Pliny the Younger
Pliny to Pompeia Celerina (his mother-in-law) (Ep. 1.4)
What a plethora of resources you have at your villas in Ocriculum, Narnia, Carsulanus,
Perusia – even a bath house at Narnia! My earlier brief letter suffices: you don’t need to
mail your own. In fact my villas don’t seem to be mine as much as yours seem to belong
to me! There is one difference: your slaves take more earnest and attentive care of me
than my own do! Maybe you’ll experience the same whenever you take a detour to stay
at our place. And I hope you’ll do so for two reasons: first, so that I may reciprocate
your delightful hospitality; and, second, so that one day your visit will wake up my
slaves – since they receive me rather nonchalantly, almost to the point of neglect. Over
time, familiarity makes slaves’ fear of gentle masters subside. New faces and
circumstances, however, revive them, since they strive to win approval through service
to others more than through service to their own master. Goodbye.
Pliny to Octavius Rufus (suffect consul in 80 CE) (Ep. 1.7) September 97 CE
Look what a pedestal you’ve set me on: you’ve given me the same power and authority
as Homer gives Jupiter the best and greatest when he writes: “Part the father gave him
and part he refused.” For I can likewise respond to your request with both a nod of
assent and a shake of my head. It’s true: just as it’s divinely right for me to refuse
defending the Baetici against one man, especially when you’re making the request, it is
also contrary to my loyalty and constancy – two things you love about me – to act
against a whole province, and one that I’m deeply connected to through many various
services, efforts, and even risks. Therefore I’ll take the middle road: out of the two
choices you offer I’ll select the one that satisfies not only your liking, but also your good
judgment. I must consider not so much what you would prefer in the present
circumstances, honest man that you are, but what you will approve of forever and ever.
I plan to be back at Rome around mid-October, when I will repeat these same
sentiments to Gallus in person, with your support. Nonetheless, for now you can convey
my intent: “and he bowed his dark brow in assent.” Why shouldn’t I quote Homeric
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verses to you whenever I can? Besides, I have to: you refuse to allow me to quote you –
something I’m burning to do, and with such great desire that I believe only this way
could you bribe me to appear in court against the Baetici. Oh, I nearly passed over the
most important thing: I have received your fantastic dates, which now have to compete
with the figs and mushrooms! Goodbye.
Pliny to Pompeius Saturninus (Ep. 1.8) 96 CE
[Pliny writes to Pompeius about the composition and potential publication of a speech
he gave at Comum. The speech commemorated the opening of a public library that
Pliny donated to his hometown; in addition, he provided a fund for the education of the
local children. Pliny is concerned that a published version of the speech may be seen to
be too self-laudatory.]
Your letter asking that I mail you one of my compositions arrived at just the right time:
I was just about to do this very thing! So you have spurred on a willing horse, so now I
don’t have to feel embarrassed about making the request and you don’t have any excuse
for refusing it! It wouldn’t be appropriate to hesitate taking you up on your offer, and
you can’t feel burdened undertaking something you requested yourself. Nevertheless,
don’t expect anything new from a slacker like me. So, please take some time again to
review the speech I gave my fellow townsmen at Comum for the new library’s ribboncutting ceremony. Of course, I know that you’ve already provided some comments, but
just general ones. Now I’m asking not just that you focus on the whole, but also that
you go over the details with your usual fine-toothed comb. Then, after revisions, we can
decide whether to publish it or not; in fact the very process of editing may actually help
me decide one way or the other: if the speech is unsuitable for publication, that will
become clear in the process of seriously reconsidering it; otherwise a thorough editing
will confirm that it’s suitable.
But my reasons for vacillating are related not so much to the actual composition as
to the content, for it borders on making me seem rather bigheaded and pompous. There
is a burden on my restraint no matter whether my pen is curbed or given free reign,
because I’m obliged to describe both my own philanthropic munificence and that of my
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relatives. The situation is delicate and dicey, although necessity imposes it. Indeed, even
if the topic is about others, only rarely is acclamation favorably received; so ensuring
that a speech in which the speaker extols himself or his relatives does not prove irksome
is even more of a challenge. We get jealous over the whole notion of reputation in and
of itself, but even more jealous over fame that is publicly proclaimed. It’s only the good
deeds relegated to silence and obscurity that we least slander and distort. For this
reason I’m usually asking myself whether I should have composed any speech, whatever
it is, just for myself or for others, seeing that most things which are necessary for
starting something retain neither their usefulness nor their pleasantness once they are
completed. Let me give an example: it was imperious that I write out the reasons for my
munificence in commissioning the library. First, the process led me to considering
virtuous sentiments; then, through longer consideration, it led me to discerning their
excellence; finally, it helped me avoid the regret that goes hand in hand with
spontaneous, lavish gift-giving. From this point on, I more or less began the practice of
denouncing my wealth. For, although nature prompts all people to safeguard their
money, in my case the contrary happened: my love for generosity (pondered carefully
and at length) released me from the chains of greed. Thus my philanthropic gift would
garner all the more praise as it wasn’t some rash impulse that led me to give, but a
deliberate decision.
