raised ahead of him! This fellow would no doubt seem more refined and better attended than Marcus Cato - this fellow who, in the midst of all his dainty equipment, is at this very moment wondering whether to hire himself out to the sword or to the knife. Oh, what an ornament to the age it was that a general, a man honored with a triumph, a censor - and this above all the rest - that Cato, should be content with a single horse, and not even the whole of that; for part of his baggage, hanging down on either side, took up part of it too. So would you not prefer that one horse, groomed by Cato's own hand, to all your bloated ponies and Asturian cobs and ambling nags?
I see there will be no end to this subject unless I make one myself. So here I will fall silent about all this - things which, without a doubt, the man who first called them "impedimenta" foresaw would turn out to be exactly the burden they now are. Now I want to give you back a very few of our school's arguments concerning virtue, which we maintain is sufficient for a happy life.
"What is good makes men good (for even in music, what is good makes a musician); chance goods do not make men good; therefore they are not goods."
The Peripatetics answer this by saying that our first premise is false. "Not everything that is good," they say, "necessarily makes men good. In music there is something good, such as a flute or a string or some instrument fitted for the purpose of playing; yet none of these makes a musician." We will answer them: "you do not understand how we have posited what is good in music. We do not mean what equips a musician, but what makes one: you are talking about the tools of the art, not the art itself. But whatever is good within the art of music itself will indeed make a musician." I want to put this even more clearly. What is good in the art of music is spoken of in two senses: one by which the musician's performance is aided, another by which the art itself is aided. To the performance belong the instruments - flutes, organs, strings; these do not belong to the art itself. For a man is a craftsman even without them, though perhaps he cannot practice his craft. This is not equally twofold in a human being; for what is good for a person is the same as what is good for his life.
"What can happen to the most contemptible and disgraceful person is not a good; but wealth can happen to a pimp or a gladiator-trainer; therefore wealth is not a good."
"What you propose is false," they say, "for even in grammar and in the art of medicine or of navigation we see good things happen to the humblest of people." But these arts have not laid claim to greatness of soul, they do not rise up on high, nor do they scorn chance goods: virtue lifts a man up and sets him above what mortals hold dear; it neither craves nor dreads to excess either the things called goods or the things called evils. Chelidon, one of Cleopatra's soft favorites, owned a huge fortune. Recently Natalis, a man whose tongue was as filthy as it was shameless, in whose mouth respectable women were slandered, was heir to many and had many heirs. What then - did money make that man foul, or did he foul the money? Money falls upon certain men the way a coin falls into a sewer. Virtue stands above such things; it is valued at its own worth; it judges nothing good that comes falling in from whatever direction. Medicine and navigation do not forbid themselves or their practitioners admiration for such things; a man who is not good can still be a doctor, can still be a ship's captain, can still be a grammarian, just as well, by heaven, as he can be a cook. But the man to whom it falls to possess anything you like, you would not call anything you like: whatever a man possesses, such a man he is. A strongbox is worth as much as it holds - no, it actually becomes an addition to what it holds. Who sets a price on a full purse except what the sum of money stored in it determines? The same happens to the owners of great fortunes: they become additions and appendages to their wealth. Why, then, is the wise man great? Because he has a great soul. So it is true that what can happen to the most contemptible person is not a good. And so I will never call freedom from pain a good: the cicada has it, the flea has it. Nor will I call being at rest and free from trouble a good: what is more idle than a worm? Do you ask what makes a wise man? The same thing that makes a god. You must grant him something divine, heavenly, magnificent: not everything can be good, nor does it allow just any possessor.
See
what each region bears, and what each refuses:
here grain grows better, there the grapes flourish more happily,
tree-fruit elsewhere, and grasses grow green
unbidden. Do you not see how Tmolus sends saffron-scented perfumes,
India ivory, the soft Sabaeans their own incense,
but the naked Chalybians iron?
'A good does not come from an evil; but riches come from greed; therefore riches are not a good.' 'It is not true,' he says, 'that good is not born from evil; for money is born from temple-robbery and theft. So temple-robbery and theft are indeed evils, but only because they produce more evil than good: they yield profit, but profit that comes with fear, anxiety, and torments of mind and body alike.' Whoever says this must admit that temple-robbery, just as it is an evil because it produces much evil, is also in some measure a good, because it produces some good — and what could be more monstrous than that? Although, to be sure, we have thoroughly convinced ourselves that temple-robbery, theft, and adultery belong among the goods. How many men feel no blush at theft; how many boast of adultery! For petty sacrileges are punished; great ones are carried in triumphal processions. Add to this that if temple-robbery is in any respect a good at all, it will also be honorable and will be called a right action — for it is an action of ours — a conclusion no mortal mind can accept. Therefore goods cannot be born from evil. For if, as you say, temple-robbery is an evil for this one reason, that it brings much evil in its train, then remit its punishments, guarantee it impunity, and it will be a good through and through. And yet the greatest punishment of crimes lies within them. You are mistaken, I say, if you postpone their punishment to the executioner or the prison: they are punished the moment they are committed — no, while they are being committed. So good is not born from evil, any more than a fig from an olive tree: fruits answer to the seed; goods cannot degenerate. Just as the honorable is not born from the shameful, so neither is the good from the evil — for the honorable and the good are the same thing.
