friendship, your not concealing from me the long conversations which
lately took place at your house concerning my verses, and the various
judgments passed upon them (which served to prolong the talk,) is by no
means the least. There were some, it seems, who did not disapprove of my
poems in themselves, but at the same time censured me in a free and
friendly way, for employing myself in composing and reciting them. I am
so far, however, from desiring to extenuate the charge that I willingly
acknowledge myself still more deserving of it, and confess that I
sometimes amuse myself with writing verses of the gayer sort. I compose
comedies, divert myself with pantomimes, read the lyric poets, and enter
into the spirit of the most wanton muse, besides that, I indulge myself
sometimes in laughter, mirth, and frolic, and, to sum up every kind of
innocent relaxation in one word, I am a man. I am not in the least
offended, though, at their low opinion of my morals, and that those who
are ignorant of the fact that the most learned, the wisest, and the best
of men have employed themselves in the same way, should be surprised at
the tone of my writings: but from those who know what noble and numerous
examples I follow, I shall, I am confident, easily obtain permission to
err with those whom it is an honour to imitate, not only in their most
serious occupations but their lightest triflings. Is it unbecoming me (I
will not name any living example, lest I should seem to flatter), but is
it unbecoming me to practise what became Tully, Calvus, Pollio, Messala,
Hortensius, Brutus, Sulla, Catulus, Scaevola, Sulpitius, Varro, the
Torquati, Memmius, Gaetulicus, Seneca, Lucceius, and, within our own
memory, Verginius Rufus? But if the examples of private men are not
sufficient to justify me, I can cite Julius Casar, Augustus, Nerva, and
Tiberius Casar. I forbear to add Nero to the catalogue, though I am
aware that what is practised by the worst of men does not therefore
degenerate into wrong: on the contrary, it still maintains its credit,
if frequently countenanced by the best. In that number, Virgil,
Cornelius Nepos, and prior to these, Ennius and Attius, justly deserve
the most distinguished place. These last indeed were not senators, but
goodness knows no distinction of rank or title. I recite my works, it is
true, and in this instance I am not sure I can support myself by their
examples. They, perhaps, might be satisfied with their own judgment, but
I have too humble an opinion of mine to suppose my compositions perfect,
because they appear so to my own mind. My reason then for reciting are,
that, for one thing, there is a certain deference for one's audience,
which excites a somewhat more vigorous application, and then again, I
have by this means an opportunity of settling any doubts I may have
concerning my performance, by observing the general opinion of the
audience. In a word, I have the advantage of receiving different hints
from different persons: and although they should not declare their
meaning in express terms, yet the expression of the countenance, the
movement of the head, the eyes, the motion of a hand, a whisper, or even
silence itself will easily distinguish their real opinion from the
language of politeness. And so if any one of my audience should have the
curiosity to read over the same performance which he heard me read, he
may find several things altered or omitted, and perhaps too upon his
particular judgment, though he did not say a single word to me. But I am
not defending my conduct in this particular, as if I had actually
recited my works in public, and not in my own house before my friends, a
numerous appearance of whom has upon many occasions been held an honour,
but never, surely, a reproach. Farewell.
LI -- To NONIUS MAXIMUS
I AM deeply afflicted with the news I have received of the death of
Fannius; in the first place, because I loved one so eloquent and
refined, in the next, because I was accustomed to be guided by his
judgment--and indeed he possessed great natural acuteness, improved by
practice, rendering him able to see a thing in an instant. There are
some circumstances about his death, which aggravate my concern. He left
behind him a will which had been made a considerable time before his
decease, by which it happens that his estate is fallen into the hands of
those who had incurred his displeasure, whilst his greatest favourites
are excluded. But what I particularly regret is, that he has left
unfinished a very noble work in which he was employed. Notwithstanding
his full practice at the bar, he had begun a history of those persons
who were put to death or banished by Nero, and completed three books of
it. They are written with great elegance and precision, the style is
pure, and preserves a proper medium between the plain narrative and the
historical: and as they were very favourably received by the public, he
was the more desirous of being able to finish the rest. The hand of
death is ever, in my opinion, too untimely and sudden when it falls upon
such as are employed in some immortal work. The sons of sensuality, who
have no outlook beyond the present hour, put an end every day to all
motives for living, but those who look forward to posterity, and
endeavour to transmit their names with honour to future generations by
their works--to such, death is always immature, as it still snatches
them from amidst some unfinished design. Fannius, long before his death,
had a presentiment of what has happened: he dreamed one night that as he
was lying on his couch, in an undress, all ready for his work, and with
his desk,[74] as usual, in front of him, Nero entered, and placing
himself by his side, took up the three first books of this history,
which he read through and then departed. This dream greatly alarmed him,
and he regarded it as an intimation, that he should not carry on his
history any farther than Nero had read, and so the event has proved. I
cannot reflect upon this accident without lamenting that he was
prevented from accomplishing a work which had cost him so many toilsome
vigils, as it suggests to me, at the same time, reflections on my own
mortality, and the fate of my writings: and I am persuaded the same
apprehensions alarm you for those in which you are at present employed.
Let us then, my friend, while life permits, exert all our endeavours,
that death, whenever it arrives, may find as little as possible to
destroy. Farewell.
