by Seneca
Only Cicero, perhaps, among classical authors was better known in medieval times, and until Aristotle was rediscovered by Western Europe, Seneca’s main ‘scientific’ work, the Naturales Quaestiones, was the undisputed authority on the subjects with which it dealt. Dante, Chaucer and Petrarch were great admirers and quoters of his writings.47 Printing spread his influence, the first printed version of the Epistulae being published in or about 1475 at Rome, Paris and Strasbourg. Erasmus48 was the first person to produce a critical edition (in 1515) and Calvin’s first work was an edition in 1532 of the De Clementia, an essay originally written to encourage clemency in Nero, and incidentally inspiring much of the ‘quality of mercy’ speech in the Merchant of Venice.
Montaigne49 was the first, and the most conspicuously indebted, borrower from Seneca among the great modern literary figures. Pasquier’s admiration for Montaigne prompted him to say: ‘As for his essays, which I call masterpieces, there is no book in my possession which I have so greatly cherished. I always find something in it to please me. It is a French Seneca.’
Appreciations of Seneca as a moralist may be quoted from many sources. John of Salisbury is supposed to have said: ‘If Quintilian will excuse my saying so, there are very few if any writers on conduct among non-Christians whose words and ideas can be more readily applied to all kinds of practical things.’ Emerson urged: ‘Make your own Bible. Select and collect all the words and sentences that in all your reading have been to you like the blast of triumph out of Shakespeare, Seneca, Moses, John and Paul.’ He is placed in even more exalted company by Baudelaire in his essay De l’Essence du Rire, in which he seems at one point to be ascribing modern civilized manners to ‘la venue de Jésus, Platon et Sénèque aidant’. In letters to Peter Gilles we find Erasmus writing (in the words of Froude) ‘in fraternal good humour, advising him to be regular at his work, to keep a journal, to remember that life was short, to study Plato and Seneca, love his wife, and disregard the world’s opinion’. Queen Elizabeth I ‘did much admire Seneca’s wholesome advisings’, says her godson, Sir John Harington, who ‘saw much of her translating thereof’.50 Although great literary figures have usually been fondest of the letters, it was his plays which, with all their faults, had the greatest effect on European literature. ‘If you seek Seneca’s memorial, look round on the tragic stage of England, France and Italy.’51
The late Elizabethan age and early seventeenth century were the high-water mark of Seneca’s influence, as a writer well known and imitated among lyric poets and essayists as well as dramatists.52 His popularity lasted for some time in France, where his admirers included Descartes, Corneille, La Fontaine, Poussin, Rousseau, Diderot, Balzac and Sainte-Beuve, but disappeared almost altogether in England. The enthusiasm of, for example, De Quincey (‘A nobler master of thinking Paganism has not to shew, nor, when the cant of criticism has done its worst, a more brilliant master of composition’) is exceptional, and Seneca, at the present time, may be called a forgotten author.
NOTE ON TRANSLATION AND TEXT
Translations, and the aims and methods (when they are venturesome enough to profess them) of individual translators, are seldom hard to criticize. But however far men of letters may find themselves from agreement on the principles of translation from a classical author, the intelligent reader can no longer be satisfied with either a literal rendering – on the painful model of the old-fashioned school crib – or an inspired paraphrase – however attractive the result has sometimes been when poet has rendered poet. Somewhere between these two kinds of offering lies the ideal translation, the aim of which I should define as the exact reproduction of the original without omission or addition, capturing its sound (form, style) as well as its sense (content, meaning).
Reproduction of the style presents, except with ordinary conversational or colloquial prose, formidable problems. The practitioner feels that the attempt is one which should be made, even, in the case of poetry, with so difficult a feature of it as its metrical patterns. Yet the result must never be English so unnatural or contrived (unless the original itself clearly set out to obtain such effects) that the reader cannot stomach it. And this consideration has tempered my feeling that the brevity or rhetoric or other elements of Seneca’s manner should each be closely imitated. It is hardly possible, for instance, to reproduce the compression of such a sentence as Habere eripitur, habuisse numquam or Magis quis veneris quam quo interest. In this field of style it is never possible to claim that a translation ‘loses nothing’ of the qualities of the original.