To these reasons I added the fact that I wasn’t funding public games or a
gladiatorial show, but a yearly donation for the maintenance of free-born children.
Pleasures targeting the eye and ear don’t need a recommendation – in fact it’s better to
restrain than promote them in a speech. Yet, in order to induce someone to willingly
undertake the burden and weariness involved in child-rearing, it’s not just material
rewards, but also carefully phrased urging that must be employed. If doctors use
honeyed words to encourage a healthy diet without sweets, then isn’t it even more
suitable that someone looking out for the common good utilize an attractive speaking
style to encourage adoption of a service that, although very practical, may not be
popularly appealing? In particular, I had to make a concerted effort to ensure that the
childless approved of a service that would benefit parents specifically, and that those
who were childless waited patiently and endeavored to earn a distinction that would be
an honor for those who did have children.
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At the time, as I wished the intent and outcome of my gift to be publicized, I was
looking to the general interest and not to my own self-praise. But now I am concerned
that, by considering publication, I might appear to be motivated by ideas of selfpromotion rather than by altruistic philanthropy. I remind myself, too, that a “nobler
heart” will preserve the rewards of virtue not within the confines of public opinion, but
within the confines of a good conscience. Fame should be a reward for noble deeds, not
an inducement to perform them. And if, for some reason, fame doesn’t follow, the
merited deeds are no less worthy of approval when they don’t achieve public
acclamation. People who embellish their good deeds with words risk being seen not as
publicizing their actions as a result of doing them, but rather as having done them just
so they can publicize them. In that case, an act deserving to be recognized in someone
else’s literary work becomes inconsequential when it is the doer who himself describes
it.
So, when people can’t ruin a doer’s good deed, they attack the doer’s vanity. If you
keep quiet about a deed, then people think you’re hiding some fault; if you do a good
deed, then you’re criticized for not keeping it quiet. My specific situation also presented
unique difficulties. For I gave this particular speech not to the general public, but to the
town councilors, and thus it was not in the open air, but within the Senate house. So I’m
afraid it would be greatly inconsistent to try to win the crowd’s applause and approval
in a written publication when I deliberately avoided winning its favor during the original
oral presentation. As long as I kept myself secluded from the general public (which I
was trying to benefit) within the doors and walls of the Senate house, I could avoid any
appearance of courting popularity; now, however, it looks like I’m trying to win them
over by flagrant display, even though my philanthropic gift benefits them only by
presenting an example of model behavior. So, here are the reasons for my hesitation.
Please give me your advice, which always provides the input I need for making a
decision. Goodbye.
Pliny to Attius Clementius (Ep. 1.10)
[Pliny describes his interaction with the philosopher Euphrates.]
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If our city has ever flourished through the liberal arts, it’s never done so more than now.
There are many obvious examples, but let one suffice: Euphrates the philosopher. When
I was a young man serving in the military in Syria, I got to know him well, spending
time at his house and working to earn his friendship – although this really wasn’t
necessary, since he was approachable and affable, full of the kindness he advocates in his
lectures. If only I had fulfilled the hopes he had for me back then to the same degree to
which he has multiplied his own numerous virtues! Or perhaps I now admire his virtues
more because I understand them better. But, even now, I still don’t understand them
completely: just as you have to be a master to fully appraise a painter, sculptor or
modeler, so, too, only a wise man can see inside the heart and mind of a fellow wise man.
Nonetheless, insofar as I can judge, Euphrates’ many qualities radiate outwards so
extensively that they affect even people of average education and steer them in his
direction. He argues with nuance, seriousness, and elegance and often recreates the
sublimity and sweeping style of Plato. His lectures are abundant, varied, and above all
charming: he’s able to guide and incite to action even those who resist. What is more, he
is tall and handsome, with flowing hair and a long white beard. Although some might
consider these characteristics incidental and trivial, in fact they inspire the greatest
respect for him. In terms of his dress and lifestyle, you’ll find nothing uncouth, no
gloom and doom, but a type of gravitas from which, when you meet him, you’ll feel
great respect, not dread. He values the sanctity of life, which he considers supreme, and
civility, which he regards as equally important. He reproaches vices, not men; when it
comes to wrongdoers he doesn’t chastise but offers words of improvement. You’d follow
his advice as he ponders his words attentively, and you’d want to continue listening
even when he has already convinced you. Moreover, he has three children, two of them
sons, whom he has educated with the greatest diligence. His father-in-law, Pompeius
Iulianus, is esteemed and distinguished in every aspect of his life, and especially in this:
being himself a leading citizen in his province, he chose for a son-in-law, out of
countless excellent options, a man who was at the front in wisdom, not in distinguished
political positions.