"Good does not come from evil; but wealth does come from greed; therefore wealth is not a good." "It is not true," they say, "that good does not arise from evil; for money arises from sacrilege and theft. And so sacrilege and theft are indeed an evil, but only because they produce more evils than goods; they do bring profit, but along with fear, anxiety, and torments both of mind and body." Whoever says this must also concede that sacrilege, just as it is an evil because it produces many evils, is also to some extent a good, because it produces some good. What could be more monstrous than this conclusion? And yet we have thoroughly convinced ourselves to count sacrilege, theft, and adultery among goods. How many feel no shame at theft, how many boast of adultery! Small sacrilege is punished, great sacrilege is carried in triumph. Add to this that sacrilege, if it is in any respect at all a good, will also be honorable and will be called a right action - which no mortal's thinking accepts. Therefore goods cannot arise from evil. For if, as you say, sacrilege is an evil for this one reason, that it brings much evil with it, then if you remit its punishments, if you guarantee its safety, it will be entirely a good. But in fact the greatest punishment for crimes lies within the crimes themselves. You are wrong, I say, if you postpone that punishment to the executioner or the prison: crimes are punished the moment they are committed - no, while they are being committed. So a good does not arise from an evil, any more than a fig from an olive tree: things born answer to their seed, and goods cannot degenerate. Just as the honorable does not arise from the shameful, so neither does the good arise from evil; for the honorable and the good are one and the same thing.
Some of our own school answer this as follows: "let us suppose money is a good no matter where it is taken from; it does not, however, follow that money comes from sacrilege just because it was taken from a sacrilege. Understand it this way: in the same jar there is both gold and a viper. If you take the gold out of the jar, you do not take it out because there is also a viper there; the jar does not give me gold, I say, because it holds a viper, but it gives gold even though it also holds a viper. In the same way, profit comes from sacrilege, not because sacrilege is shameful and criminal, but because it also happens to contain profit. Just as in that jar the evil is the viper, not the gold that lies beside the viper, so in sacrilege the evil is the crime, not the profit." I disagree with them, for the two cases are very different. There, I can take out the gold without the viper; here, I cannot make the profit without the sacrilege; that profit is not merely placed next to the crime, it is mixed into it.
'Your proposition,' he says, 'carries two senses. One is that while we are trying to gain riches we fall into many evils. But we also fall into many evils while trying to gain virtue: one man is shipwrecked while sailing abroad for the sake of study; another is taken captive. The other sense is this: that through which we fall into evils is not a good. From this proposition it will not follow that we fall into evils through riches or through pleasures; or else, if we do fall into many evils through riches, then riches are not merely not a good — they are an evil; whereas you claim only that they are not a good. Moreover,' he says, 'you concede that riches have some use: you count them among advantages. Yet by the same reasoning they will not even be an advantage, for through them many disadvantages come our way.' To this some people answer: 'You are mistaken to charge riches with those disadvantages. Riches harm no one: it is each man's own folly that hurts him, or another man's wickedness — just as a sword kills no one; it is the killer's weapon. Riches do not harm you merely because harm comes to you on account of riches.' Posidonius answers better, I think: he says riches are a cause of evils not because they themselves do anything, but because they goad men who will. There is one kind of cause, the efficient, which must do harm directly; another, the antecedent. Riches supply this antecedent cause: they puff up the mind, they breed arrogance, they attract envy, and they so unhinge the understanding that a reputation for money delights us even when it is going to hurt us. All goods, however, ought to be free of blame; they are pure, they do not corrupt the mind, they do not agitate it. They lift and enlarge the spirit, yes — but without swelling. Things that are good produce confidence; riches produce audacity. Things that are good give greatness of soul; riches give insolence — and insolence is nothing but a false semblance of greatness. 'On that reckoning,' he says, 'riches are actually an evil, not merely not a good.' They would be an evil if they did the harm themselves — if, as I said, they held the efficient cause. As it is, they hold the antecedent one, and one that does not merely goad the mind but drags it: they pour over us an appearance of good that looks like the real thing and convinces most people. Virtue too carries an antecedent cause — toward envy: many men are envied for their wisdom, many for their justice. But virtue does not have this cause from itself, nor is the appearance plausible; on the contrary, the image that virtue sets before men's minds is more like the truth — one that summons them to love and admiration.