For when all is said and done a translation of a literary work must be readable. To spare the reader the jars which remind him that he is reading a translation, all but the few timeless versions of the classical authors need to be revised or done afresh perhaps every half century. The same principle incidentally suggests that obscurities (allusions, for example, which only a Latinist would notice or appreciate) may be clarified or removed by slight expansion, and I have adopted this practice very occasionally as an alternative to a distracting reference to a note.
The formal beginning and ending of each letter (Seneca Lucilio suo salutem and Vale) is omitted. Colloquialisms (including the forms ‘it’s’, ‘wouldn’t’, etc. and the everyday habit of ending sentences with prepositions) will be noticed here and there; they have been used only where Seneca’s language is thoroughly colloquial or where he is arguing in the second person with an imaginary interjector.
If an earlier translator has hit on a phrase which one becomes (unwillingly) convinced cannot be bettered, it is surely absurd – the more so if one believes that there is almost always only one best rendering in the language of the translator’s day – to proceed with a poorer or less accurate one merely for the sake of originality. I am indebted in this way in a number of places to Gummere and Barker, the translators in the Loeb (1917–25) and Clarendon Press (1932) versions respectively.
The translation, originally based on Beltrami’s text (1931), has been brought into line with the Oxford Classical Text (1965) of Mr L. D. Reynolds, to whom I am grateful for help on several points of difficulty. My appreciation is extended also to various friends who may not well recall the help or interest and encouragement at one time or another given by them, and among them to my former tutors Mr T. C. W. Stinton and Mr J. P. V. D. Balsdon, who have rescued me from a number of heresies in the parts of this work which they have seen. My thanks are due also to Dr Michael Grant for permission to reprint from The Annals of Imperial Rome (Penguin Books, 1956) his translation of Tacitus’ account of Seneca’s death.
It may be asked what criteria have been applied in deciding which letters should be included or omitted. The first has been their interest – as they set out a philosophy and contribute to a picture of a man and of his times. The second has been the avoidance of undue repetition of particular themes or topics of a moralist who tends towards repetitiveness. For similar reasons one or two of the letters have been shortened by the omission of a few passages (at places indicated). My ultimate defence must be the anthologist’s plea, or confession, that the choice has been a personal one.
POSTSCRIPT TO INTRODUCTION
It is perhaps hard to resist quoting here (in no way seeking to disarm criticism!) from the preface and postscript to the anthology Seneca’s Morals by Way of Abstract published by Sir Roger L’Estrange in 1673:
Some other Man, in my Place, would perchance, make you twenty Apologies, for his want of Skill, and Address, in governing this Affair, but these are Formal, and Pedantique Fooleries: As if any Man that first takes himself for a Coxcomb in his own Heart, would afterwards make himself one in Print too. This Abstract, such as it is, you are extremely welcome to; and I am sorry it is no better, both for your sakes and my own: for if it were written up to the Spirit of the Original, it would be one of the most valuable Presents that ever any private Man bestow’d upon the Publick:
Books, and Dishes have this Common Fate; there was never any One, of Either of them, that ple
as’d All Palates. And, in Truth, it is a Thing as little to be Wish’d for, as Expected; For, an Universal Applause is at least Two Thirds of a Scandal. So that though I deliver up these Papers to the Press, I invite no Man to the Reading of them: And, whosoever Reads, and Repents; it is his Own Fault. To Conclude, as I made this Composition Principally for my Self, so it agrees exceedingly Well with My Constitution; and yet, if any Man has a Mind to take part with me, he has Free Leave, and Welcome. But, let him Carry this Consideration along with him, that He’s a very Unmannerly Guest, that presses upon another Bodies Table, and then Quarrels with his Dinner.
LETTERS
LETTER II
JUDGING from what you tell me and from what I hear, I feel that you show great promise. You do not tear from place to place and unsettle yourself with one move after another. Restlessness of that sort is symptomatic of a sick mind. Nothing, to my way of thinking, is a better proof of a well ordered mind than a man’s ability to stop just where he is and pass some time in his own company.