But why do I go on an on about a man whose company I’m not free to enjoy? Is it
so that I may feel even more aggravated that I don’t have this freedom? I’m stretched
thin with all my obligations: they’re important, but a real burden. I sit in front of the
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tribunal, I sign petitions, I settle accounts, I write plenty of letters, albeit non-literary
ones. I’m always complaining – well, whenever I get the chance to complain – to
Euphrates about all these tasks. He consoles me and even asserts that my active role in
civic life, my knowledge of how to make judgments and my promoting and exercising
justice – all the things that, philosophers instruct, have a useful practicality – also hold an
important place in the study of philosophy, in fact they are the most virtuous part of it.
Nevertheless, he can’t persuade me of one specific thing: that completing all these duties
is better than spending entire days listening and learning from him. All the more, then,
I urge you; you’ve got the time: next time you come to the city (and you should come
more quickly for this very reason) allow him to polish you up and make you shine.
Unlike many, I for one don’t begrudge others the benefits I myself can’t enjoy. Rather I
feel a certain satisfaction and pleasure if I see the pleasures I am denied abundantly left
for my friends to enjoy.
Pliny to Cornelius Titianus (Ep. 1.17)
There are still people who respect loyalty and duty and continue to care about their
friends even after the latter have passed away. Titinius Capito obtained permission from
our emperor to erect a statue of Lucius Silanus in the forum. Using one’s connection
with the emperor for this purpose deserves admiration and great praise, as does testing
out your influence on other people. It’s entirely like Capito to do this, since he makes a
habit of showing his respect for distinguished individuals. It’s remarkable, the
veneration and attention he gives to the funeral busts of the Brutus, Cassius and Cato
families, which, in the absence of any other permissible place, he hung up in his house.
The same Capito embellishes the life of each of these eminent persons with his excellent
poetry. It’s no secret that someone who extols others’ virtues possesses an abundance of
his/her own. Capito has restored Silanus’ due honor, and in securing his immortality
has likewise assured his own; for just as much honor and distinction go to the man who
erects a statue in the Roman forum as to the man whom the statue celebrates.
Pliny to Voconius Romanus (Ep. 2.1)
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After quite a few years the Romans have once again feasted their eyes on a spectacular
and especially memorable event: the public funeral of Verginius Rufus, a highly
esteemed, exceptionally brilliant citizen, who is also a fortunate one. He outlived his
moment of glory by 30 years, and thus during his own lifetime got to read poems and
histories written about him. He held the consulship three times – the highest rung a
private citizen can climb, since he refused the principacy itself. He evaded emperors who
were suspicious, even envious, of his virtues and survived long enough to know a safe,
incredibly honest and friendly one; it’s as if he had been saved for this very honor of
having a public funeral.
He lived 83 years in the deepest serenity and reverence. He had a solid, strong
health, except that his hands had a habit of shaking, although this wasn’t painful. Only
death’s approach was difficult and drawn out; but in this, too, he can be praised. For,
when he was rehearsing his speech of thanksgiving for the emperor’s consulship, he
accepted, by chance, a rather large book. He was an old man and, while he was standing
up, it slipped from his hands because of its weight. Leaning down to pick it up, he
slipped on the smooth polished marble floor and fell down. He broke his leg, which was
then poorly set and, with age working against him, it refused to fuse back together.
The funeral rites of this man have brought great distinction to our emperor, to our
era, and even to the forum and its speakers. Consul Cornelius Tacitus delivered the
funeral oration; this was the finishing touch to Rufus’ good fortune, as Tacitus is an
exceptionally eloquent orator. So he has died in ripe old age and rich in distinctions,
even the ones he refused. We must miss him and look to him as an example of a bygone
age – I in particular, since, much as I admired him in the public sphere, I really loved
him on a personal level. In the first place, we both came from the same region and
neighboring towns, and even our farms and properties shared borders. Second, he was
legally designated my guardian and he adored me like his own son. For example, when I
was a candidate for office, he gave me his vote; similarly, he came out of retirement and
ran to my side when I was beginning new offices, even though long ago he had
renounced public duties of this sort. Another example: on the day priests customarily
nominate those they believe most worthy of a priesthood, he used to always recommend
me. Even during his most recent illness, he was intent on not being appointed in the
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Commission of Five, which is charged, by senatorial decree, with reducing public
expenditure; so he chose me – notwithstanding my youth – to make his excuses. He had
so many other available friends of his age and consular rank who could have done this,
but he told me: “Even if I had had my own son, I would still have entrusted you with
this responsibility.”
For these reasons I need your comfort while I weep his all too premature death,
that is, if it is even appropriate to grieve or to utter the word “death,” when it is a great
man’s corporeal body that has come to an end, not his “life.” He lives and he will always
live, and he will continue on in our memories and on our lips, even after he has vanished
from our eyes. I want to write to you about many other things, but my whole mind is
entirely focused on this one thought: Verginius. I think about Verginius, I see him, and
in these empty but oh-so-real visions I hear him, speak to him, hold him; it’s possible
there are some citizens right now who match his talents, and there will be others; but no
one comes close to his fame.
