Moral Letters to Lucilius

​I have just returned from a ride, no less tired than if I had walked as far as I sat. For it is also a labor to be carried for a long time, and I suspect it is all the greater because it is contrary to nature, which gave us feet so that we might walk by ourselves, and eyes so that we might see by ourselves. Luxury has imposed weakness upon us, and what we have long been unwilling to do, we cease to be able to do.

​Yet it was necessary for me to shake up my body, so that if bile had settled in my throat, it might be dispersed, or if for some reason my breath itself was too thick, the tossing might thin it out, which I felt was beneficial to me. For this reason, I persevered in riding longer, as the shore itself invited me, which curves between Cumae and the villa of Servilius Vatia, and is shut in like a narrow path by the sea on one side and the lake on the other. For it was packed firm from a recent storm. On the other hand, as you know, frequent and violent waves level it, while a longer calm loosens it when the moisture, which binds the sands together, has departed.

​However, according to my habit, I began to look around to see if I could find anything there that might be of benefit to me, and I turned my eyes toward the villa which once belonged to Vatia. In this villa, that wealthy former praetor, known for nothing other than his leisure, grew old and was considered happy for this single reason. For as often as the friendship of Asinius Gallus, or as often as the hatred of Sejanus, and later his love, had ruined some—for it was equally dangerous to have offended him as to have loved him—people would exclaim: “O Vatia, you alone know how to live!”

​But he knew how to hide, not how to live. Yet there is a great difference between whether your life is leisurely or lazy. I never used to pass this villa while Vatia was alive without saying, “Vatia lies buried here.” But to such an extent, my Lucilius, is philosophy something sacred and venerable, that even if something is similar to it, it pleases by a false pretense. For the crowd thinks that a man who is leisurely, withdrawn, secure, self-content, and living for himself is “at leisure,” none of which can happen to anyone except the wise man.

​Does that anxious man know how to live for himself? Indeed, does he know how to live at all, which is the first thing? For he who flees from affairs and men, whom the misfortune of his desires has banished, who could not bear to see others more successful, who has hidden out of fear like a timid and sluggish animal, does not live for himself, but—what is most shameful—for his belly, sleep, and lust. A man does not immediately live for himself just because he lives for no one. Yet consistency and perseverance in one’s purpose are so great a thing that even persistent inertia possesses a certain authority.

​About the villa itself, I can write nothing certain to you. For I know only its front and exposed parts, which it shows even to passers-by. There are two hand-made caves of great workmanship, equal to any spacious atrium, one of which does not receive the sun, while the other keeps it until sunset. A stream, drawn from both the sea and the Acherusian lake, divides a plantation of plane trees in the middle like a canal, sufficient for feeding fish even if it is constantly drained. But when the sea is open, that supply is spared; when a storm has given holidays to the fishermen, a hand is stretched out to what is prepared. However, this is most convenient about the villa, that it has Baiae across the wall; it lacks its inconveniences and enjoys its pleasures.

​I myself know these praises of it; I believe it is a place for the whole year. For it faces the west wind and receives it so fully that it denies it to Baiae. Vatia seems to have chosen this place not foolishly, in which to spend his sluggish and already senile leisure.

​But a place does not contribute much to peace of mind; it is the mind that commends everything to itself. I myself have seen gloomy people in a cheerful and pleasant villa, and I have seen those who look busy in the midst of complete solitude. Therefore, there is no reason for you to think that you are not well-composed because you are not in Campania. But why are you not there? Send your thoughts all the way here.

​It is permitted to converse with absent friends, and indeed as often as you wish, and for as long as you wish. We enjoy this pleasure, which is the greatest, more while we are away. For presence makes us fastidious, and because we sometimes talk, walk, and sit together, when we are parted, we think nothing of those whom we have just seen.

​And therefore we ought to bear absence with a calm mind, because no one is not far away even from those who are present. Place here first the separate nights, then the diverse occupations of each, then secret studies, and suburban excursions; you will see that travel does not snatch much away from us.

​A friend must be possessed by the mind; and the mind is never absent. It sees whomsoever it wishes every day. Therefore, study with me, dine with me, walk with me. We would live in a narrow space if anything were closed to our thoughts. I see you, my Lucilius; I hear you at this very moment. I am so much with you that I wonder whether I should begin to write you not letters, but short notes. FAREWELL.