Books: The Letters of Pliny the Younger
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Pliny the Younger >> The Letters of Pliny the Younger
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But, you say, I recite my compositions and I cannot be sure that they
did. Granted, but they may have been content with their own judgment,
whereas I am too modest to think that any composition of mine is
sufficiently perfect when it has no other approbation but my own.
Consequently, these are the reasons why I recite in public, first,
because a man who recites becomes a keener critic of his own writings
out of deference to his audience, and, secondly, because, where he is in
doubt, he can decide by referring the point to his auditors. Moreover,
he constantly meets with criticism from many quarters, and even if it is
not openly expressed, he can tell what each person thinks by watching
the expression and eyes of his hearers, or by a nod, a motion of the
hand, a murmur, or dead silence. All these things are tolerably clear
indications which enable one to distinguish judgment from complaisance.
And so, if any one who was present at my reading takes the trouble to
look through the same compositions, he will find that I have either
altered or omitted certain passages, in compliance perhaps with his
judgment, though he never uttered a word to me. But I am arguing on
this point as though I invited the whole populace to my reading room and
not merely a few friends to my private chamber, while the possession of
a large circle of friends has been a source of pride to many men and a
reproach to none. Farewell.
5.IV.--TO JULIUS VALERIANUS.
The incident is trifling in itself, but it is leading up to important
consequences. Sollers, a man of praetorian rank, asked permission of
the Senate to establish a market on his property. The delegates of the
people of Vicetia opposed it: Tuscilius Nominatus appeared as their
counsel, and the hearing was postponed. At a later meeting of the
Senate, the Vicetini entered without their counsel and said that they
had been tricked,--I cannot say whether it was merely a hasty
expression, or whether they really thought they had been. When they
were asked by the praetor Nepos whom they had instructed to appear for
them, they said, "We have the same counsel as before." To the question
whether on the previous occasion he had appeared for them gratuitously,
they said they had given him 6000 sesterces, and on being asked whether
they paid him a further fee, they replied, "Yes, a thousand denarii."
Nepos demanded that Nominatus should be called, and matters went no
further on that day. But, I fancy, the case has gone to much greater
lengths than that, for it often happens that a mere touch is sufficient
to set things in commotion, and then they spread far and wide. I have
made you prick up your ears, so now you will have to ask in your very
nicest manner for me to tell you the rest of the story, unless you
decide to come to Rome for the sequel, and prefer to see it for yourself
rather than read about it. Farewell.
5.V.--TO NONIUS MAXIMUS.
I have been told that Caius Fannius is dead, and the news has greatly
upset me, in the first place, because I loved him for his taste and
learning, and, secondly, because I used to avail myself of his judgment.
He was naturally keen-witted; experience had sharpened his acumen, and
he could detect the truth without hesitation. I am troubled, too, owing
to the circumstances in which he died, for he has died without revoking
an old will which contains no mention of those for whom he had the
greatest affection, and is in favour of those with whom he has been on
bad terms. However, this might have been got over--what is most serious
is that he has left unfinished his finest work. Although his time was
taken up with his profession as a pleader, he was engaged in writing the
lives of those who were put to death or banished by Nero. He had
already finished three books, in an unadorned, accurate style and in the
Latin language. They are something between narrative and history, and
the eagerness which people displayed to read them made him all the more
desirous to finish the remaining volumes.
It always seems to me hard and untimely when people die who are engaged
upon some immortal work. For those who are devoted to their pleasures
and live a sort of day-to-day existence exhaust every day the reasons
why they should go on living, whereas when people think of posterity and
keep alive their memory by their works, their death, come as it may, is
always sudden, inasmuch as it cuts short something that is still
unfinished. However, Caius Fannius had had for a long time a
presentiment of what was to befall him. He dreamt in the quiet of the
night that he was lying on his bed dressed for study and that he had a
writing desk before him, as was his wont. Then he thought that Nero
came to him, sat down on the couch, and after producing the first volume
which Fannius had written about his crimes, turned over the pages to the
end. He did the same with the second and third volumes, and then
departed. Fannius was much alarmed, and interpreted the dream to mean
that he would leave off writing just where Nero had left off reading,
and so the event proved.