Pliny to Caecilius Macrinus (Ep. 2.7)
Yesterday, at the emperor’s request, the Senate decreed a triumphal statue to Vesticius
Spurinna; unlike others, who have never stood in the battle line or even set eyes on a
camp or heard the sound of the battle horn (except at the games), Spurinna is one of
those who have in fact attained such an honor through their own sweat and blood,
through their own feats. He put the king of the Bructeri on the throne through force of
arms and terrorized into submission an extremely wild people by just mentioning the
possibility of war – in itself a most impressive type of victory. This statue was the
reward granted to Spurinna for his bravery. To assuage his grief, the honor of a statue
was also conferred to his son, Cottius, who died while Spurinna was abroad. Such an
honor is rare for a young man, but his father surely deserved it, and there needed to be
some remedy to soothe so painful a wound. Besides, Cottius himself had already proved
himself to be such a model of brilliance that his life, albeit brief and cut too short,
deserved to be prolonged ad infinitum. His integrity, dignity, and prestige were
impressive enough to rival those of his elders, with whom he now competes in
distinction. In my opinion, this statue not only served to immortalize a son and assuage
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his father’s grief, but also to provide an example. Notable rewards like this, when
established for young men who deserve them, lead other young men to honorable
pursuits; the pleasure that derives from having sons who will outlive their fathers – and
the glorious consolation prize if they don’t – will spur on leading men to produce and
raise children.
For these reasons I rejoice at the statue for Cottius on a personal level, and no less
on behalf of the greater public. I adored that accomplished young man as profoundly as
I now miss him. Thus it will be a pleasure to gaze upon his likeness from time to time,
to turn around and stare at it, to stop and stand beneath it and stroll past. If the funeral
masks of our ancestors on our walls at home alleviate our grief, the realistic statues
standing in a crowded public place do so all the more. Not only do such statues mirror
the likeness and face of those they commemorate, but they also reflect their distinction
and glory.
Pliny to Calvina (Ep. 2.4)
If your father had owed money to several people or to anyone other than me, perhaps
you would have hesitated to accept an inheritance that would be burdensome even for a
man. Since I am duty-bound by our family connection, I’d like to step up as the sole
creditor, paying off all those lenders – who were not exactly irksome, but rather
particularly “intent” on recovering their money. Also, since I had contributed 100,000
sesterces to your marriage dowry while your father was still alive – and this was on top
the amount your father provided (which to all intents and purposes was from me, since
it came from the amount I had loaned him) – you have a clear pledge of my good
intentions. Having this reassurance, you should secure the continuation of your father’s
good name and honor. To this end, let me offer further encouragement not just with
words, but with actions too: whatever debt your father still owes me, I’ll make
arrangements to ensure it counts as repaid.
Rest assured that this gift will not empty my pocket. It’s true, my assets overall are
modest: it is expensive to maintain my position in society and, depending on the
seasonal harvest of my small fields, my income is either lean or unpredictable. But
whatever I’m short of in revenue I compensate through thriftiness, the “spring” from
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where my stream of generosity flows. Nevertheless, I must monitor the floodgates, so to
speak, lest this source dry up after gushing forward too effusively. But I’ll hold back
with others; for you, I’ll fully reckon the account, even if it exceeds the proper amount.
Pliny to Lupercus (Ep. 2.5)
The speech you’ve repeatedly requested and I’ve often promised to send is in the mail.
It’s not the whole speech, since it still requires revisions in part. Meanwhile, I thought it
appropriate to get your opinion on the sections that are complete. Please keep in mind
your author: I have never until now handled a topic that has demanded so much care.
That’s because in other speeches it’s only been my accuracy and my conscientiousness
that were subjected to the audience’s judgment, but this time even my patriotism comes
into play. Therefore the work expanded and, while I gladly write to extol my hometown
and magnify its prominence, it was just as important that I look after its defense and
enhance its fame. Nevertheless, cut out what you think is appropriate. Whenever I
consider my readers’ likes and dislikes, I understand that the only way to win their
approval is to keep the work at a reasonable length. Still, while I ask you to be rigorous,
I’m also demanding the exact opposite, namely that you be gentler with other passages.
Special consideration should be given to younger audiences, particularly if the subject
allows it: there’s nothing wrong, for example, with including topographical descriptions
(fairly frequent in this work), written not only in prose, as we find in histories, but even
in an almost poetical style. But if anyone thinks I’ve dealt with the topic more lighthandedly than the austerity of oratory demands, the remaining sections ought to satisfy
this critic’s “severity,” as I would call it. To be sure, I have earnestly tried to keep in
mind the diversity of my audience by incorporating different rhetorical styles; and
though I worry that personal preferences mean that some readers won’t like certain
parts, this variety will likely make the speech as a whole appealing to every reader. Take
dinner parties, for example: even when individually we might turn down a few dishes,
everyone commends the meal overall, and the foods that weren’t our favorites don’t
lower our esteem for those that were.