Be careful, however, that there is no element of discursiveness and desultoriness about this reading you refer to, this reading of many different authors and books of every description. You should be extending your stay among writers whose genius is unquestionable, deriving constant nourishment from them if you wish to gain anything from your reading that will find a lasting place in your mind. To be everywhere is to be nowhere. People who spend their whole life travelling abroad end up having plenty of places where they can find hospitality but no real friendships. The same must needs be the case with people who never set about acquiring an intimate acquaintanceship with any one great writer, but skip from one to another, paying flying visits to them all. Food that is vomited up as soon as it is eaten is not assimilated into the body and does not do one any good; nothing hinders a cure so much as frequent changes of treatment; a wound will not heal over if it is being made the subject of experiments with different ointments; a plant which is frequently moved never grows strong. Nothing is so useful that it can be of any service in the mere passing. A multitude of books only gets in one’s way. So if you are unable to read all the books in your possession, you have enough when you have all the books you are able to read. And if you say, ‘But I feel like opening different books at different times’, my answer will be this: tasting one dish after another is the sign of a fussy stomach, and where the foods are dissimilar and diverse in range they lead to contamination of the system, not nutrition. So always read well-tried authors, and if at any moment you find yourself wanting a change from a particular author, go back to ones you have read before.
Each day, too, acquire something which will help you to face poverty, or death, and other ills as well. After running over a lot of different thoughts, pick out one to be digested thoroughly that day. This is what I do myself; out of the many bits I have been reading I, lay hold of one. My thought for today is something which I found in Epicurus (yes, I actually make a practice of going over to the enemy’s camp – by way of reconnaissance, not as a deserter!). ‘A cheerful poverty,’ he says, ‘is an honourable state.’ But if it is cheerful it is not poverty at all. It is not the man who has too little who is poor, but the one who hankers after more. What difference does it make how much there is laid away in a man’s safe or in his barns, how many head of stock he grazes or how much capital he puts out at interest, if he is always after what is another’s and only counts what he has yet to get, never what he has already. You ask what is the proper limit to a person’s wealth? First, having what is essential, and second, having what is enough.
LETTER III
YOU have sent me a letter by the hand of a ‘friend’ of yours, as you call him. And in the next sentence you warn me to avoid discussing your affairs freely with him, since you are not even in the habit of doing so yourself; in other words you have described him as being a friend and then denied this, in one and the same letter. Now if you were using that word in a kind of popular sense and not according to its strict meaning, and calling him a ‘friend’ in much the same way as we refer to candidates as ‘gentlemen’ or hail someone with the greeting ‘my dear fellow’ if when we meet him his name slips our memory, we can let this pass. But if you are looking on anyone as a friend when you do not trust him as you trust yourself, you are making a grave mistake, and have failed to grasp sufficiently the full force of true friendship.
Certainly you should discuss everything with a friend; but before you do so, discuss in your mind the man himself. After friendship is formed you must trust, but before that you must judge. Those people who, contrary to Theophrastus’ advice, judge a man after they have made him their friend instead of the other way round, certainly put the cart before the horse. Think for a long time whether or not you should admit a given person to your friendship. But when you have decided to do so, welcome him heart and soul, and speak as unreservedly with him as you would with yourself. You should, I need hardly say, live in such a way that there is nothing which you could not as easily tell your enemy as keep to yourself; but seeing that certain matters do arise on which convention decrees silence, the things you should share with your friend are all your worries and deliberations. Regard him as loyal, and you will make him loyal. Some men’s fear of being deceived has taught people to deceive them; by their suspiciousness they give them the right to do the wrong thing by them. Why should I keep back anything when I’m with a friend? Why shouldn’t I imagine I’m alone when I’m in his company?
There are certain people who tell any person they meet things that should only be confided to friends, unburdening themselves of whatever is on their minds into any ear they please. Others again are shy of confiding in their closest friends, and would not even let themselves, if they could help it, into the secrets they keep hidden deep down inside themselves. We should do neither. Trusting everyone is as much a fault as trusting no one (though I should call the first the worthier and the second the safer behaviour).