When I think of it I feel grieved to think how many wakeful hours and
how much labour Fannius toiled through in vain. I see before me my own
mortality and my own writings. Nor do I doubt that you have the same
thought and anxiety for the work which is still on your hands. Let us
do our best, therefore, while life lasts, that death may find as few
works of ours as possible for him to destroy. Farewell.
5.VI.--TO DOMITIUS APOLLINARIS.
I was charmed with the kind consideration which led you, when you heard
that I was about to visit my Tuscan villa in the summer, to advise me
not to do so during the season that you consider the district unhealthy.
Undoubtedly, the region along the coast of Tuscany is trying and
dangerous to the health, but my property lies well back from the sea;
indeed, it is just under the Apennines, which are the healthiest of our
mountain ranges. However, that you may not have the slightest anxiety
on my account, let me tell you all about the climatic conditions, the
lie of the land, and the charms of my villa. It will be as pleasant
reading for you as it is pleasant writing for me.
In winter the air is cold and frosty: myrtles, olives and all other
trees which require constant warmth for them to do well, the climate
rejects and spurns, though it allows laurel to grow, and even brings it
to a luxuriant leaf. Occasionally, however, it kills it, but that does
not happen more frequently than in the neighbourhood of Rome. In
summer, the heat is marvellously tempered: there is always a breath of
air stirring, and breezes are more common than winds. Hence the number
of old people to be found there: you find the grandfathers and great-
grandfathers of the young people still living; you are constantly
hearing old stories and tales of the past, so that, when you set foot
there, you may fancy that you have been born in another century.
The contour of the district is most beautiful. Picture to yourself an
immense amphitheatre, such as only Nature can create, with a wide-
spreading plain ringed with hills, and the summits of the hills
themselves covered with tall and ancient forests. There is plentiful
and varied hunting to be had. Down the mountain slopes there are
stretches of underwoods, and among these are rich, deep-soiled hillocks-
-where if you look for a stone you will have hard work to find one--
which are just as fertile as the most level plains, and ripen just as
rich harvests, though later in the season. Below these, along the whole
hillsides, stretch the vineyards which present an unbroken line far and
wide, on the borders and lowest level of which comes a fringe of trees.
Then you reach the meadows and the fields--fields which only the most
powerful oxen and the stoutest ploughs can turn. The soil is so tough
and composed of such thick clods that when it is first broken up it has
to be furrowed nine times before it is subdued. The meadows are
jewelled with flowers, and produce trefoil and other herbs, always
tender and soft, and looking as though they were always fresh. For all
parts are well nourished by never-failing streams, and even where there
is most water there are no swamps, for the declivity of the land drains
off into the Tiber all the moisture that it receives and cannot itself
absorb.
The Tiber runs through the middle of the plain; it is navigable for
ships, and all the grain is carried down stream to the city, at least in
winter and spring. In summer the volume of water dwindles away, leaving
but the name of a great river to the dried-up bed, but in the autumn it
recovers its flood. You would be delighted if you could obtain a view
of the district from the mountain height, for you would think you were
looking not so much at earth and fields as at a beautiful landscape
picture of wonderful loveliness. Such is the variety, such the
arrangement of the scene, that wherever the eyes fall they are sure to
be refreshed.
My villa, though it lies at the foot of the hill, enjoys as fine a
prospect as though it stood on the summit; the ascent is so gentle and
easy, and the gradient so unnoticeable, that you find yourself at the
top without feeling that you are ascending. The Apennines lie behind
it, but at a considerable distance, and even on a cloudless and still
day it gets a breeze from this range, never boisterous and rough, for
its strength is broken and lost in the distance it has to travel. Most
of the house faces south; in summer it gets the sun from the sixth hour,
and in winter considerably earlier, inviting it as it were into the
portico, which is broad and long to correspond, and contains a number of
apartments and an old-fashioned hall. In front, there is a terrace laid
out in different patterns and bounded with an edging of box; then comes
a sloping ridge with figures of animals on both sides cut out of the
box-trees, while on the level ground stands an acanthus-tree, with
leaves so soft that I might almost call them liquid. Round this is a
walk bordered by evergreens pressed and trimmed into various shapes;
then comes an exercise ground, round like a circus, which surrounds the
box-trees that are cut into different forms, and the dwarf shrubs that
are kept clipped. Everything is protected by an enclosure, which is
hidden and withdrawn from sight by the tiers of box-trees. Beyond is a
meadow, as well worth seeing for its natural charm as the features just
described are for their artificial beauty, and beyond that there
stretches an expanse of fields and a number of other meadows and
thickets.