And please don’t take this to mean that I think I’ve achieved my goal, but rather
that I have attempted to do so; hopefully this won’t have been for nothing, as long as
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you critique these portions and the ones that will soon follow. You may say that you
can’t do this effectively before you’re familiar with the entire speech: fair enough.
Nonetheless, for now, make yourself intimately familiar with this portion and you can
correct certain passages in it without seeing the whole speech. In other words, if you
were to study, say, just a statue’s head or limb, you certainly couldn’t discern the quality
of its proportions or unity when the rest of the body was missing, but you could
determine the quality of the piece in and of itself. And there’s no other reason why some
chapters of a work can’t be circulated as separate entities, since they’re considered
perfectly complete even when extracted from their original context.
It’s been wonderful to talk to you, but I’ve gone on far too long. Let me end now
before this letter exceeds the appropriate cutoff point I give even for a speech!
Pliny to Apollinaris (Ep. 2.9)
I’m quite anxious and on edge because my friend Sextus Erucius is standing for office.
I’m beset with worry, and my unease is not so much for myself as it is for my “second
self.” My honor, my good name, my worth – I’m risking them all: I’m the one who
induced our emperor to raise Sextus to the rank of senator and award him a
quaestorship. I’m also the one responsible for nominating him in his current bid for the
tribuneship and, unless he wins the vote in the Senate, I’m worried that it will look like
I’ve misled the emperor. The onus is on me to ensure that everyone else esteems Sextus
just as the emperor does through my guidance.
If this weren’t enough of a reason for supporting a man so upstanding, dignified,
and accomplished, who deserves the highest praise in every regard, just like his other
family members, here’s another: his father is Erucius Clarus, a virtuous, eloquent man
who possesses the virtues of the good old days and an experienced attorney who defends
his clients in the courts with the highest degree of loyalty, perseverance, and scruple.
And I don’t know anyone more genuine, more decent, more forthright or honest than
Sextus’ uncle, Gaius Septicius.
In vying for my affection they all esteem me equally, and now in this one respect I
can repay them. Thus I am canvassing for votes among all my friends, entreating them
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to lend their support, making the rounds, visiting them at home and at public places,
and testing out the extent of my influence and esteem through entreaties. As for you,
I’m sincerely hoping you think it worthwhile to help shoulder some of my burden. In
exchange, I’ll return the favor whenever you ask, and I’ll do so even if you don’t. People
regard you highly and respect you. Just say the word and there will be no lack of people
willing to do what you ask.
Pliny to Priscus (Ep. 2.13)
I know you’d welcome an opportunity to do me a favor and there’s no one else to whom
I’d rather be indebted. So, for two reasons, I’ve chosen you to consider fulfilling a
request particularly important to me. Your longstanding command of a sizeable army
and the abundant opportunities this affords allow you to perform acts of kindness for
your friends. Consider my friends – I don’t have so many. Maybe you wish I had more,
but one or two suffices for my modesty. There’s one friend in particular I draw your
attention to: Voconius Romanus. His father is a distinguished member of the equestrian
class, and even more distinguished is his stepfather, who is in fact more like a second
father, since he has earned the title for his paternal devotion. His mother comes from a
notable family. Voconius himself recently held a priesthood in Hither Spain, a province,
as you well know, considered quite significant. I have thoroughly loved him as my
cherished friend ever since we both were finishing our advanced studies; in the city as in
the country he was my constant companion, and it was with him that I shared both
serious and lighthearted matters.
Where can you find a more loyal friend, a more delightful confidant? The way he
speaks in conversation is exceptionally captivating, and the same goes for his voice and
his expressions. Moreover, when it comes to natural intelligence, his is superior and
astute and, thanks to his training, elegantly and dexterously displayed through
courtroom speeches. He even writes epistles – you’d think the Muses themselves speak
Latin! I really adore him, and he’s equally fond of me. From the time we were young
men I’ve earnestly devoted myself to helping him (as much as my age could allow) and
recently, at my request, our gracious emperor granted him the privileges awarded to
parents with three children. Although he bestows this honor sparingly and only after
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careful selection, in this case the emperor fulfilled my request as if he himself had handpicked Voconius for the honor. There’s no better way for me to enrich these favors than
by securing additional ones, and this is certainly because his graciousness in receiving
these benefits reveals how much he deserves subsequent ones.
So now I’ve given you a sense of who he is and how much I commend and esteem
him, and I ask that you provide for him as you see fit, in accordance with your
disposition and standing. Most important of all: embrace him as a friend. You might
secure for him the highest office you can, but nothing compares to offering him your
friendship. I have briefly sketched his interests and nature, in short, his whole life,
specifically to illustrate that he warrants your friendship – and a profound one at that. I
would protract my appeal, but I know you dislike letters that go on and on with their
request and it looks like I’ve already done that in this letter. But one can ensure a
successful request only by presenting the reasons for asking.