Similarly, people who never relax and people who are invariably in a relaxed state merit your disapproval – the former as much as the latter. For a delight in bustling about is not industry – it is only the restless energy of a hunted mind. And the state of mind that looks on all activity as tiresome is not true repose, but a spineless inertia. This prompts me to memorize something which I came across in Pomponius. ‘Some men have shrunk so far into dark corners that objects in bright daylight seem quite blurred to them.’ A balanced combination of the two attitudes is what we want; the active man should be able to take things easily, while the man who is inclined towards repose should be capable of action. Ask nature: she will tell you that she made both day and night.
LETTER V
I VIEW with pleasure and approval the way you keep on at your studies and sacrifice everything to your single-minded efforts to make yourself every day a better man. I do not merely urge you to persevere in this; I actually implore you to. Let me give you, though, this one piece of advice: refrain from following the example of those whose craving is for attention, not their own improvement, by doing certain things which are calculated to give rise to comment on your appearance or way of living generally. Avoid shabby attire, long hair, an unkempt beard, an outspoken dislike of silverware, sleeping on the ground and all other misguided means to self-advertisement. The very name of philosophy, however modest the manner in which it is pursued, is unpopular enough as it is: imagine what the reaction would be if we started dissociating ourselves from the conventions of society. Inwardly everything should be different but our outward face should conform with the crowd. Our clothes should not be gaudy, yet they should not be dowdy either. We should not keep silver plate with inlays of solid gold, but at the same time we should not imagine that doing without gold and silver is proof that we are leading the simple life. Let our aim be a way of life not diametrically opposed to, but better than that of the mob. Otherwise we shall repel and alienate the very people whose reform we desire; we shall make them, moreover, reluctant t
o imitate us in anything for fear they may have to imitate us in everything. The first thing philosophy promises us is the feeling of fellowship, of belonging to mankind and being members of a community; being different will mean the abandoning of that manifesto. We must watch that the means by which we hope to gain admiration do not earn ridicule and hostility. Our motto, as everyone knows, is to live in conformity with nature: it is quite contrary to nature to torture one’s body, to reject simple standards of cleanliness and make a point of being dirty, to adopt a diet that is not just plain but hideous and revolting. In the same way as a craving for dainties is a token of extravagant living, avoidance of familiar and inexpensive dishes betokens insanity. Philosophy calls for simple living, not for doing penance, and the simple way of life need not be a crude one. The standard which I accept is this: one’s life should be a compromise between the ideal and the popular morality. People should admire our way of life but they should at the same time find it understandable.
‘Does that mean we are to act just like other people? Is there to be no distinction between us and them?’ Most certainly there is. Any close observer should be aware that we are different from the mob. Anyone entering our homes should admire us rather than our furnishings. It is a great man that can treat his earthenware as if it was silver, and a man who treats his silver as if it was earthenware is no less great. Finding wealth an intolerable burden is the mark of an unstable mind.
But let me share with you as usual the day’s small find (which today is something that I noticed in the Stoic writer Hecato). Limiting one’s desires actually helps to cure one of fear. ‘Cease to hope,’ he says, ‘and you will cease to fear.’ ‘But how,’ you will ask, ‘can things as diverse as these be linked?’ Well, the fact is, Lucilius, that they are bound up with one another, unconnected as they may seem. Widely different though they are, the two of them march in unison like a prisoner and the escort he is handcuffed to. Fear keeps pace with hope. Nor does their so moving together surprise me; both belong to a mind in suspense, to a mind in a state of anxiety through looking into the future. Both are mainly due to projecting our thoughts far ahead of us instead of adapting ourselves to the present. Thus it is that foresight, the greatest blessing humanity has been given, is transformed into a curse. Wild animals run from the dangers they actually see, and once they have escaped them worry no more. We however are tormented alike by what is past and what is to come. A number of our blessings do us harm, for memory brings back the agony of fear while foresight brings it on prematurely. No one confines his unhappiness to the present.