At the head of the portico there runs out the dining-room, from the
doors of which can be seen the end of the terrace with the meadow and a
good expanse of country beyond it, while from the windows the view on
the one hand commands one side of the terrace and the part of the villa
which juts out, and on the other the grove and foliage of the adjoining
riding-school. Almost opposite to the middle of the portico is a
summer-house standing back a little, with a small open space in the
middle shaded by four plane-trees. Among them is a marble fountain,
from which the water plays upon and lightly sprinkles the roots of the
plane-trees and the grass plot beneath them. In this summer-house there
is a bed-chamber which excludes all light, noise, and sound, and
adjoining it is a dining-room for my friends, which faces upon the small
court and the other portico, and commands the view enjoyed by the
latter. There is another bed-chamber, which is leafy and shaded by the
nearest plane-tree and built of marble up to the balcony; above is a
picture of a tree with birds perched in the branches equally beautiful
with the marble. Here there is a small fountain with a basin around the
latter, and the water runs into it from a number of small pipes, which
produce a most agreeable sound. In the corner of the portico is a
spacious bed-chamber leading out of the dining-room, some of its windows
looking out upon the terrace, others upon the meadow, while the windows
in front face the fish-pond which lies just beneath them, and is
pleasant both to eye and ear, as the water falls from a considerable
elevation and glistens white as it is caught in the marble basin. This
bed-chamber is beautifully warm even in winter, for it is flooded with
an abundance of sunshine.
The heating chamber for the bath adjoins it, and on a cloudy day we turn
in steam to take the place of the sun's warmth. Next comes a roomy and
cheerful undressing room for the bath, from which you pass into a cool
chamber containing a large and shady swimming bath. If you prefer more
room or warmer water to swim in, there is a pond in the court with a
well adjoining it, from which you can make the water colder when you are
tired of the warm. Adjoining the cold bath is one of medium warmth, for
the sun shines lavishly upon it, but not so much as upon the hot bath
which is built farther out. There are three sets of steps leading to
it, two exposed to the sun, and the third out of the sun though quite as
light. Above the dressing-room is a ball court where various kinds of
exercise can be taken, and a number of games can be played at once. Not
far from the bath-room is a staircase leading to a covered passage, at
the head of which are three rooms, one looking out upon the courtyard
with the four plane-trees, the second upon the meadow, and the third
upon the vineyards, so each therefore enjoys a different view. At the
end of the passage is a bed-chamber constructed out of the passage
itself, which looks out upon the riding-course, the vineyards, and the
mountains. Connected with it is another bed-chamber open to the sun,
and especially so in winter time. Leading out of this is an apartment
which adjoins the riding-course of the villa.
Such is the appearance and the use to which the front of my house is
put. At the side is a raised covered gallery, which seems not so much
to look out upon the vineyards as to touch them; in the middle is a
dining-room which gets the invigorating breezes from the valleys of the
Apennines, while at the other side, through the spacious windows and the
folding doors, you seem to be close upon the vineyards again with the
gallery between. On the side of the room where there are no windows is
a private winding staircase by which the servants bring up the
requisites for a meal. At the end of the gallery is a bed-chamber, and
the gallery itself affords as pleasant a prospect therefrom as the
vineyards. Underneath runs a sort of subterranean gallery, which in
summer time remains perfectly cool, and as it has sufficient air within
it, it neither admits any from without nor needs any. Next to both
these galleries the portico commences where the dining-room ends, and
this is cold before mid-day, and summery when the sun has reached his
zenith. This gives the approach to two apartments, one of which
contains four beds and the other three, and they are bathed in sunshine
or steeped in shadow, according to the position of the sun.