Pliny to Caninius Rufus (Ep. 3.7)
[Pliny expresses sadness upon hearing the news that Silius Italicus has committed
suicide. The event causes him to consider the fragility of life.]
I just heard the news that Silius Italicus has starved himself to death in his Naples
home. Illness was the reason: he had an incurable tumor, and the accompanying
exhaustion made him irrevocably resolved to take his own life. Up to his final day he
was happy and fortunate, except for the fact that he had lost the youngest of his two
sons; but he leaves behind the eldest (and more talented), who is at the height of his
career and is even of consular rank. Silius had damaged his reputation under Nero’s rule
– he was said to have willingly played the role of an informer – but in his friendship
with Vitellius he conducted himself wisely and kindly, reclaimed his fame as a governor
of Asia, and erased the stain of previous activities through an admirable retirement. He
achieved a place among the leading citizens without employing force or inciting envy.
People greeted him regularly and sought him out; he could often be found lying on his
small couch in a cozy room, and, whenever he took a break from writing, he’d pass the
day in most learned conversations with the kind of visitor who didn’t care about his
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rank or money. He tended to compose poetry with more diligence than genius and gave
frequent public readings, soliciting feedback from his audience.
Most recently, in his final years, he retired from the city and remained in Campania.
Not even the advent of our new emperor could induce him to come back to Rome: this is
a huge compliment to Caesar, who permitted such a liberty, and a great mark of honor
for Silius, who dared to take advantage of his freedom. He was a “lover of all things
stunning,” so much so that he was criticized for being a bit too much of a “shopaholic.”
He owned many villas in the area but ignored the older ones in favor of the newest,
which he especially loved. All the villas contained a wealth of books, statues, and
portraits, and for him they weren’t just possessions but objects of veneration. This is
especially the case for Virgil, whose birthday he celebrated more piously than his own,
especially at Naples, where he frequently visited Virgil’s tomb as if it were hallowed
ground. In this peace and tranquility he lived 75 years, his body weak more than
actually sick. He was the last one to be made consul under Nero and, out of all of the
consuls Nero had appointed, he was the last to die. This, too, was notable: as the last of
the Neronian consuls to die, Silius was consul when Nero himself passed away.
All this elicits a sense of compassion for human fragility. What is so short-lived, so
fleeting as the life of a man, even the longest? Doesn’t it seem like just yesterday that
Nero was around? Now, no one who held a consulship during Nero’s reign is still alive.
Yet why am I so astonished about this? Recently Lucius Piso, the father of that Piso
who had been put to death in Africa by Valerius Festus (such an abominable crime),
used to say that he couldn’t point out even one single person in the Senate whom he had
questioned when he himself had been consul. Even in such a great mass of people, the
boundaries of life are so narrowly confined that we should not only forgive, but even
praise King Xerxes’ famous tears. They say that when he was reviewing his huge army
he wept, realizing that death was so swiftly imminent for so many of his soldiers.
All the more reason, then, that we prolong our time on this earth, however fleeting
and mortal – if not through deeds (for these opportunities are beyond our control), then
certainly through literary production. Insofar as we are denied a long life, let us leave
behind something that serves as a record of our having lived. I know that you don’t
need any push; still, affection for you triggers me to “spur on a willing horse,” so to
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speak, just as you do for me. “Competition is good,” particularly when friends take turns
encouraging each other and whet each other’s appetite for immortality.
Pliny to Arrius Antoninus (Ep. 4.3)
The fact that you have twice served as a consul, like men of the old days; that only one
or two governors of Asia before and after you have been of your caliber (you’re too
modest to allow me to say there wasn’t anyone); and that you have been our leading
citizen in morality, in influence, and also in years – all command respect and admiration.
Still, I am even more impressed by how you are able to relax even amid all these
pressures. The way you temper that sternness of yours with an equal amount of levity
and you balance the utmost austerity with good humor is as difficult as it is
extraordinary. You accomplish this feat with that incredible melifluence of yours – and
not just in your day-to-day conversations, but especially in your writing. When you
speak, your words flow with the sweet honey of Homer’s old Nestor, and your written
words are so sweet, like bees hovering around fragrant flowers. Your Greek epigrams
and iambic mimes so completely stirred me when I recently read them! What
understanding of human nature! What charm I find in them! What melodious and
expressive words, so clever and so direct! It was as if I held a work of Callimachus or
Herodas in my hands, or something even better: neither of those authors perfected
works in both genres. Can a Roman man speak such Greek? So help me god, Athens
herself isn’t so Attic. What else can I say? I’m jealous of the Greeks because you
preferred to write in their language. I can only imagine what you could write in your
native tongue, since you have perfected such extraordinary works in a foreign, adopted
language.