"Your proposition," they say, "has two meanings: one, that while we try to attain wealth, we fall into many evils. But we fall into many evils while trying to attain virtue too: one man, sailing for the sake of study, has suffered shipwreck, another has been taken captive. The other meaning is this: that through which we fall into evils is not a good. On this proposition it will not follow that we fall into evils through wealth or through pleasures; or if we do fall into many evils through wealth, then wealth is not merely not a good, it is an evil - yet you yourselves say only that it is not a good. Besides," they say, "you concede that wealth has some usefulness: you count it among the advantages. But by the same reasoning it will not even be an advantage, since through it many disadvantages come upon us." To this some reply: "you are wrong to charge wealth with these disadvantages. Wealth harms no one: either a man's own folly harms him, or someone else's wickedness, just as a sword kills no one - it is the weapon of the killer. Wealth does not harm you simply because you are harmed on account of wealth." Posidonius, in my opinion, puts it better, when he says that wealth is a cause of evils - not because it does anything itself, but because it provokes people to do things. For one kind of cause is an efficient cause, which necessarily and directly does harm, and another is a preceding cause. Wealth has this preceding kind of cause: it puffs up souls, breeds arrogance, draws envy, and so alienates the mind that we come to delight even in a reputation for money that is bound to harm us. But all goods ought to be free of fault; they are pure, they do not corrupt souls, they do not disturb them; they do lift up and expand the soul, but without swelling it. What is good produces confidence, wealth produces recklessness; what is good gives greatness of soul, wealth gives insolence. And insolence is nothing but a false semblance of greatness. "In that case," they say, "wealth is even an evil, not merely not a good." It would be an evil if it did harm on its own, if, as I said, it had an efficient cause; as it is, it has only a preceding cause, and indeed one that not merely provokes souls but draws them in, since it casts before them a semblance of good that resembles the truth and is credible to most people. Virtue too has a preceding cause of envy; for many are envied on account of their wisdom, many on account of their justice. But this cause does not come from virtue itself, nor does it resemble the truth; on the contrary, a truer semblance is thrown before men's minds by virtue, one that calls them to love and admiration.
Posidonius says the argument should be framed this way: "What gives the soul neither greatness nor confidence nor security is not a good; but wealth and good health and things like them do none of these; therefore they are not goods." He presses this argument still further in this form: "What gives the soul neither greatness nor confidence nor security, but instead breeds insolence, swelling, and arrogance, is an evil; but we are driven into these states by chance goods; therefore they are not goods."
"By this reasoning," they say, "they will not even be advantages." The condition of advantages is different from that of goods: an advantage is that which has more use than trouble; a good must be pure and harmless from every angle. What is good is not what benefits more, but what benefits only. Besides, an advantage belongs also to animals, to imperfect men, and to fools. And so it can have some disadvantage mixed in with it, but it is still called an advantage, judged by the greater part of itself; a good belongs only to the wise man; it must be inviolate.
Keep a good spirit: only one knot remains for you, and it is a Herculean one: "good does not come from evils; but wealth comes from many poverties; therefore wealth is not a good." Our own school does not recognize this argument - the Peripatetics both invent it and untangle it. Posidonius says that this sophism, tossed around in every school of logic, is refuted by Antipater as follows: "poverty is not defined by possession, but by deprivation" (or, as the ancients said, by lack - the Greeks call it "kata steresin"); "it speaks not of what one has, but of what one does not have. And so out of many empty things nothing can be filled up: many things make wealth, not many lacks. You understand poverty," he says, "differently than you ought. For poverty is not what possesses few things, but what does not possess many things; so it is defined not by what one has, but by what one lacks."
I could express what I mean more easily if there were a Latin word for what the Greeks call anhyparxia - "non-existence." Antipater assigns this to poverty; I do not see what else poverty could be than the possession of little. We will look into this question - what is the real nature of wealth, what is the real nature of poverty - whenever I have plenty of leisure; but even then we will have to consider whether it is not more useful to soothe poverty and take the arrogance out of wealth than to quarrel over words, as if the matter itself had already been settled. Let us suppose we have been summoned to a public assembly: a law is being brought forward to abolish wealth. Are we going to persuade or dissuade people with arguments like these? Are we going to use them to make the Roman people long for and praise poverty - the foundation and cause of their empire - and fear their own wealth instead, so that they reflect that they found it among the conquered, that from it ambition and bribery and turmoil have burst into a city once most upright and disciplined, that the spoils of nations are displayed with too much extravagance, and that what one people has seized from all can just as easily be seized from that one people by all? It is more useful to urge this, and to storm the passions themselves, not merely to hem them in with fine distinctions. If we can, let us speak more forcefully; if not, let us at least speak more plainly. Farewell.