But though the arrangements of the house itself are charming, they are
far and away surpassed by the riding-course. It is quite open in the
centre, and the moment you enter your eye ranges over the whole of it.
Around its borders are plane-trees clothed with ivy, and so while the
foliage at the top belongs to the trees themselves, that on the lower
parts belongs to the ivy, which creeps along the trunk and branches, and
spreading across to the neighbouring trees, joins them together.
Between the plane-trees are box shrubs, and on the farther side of the
shrubs is a ring of laurels which mingle their shade with that of the
plane-trees. At the far end, the straight boundary of the riding-course
is curved into semicircular form, which quite changes its appearance.
It is enclosed and covered with cypress-trees, the deeper shade of which
makes it darker and gloomier than at the sides, but the inner circles--
for there are more than one--are quite open to the sunshine. Even roses
grow there, and the warmth of the sun is delightful as a change from the
cool of the shade. When you come to the end of these various winding
alleys, the boundary again runs straight, or should I say boundaries,
for there are a number of paths with box shrubs between them. In places
there are grass plots intervening, in others box shrubs, which are
trimmed to a great variety of patterns, some of them being cut into
letters forming my name as owner and that of the gardener. Here and
there are small pyramids and apple-trees, and now and then in the midst
of all this graceful artificial work you suddenly come upon what looks
like a real bit of the country planted there. The intervening space is
beautified on both sides with dwarf plane-trees; beyond these is the
acanthus-tree that is supple and flexible to the hand, and there are
more boxwood figures and names.
At the upper end is a couch of white marble covered with a vine, the
latter being supported by four small pillars of Carystian marble. Jets
of water flow from the couch through small pipes and look as if they
were forced out by the weight of persons reclining thereon, and the
water is caught in a stone cistern and then retained in a graceful
marble basin, regulated by pipes out of sight, so that the basin, while
always full, never overflows. The heavier dishes and plates are placed
at the side of the basin when I dine there, but the lighter ones, formed
into the shapes of little boats and birds, float on the surface and
travel round and round. Facing this is a fountain which receives back
the water it expels, for the water is thrown up to a considerable height
and then falls down again, and the pipes that perform the two processes
are connected. Directly opposite the couch is a bed-chamber, and each
lends a grace to the other. It is formed of glistening marble, and
through the projecting folding doors you pass at once among the foliage,
while both from the upper and lower windows you look out upon the same
green picture. Within is a little cabinet which seems to belong at once
to the same and yet another bed-chamber. This contains a bed and it has
windows on every side, yet the shade is so thick without that but little
light enters, for a wonderfully luxuriant vine has climbed up to the
roof and covers the whole building. You can fancy you are in a grove as
you lie there, only that you do not feel the rain as you do among trees.
Here too a fountain rises and immediately loses itself underground.
There are a number of marble chairs placed up and down, which are as
restful for persons tired with walking as the bed-chamber itself. Near
these chairs are little fountains, and throughout the whole riding-
course you hear the murmur of tiny streams carried through pipes, which
run wherever you please to direct them. These are used to water the
shrubs, sometimes in one part, sometimes in another, and at other times
all are watered together.
I should long since have been afraid of boring you, had I not set out in
this letter to take you with me round every corner of my estate. For I
am not at all apprehensive that you will find it tedious to read about a
place which certainly would not tire you to look at, especially as you
can get a little rest whenever you desire, and can sit down, so to
speak, by laying down the letter. Moreover, I have been indulging my
affection for the place, for I am greatly attached to anything that is
mainly the work of my own hands or that some one else has begun and I
have taken up. In short--for there is no reason is there? why I should
not be frank with you, whether my judgments are sound or unsound--I
consider that it is the first duty of a writer to select the title of
his work and constantly ask himself what he has begun to write about.
He may be sure that so long as he keeps to his subject-matter he will
not be tedious, but that he will bore his readers to distraction if he
starts dragging in extraneous matter to make weight. Observe the length
with which Homer describes the arms of Achilles, and Virgil the arms of
Aeneas--yet in both cases the description seems short, because the
author only carries out what he intended to. Observe how Aratus hunts
up and brings together even the tiniest stars--yet he does not exceed
due limits. For his description is not an excursus, but the end and aim
of the whole work. It is the same with myself, if I may compare my
lowly efforts with their great ones. I have been trying to give you a
bird's eye view of the whole of my villa, and if I have introduced no
extraneous matter and have never wandered off my subject, it is not the
letter containing the description which is to be considered of excessive
size, but rather the villa which has been described.