Pliny to Maturus Arrianus (on his own being appointed augur) (Ep. 4.8)
You congratulate me for accepting the position of augur – and rightly so, since first of
all it’s a fine thing for one to accept the decision of our most distinguished emperor,
even in instances less important than this one; and, second, in addition to being an
ancient and holy priesthood, the augurship is particularly sacred and distinct due to its
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life-long duration. Although there are other honors of nearly equal esteem, just as they
are granted, so, too, they can be taken away. When it comes to the position of augur, it
is only in its awarding that fortune intervenes.
As for me, my appointment in particular merits congratulations because I am
succeeding Julius Frontinus, a leading citizen, who throughout the years always offered
up my name on nomination day, so that I replace him. And now that events have
confirmed his intent, it seems I won the position not just by sheer luck.
You also write that you’re especially delighted that it was above all the augurship
that I was elected to, because Marcus Tullius Cicero had also held the position. You’re
happy that I am following in the footsteps of the man whom I want to emulate in my
pursuits. But, since I achieved the same priesthood and consulship at a much younger
age than he had, I would only hope that, maybe as an old man, I might be able to
approach his genius in some shape or form! But no wonder that I – like many others –
have acquired all the honors that humans can give, whereas this other thing is
extremely hard to attain and maybe even too much to hope for, since only the gods can
grant it.
Pliny to Velius Cerealis (Ep. 4.21)
So sad and bitter is the premature death of the Helvediae sisters. Each of them died
while in labor, giving birth to daughters. I am gripped with sorrow, though I keep it
under control: their deaths seem all the more tragic as it was fertility that took away
these two respectable girls in the flower of their youth. I am choked up when I think
about the fate of the infants: from the moment they were born, they have been
motherless. I’m grief-stricken for the women’s excellent husbands, and even for myself.
As my courtroom defense on his behalf and my publications attest, I have never stopped
loving their father, even though he’s deceased. Now he has only one surviving child left
to prop up and support a household that not so long ago had been firmly grounded with
many more pillars. The sting of this loss, however, can lessen as if with the help of a
great poultice if fortune is to keep this last remaining son strong and safe, an equal to
his father and grandfather. I am all the more concerned for his safety and integrity as he
is now the only one left. You know my mental weakness and my worry over loved ones
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– all the less surprising, in this case, as I fear the most for those in whom I place my
greatest hopes and expectations.
Pliny to Pompeius Falco (Ep. 4.27)
This is the third day that I’ve been listening with great pleasure and admiration to
Sentius Augurinus, who is giving a reading of his works. He calls them “short poems.”
Many are subdued, many grand, many are charming and tender; many are filled with
sweet sentiments, many others with vitriol. I believe it’s been many years since we’ve
seen a work of this kind written with such perfection, unless perhaps my affection for
him has made me biased, or I’m being carried away by his praise for me! That’s because
one of his themes is how I, from time to time, have fun writing poetry. So I appoint you
to confirm or deny my opinion; let me see if I can remember the second line from the
verse on this very theme. I have memorized the others, and I think they’re set straight
in my head:
I sing poems short and sweet, like those of Catullus, Calvus and poets of
long ago. What do they matter? Pliny alone is my inspiration of old: he
leaves the forum behind, preferring light verses instead. He seeks something
he may love, and believes he is loved right back. Oh Pliny, that Pliny – more
valuable than countless Catos! Go now, you who love, whoever you are, love
not again!
You see how precise and tightly expressed his verses are! I swear this is just a taste of
what the whole book is like. I’ll send it along as soon as he has published it. Meanwhile,
show your affection for this young man and give thanks to our age for talent such as
this, which Sentius only enhances with his virtue. He enjoys spending time with his
relative Spurinna and his housemate Antoninus, and from this you get a sense of what a
faultless young man he is, since such honorable elders esteem him so much. That old
Greek saying is perfectly true: “You know they kind of person someone is by the
company he keeps.”
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Pliny to Titius Aristo (Ep. 5.3)
I’m grateful for the many great favors you’ve done for me, but by far your greatest
kindness is letting me know that my verses evoked quite a lengthy discussion at your
house. There were many conflicting opinions; some people didn’t censure the written
poems themselves, but instead reproached me frankly (albeit amicably) for composing
them in the first place and then giving a reading of them. My response to these critics
will likely just add fuel to the fire. Yes, it’s true I often compose short carefree poems.
Yes, indeed I do. And I also listen to comedies, watch mimes, read lyric poetry, and
appreciate Sotadic verse; occasionally I even smile, laugh, and make jokes. In fact,
whenever I sporadically enjoy all these harmless types of relaxation, what else am I
doing other than being human? I’m not annoyed that some may judge my character and
express surprise that I authored these verses, especially when they’re unaware that the
most learned, distinguished, and blameless men have often written this kind of poetry.