However, let me get back to the point I started from, lest I give you an
opportunity of justly condemning me by my own law, by not pursuing this
digression any farther. I have explained to you why I prefer my Tuscan
house to my other places at Tusculum, Tibur and Praeneste. For in
addition to all the beauties I have described above, my repose here is
more profound and more comfortable, and therefore all the freer from
anxiety. There is no necessity to don the toga, no neighbour ever calls
to drag me out; everything is placid and quiet; and this peace adds to
the healthiness of the place, by giving it, so to speak, a purer sky and
a more liquid air. I enjoy better health both in mind and body here
than anywhere else, for I exercise the former by study and the latter by
hunting. Besides, there is no place where my household keep in better
trim, and up to the present I have not lost a single one of all whom I
brought with me. I hope Heaven will forgive the boast, and that the
gods will continue my happiness to me and preserve this place in all its
beauty. Farewell.
5.VII.--TO CALVISIUS.
It is beyond question that a community cannot be appointed heir and
cannot take a share of an inheritance before the general distribution of
the estate. None the less, Saturninus, who left us his heirs,
bequeathed a fourth share to our community of Comum, and then, in lieu
of that fourth share, assigned them permission to take 400,000 sesterces
before the division of the estate. As a matter of strict law, this is
null and void, but if you only look at the intentions of the deceased,
it is quite sound and valid. I don't know what the lawyers will think
of what I am going to say, but to me the wishes of the deceased seem
worthy of more consideration than the letter of the law, especially as
regards the sum which he wished to go to our common birthplace.
Moreover, I, who gave 1,600,000 sesterces our of my own money to my
native place, am not the man to refuse it a little more than a third
part of 400,000 sesterces which have come to me by a lucky windfall. I
know that you too will not refuse to fall in with my views, as your
affection for the same community is that of a thoroughly loyal citizen.
I shall be glad, therefore, if at the next meeting of the decurions, you
will lay before them the state of the law, and I hope you will do so
briefly and modestly. Then add that we make them an offer of the
400,000 sesterces, in accordance with the wishes of Saturninus. But be
sure to point out that the munificence and generosity are his, and that
all we are doing is to obey his wishes. I have refrained from writing
in a public manner on this business, firstly, because I knew very well
that our friendship was such, and that your judgment was so ripe, that
you could and ought to act for me as well as for yourself, and then
again I was afraid that I might not preserve in a letter that exact mean
which you will have no difficulty in preserving in a speech. For a
man's expression, his gestures, and even the tones of his voice help to
indicate the precise meaning of his words, while a letter, which is
deprived of all these advantages, is exposed to the malignity of those
who put upon it what interpretation they choose. Farewell.
5.VIII.--TO TITINIUS CAPITO.
You urge me to write history, nor are you the first to do so. Many
others have often given me the same advice, and I am quite willing to
follow it, not because I feel confident that I should succeed in so
doing--for it would be presumption to think so until one had tried--but
because it seems to me a very proper thing not to let people be
forgotten whose fame ought never to die, and to perpetuate the glories
of others together with one's own. Personally, I confess that there is
nothing on which I have set my heart so much as to win a lasting
reputation, and the ambition is a worthy one for any man, especially for
one who is not conscious of having committed any wrong and has no cause
to fear being remembered by posterity. Hence it is that both day and
night I scheme to find a way "to raise myself above the ordinary dull
level": my ambition goes no farther than that, for it is quite beyond
my dreams "that my victorious name should pass from mouth to mouth."
"And yet--!"--but I am quite satisfied with the fame which history alone
seems to promise me. For one reaps but a small reward from oratory and
poetry, unless our eloquence is really first-class, while history seems
to charm people in whatever style it is written. For men are naturally
curious; they are delighted even by the baldest relation of facts, and
so we see them carried away even by little stories and anecdotes.
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