But, concerning those people who are in fact aware of the great authors I emulate, I’m
sure I can easily persuade them to allow me some leeway in my activities, so long as my
wandering takes place alongside these authors: it is commendable to imitate their
lighthearted works just as much as their serious ones.
I won’t name contemporaries because I don’t want it to seem like I’m just flattering
them. But should I really worry that I’m being inappropriate by doing what was done so
well by M. Tullius, C. Calvus, Asinius Pollio, M. Messala, Q. Hortensius, M. Brutus, L.
Sulla, Q. Catulus, Q. Scaevola, Servius Sulpicius, Varro, Torquatus – indeed both
Torquati – C. Memmius, Lentulus Gaetulicus, Annaeus Seneca, and most recently
Verginius Rufus? Those make a lot of examples of private individuals; so then, what
about Divus (“divine”) Iulius, Divus Augustus, Divus Nerva, and Tiberius Caesar? I skip
over Nero, even though I know that a practice is not compromised if scoundrels like him
indulge in it on occasion: when people of good character do it frequently, the practice
remains honorable. Among these, special attention should be given to Virgil, Cornelius
Nepos, and their predecessors Accius and Ennius. True, they weren’t senators like the
others, but moral integrity does not know class distinctions. Nevertheless, I do in fact
give readings of my poems, something that I don’t know if they did or not. Really,
though, they could rely on their own self-evaluation, while I am not as confident to
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think that I’ve perfected something when it has received only my own self-approval. So
I give performances of my work for two reasons: first, because an author who gives
readings is a good deal more critical of his writing when he knows it will be read before
an audience; and, second, because an audience’s expert opinion, “the assembly’s vote,” so
to speak, forces the author to make a decision on certain aspects over which he may be
vacillating. Many people offer various suggestions or, if not, the author can still
ascertain each listener’s response from their expression, their eyes, nods, clapping,
murmuring, and dead silence – all of which, being clear indicators, differentiate an
honest opinion from mere polite kindness.
Also, if later on anyone chooses to read the very work s/he heard previously at the
reading, that person would recognize what omissions and changes I’ve made, maybe
even in accordance with his/her own opinion, even though s/he may not have vocalized
them to me. But now I’m arguing my case as if I were inviting the general public and
giving a reading in an open auditorium rather than in a private room, just to friends.
I’ve got numerous friends to invite, and this fact has been a source of pride to many and
an object of censure to no one.
Pliny to Maximus (on sickness and health) (Ep. 7.26)
Recently the poor health of one of my friends reminded me that we are our best selves
when we are sick. Does greed or passion ever incite a sick man? A man who is ill doesn’t
seek ambitious positions, isn’t a slave to his passions, has little interest in acquiring
wealth, and whatever little bit he has he’s satisfied with, knowing he’ll leave it behind.
It’s during an illness that he remembers the gods, remembers he’s mortal, feels jealousy
towards no one, admires no one, despises no one; not even malicious talk gains his
interest or occupies his thoughts. He pictures to himself baths and springs. These are
his only cares, his only prayers, and if he happens to escape this scare, he’s determined
to live thereafter an easy, quiet life: a life of innocence and happiness. Therefore I can
state concisely this one rule of life (the same thing takes the philosophers endless words
and volumes to express): when we are healthy we should live the life we promise we’re
going to live when we’re sick.
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Pliny to Geminus (Ep. 8.5)
Our Macrius has suffered a serious blow: he’s lost his wife, a woman who was a model of
excellence – it was as if she had lived generations ago. He lived with her for 39 years,
without as much as a quarrel or tiff. She showed her husband very much respect and
earned just as much for herself. She assembled and intermingled so many marvelous
virtues from various stages of life! It’s true, Macrinus’ great solace is that he held on to
such a wonderful treasure for so long, but this is exactly what makes his loss even more
difficult to bear. For our grief is only exacerbated when we are without the pleasures we
enjoy. So I’ll continue worrying about this beloved friend of mine until he can welcome
some diversions and allow a scar to form over his wound; nothing can bring him to this
point except necessity herself, the passage of time, and having his fill of grief. Goodbye.
Exchange between Pliny and Trajan (Ep. 10.98 and 10.99)
[98] The city of Amastris, sir, is an elegant, well-designed one, which, among its chief
marks of distinction, has a long, very beautiful boulevard. Along the length of it is a
stream – or so they call it; but it is actually a most disgusting sewer, not only the foulest
thing to look at, but one that gives off an utterly toxic stench. Therefore the city will
greatly benefit in health, no less in aesthetics, if this “stream” can be covered. With your
permission I can make sure this happens and find the funds to support such an
important and necessary undertaking.
[99] It makes good sense, my dear Pliny, to cover the water flowing through
the city of Amastris, if it is endangering the peoples’ health while it remains exposed. I
have full confidence in you: with your diligence, you’ll ensure there will be plenty of
money to meet the expense.
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