LII -- To DOMITIUS APOLLINARIS
THE kind concern you expressed on hearing of my design to pass the
summer at my villa in Tuscany, and your obliging endeavours to dissuade
me from going to a place which you think unhealthy, are extremely
pleasing to me. It is quite true indeed that the air of that part of
Tuscany which lies towards the coast is thick and unwholesome: but my
house stands at a good distance from the sea, under one of the Apennines
which are singularly healthy. But, to relieve you from all anxiety on my
account, I will give you a description of the temperature of the
climate, the situation of the country, and the beauty of my villa,
which, I am persuaded, you will hear with as much pleasure as I shall
take in giving it. The air in winter is sharp and frosty, so that
myrtles, olives, and trees of that kind which delight in constant
warmth, will not flourish here: but the laurel thrives, and is
remarkably beautiful, though now and then the cold kills it--though not
oftener than it does in the neighbourhood of Rome. The summers are
extraordinarily mild, and there is always a refreshing breeze, seldom
high winds. This accounts for the number of old men we have about, you
would see grandfathers and great-grandfathers of those now grown up to
be young men, hear old stories and the dialect of our ancestors, and
fancy yourself born in some former age were you to come here. The
character of the country is exceedingly beautiful. Picture to yourself
an immense amphitheatre, such as nature only could create. Before you
lies a broad, extended plain bounded by a range of mountains, whose
summits are covered with tall and ancient woods, which are stocked with
all kinds of game.
The descending slopes of the mountains are planted with underwood, among
which are a number of little risings with a rich soil, on which hardly a
stone is to be found. In fruitfulness they are quite equal to a valley,
and though their harvest is rather later, their crops are just as good.
At the foot of these, on the mountain-side, the eye, wherever it turns,
runs along one unbroken stretch of vineyards terminated by a belt of
shrubs. Next you have meadows and the open plain. The arable land is so
stiff that it is necessary to go over it nine times with the biggest
oxen and the strongest ploughs. The meadows are bright with flowers, and
produce trefoil and other kinds of herbage as fine and tender as if it
were but just sprung up, for all the soil is refreshed by never failing
streams. But though there is plenty of water, there are no marshes; for
the ground being on a slope, whatever water it receives without
absorbing runs off into the Tiber. This river, which winds through the
middle of the meadows, is navigable only in the winter and spring, at
which seasons it transports the produce of the lands to Rome: but in
summer it sinks below its banks, leaving the name of a great river to an
almost empty channel: towards the autumn, however, it begins again to
renew its claim to that title. You would be charmed by taking a view of
this country from the top of one of our neighbouring mountains, and
would fancy that not a real, but some imaginary landscape, painted by
the most exquisite pencil, lay before you, such an harmonious variety of
beautiful objects meets the eye, whichever way it turns. My house,
although at the foot of a hill, commands as good a view as if it stood
on its brow, yet you approach by so gentle and gradual a rise that you
find yourself on high ground without perceiving you have been making an
ascent. Behind, but at a great distance, is the Apennine range. In the
calmest days we get cool breezes from that quarter, not sharp and
cutting at all, being spent and broken by the long distance they have
travelled. The greater part of the house has a southern aspect, and
seems to invite the afternoon sun in summer (but rather earlier in the
winter) into a broad and proportionately long portico, consisting of
several rooms, particularly a court of antique fashion. In front of the
portico is a sort of terrace, edged with box and shrubs cut into
different shapes. You descend, from the terrace, by an easy slope
adorned with the figures of animals in box, facing each other, to a lawn
overspread with the soft, I had almost said the liquid, Acanthus: this
is surrounded by a walk enclosed with evergreens, shaped into a variety
of forms. Beyond it is the gestation laid out in the form of a circus
running round the multiform box-hedge and the dwarf-trees, which are cut
quite close. The whole is fenced in with a wall completely covered by
box cut into steps all the way up to the top. On the outside of the wall
lies a meadow that owes as many beauties to nature as all I have been
describing within does to art; at the end of which are open plain and
numerous other meadows and copses. From the extremity of the portico a
large dining-room runs out, opening upon one end of the terrace, while
from the windows there is a very extensive view over the meadows up into
the country, and from these you also see the terrace and the projecting
wing of the house together with the woods enclosing the adjacent
hippodrome. Almost opposite the centre of the portico, and rather to the
back, stands a summer-house, enclosing a small area shaded by four
plane-trees, in the midst of which rises a marble fountain which gently
plays upon the roots of the plane-trees and upon the grass-plots
underneath them. This summer-house has a bed-room in it free from every
sort of noise, and which the light itself cannot penetrate, together
with a common dining-room I use when I have none but intimate friends
with me. A second portico looks upon this little area, and has the same
view as the other I have just been describing. There is, besides,
another room, which, being situate close to the nearest plane-tree,
enjoys a constant shade and green. Its sides are encrusted with carved
marble up to the ceiling, while above the marble a foliage is painted
with birds among the branches, which has an effect altogether as
agreeable as that of the carving, at the foot of which a little
fountain, playing through several small pipes into a vase it encloses,
produces a most pleasing murmur. From a corner of the portico you enter
a very large bed-chamber opposite the large dining-room, which from some
of its windows has a view of the terrace, and from others, of the
meadow, as those in the front look upon a cascade, which entertains at
once both the eye and the ear; for the water, dashing from a great
height, foams over the marble basin which receives it below. This room
is extremely warm in winter, lying much exposed to the sun, and on a
cloudy day the heat of an adjoining stove very well supplies his
absence. Leaving this room, you pass through a good-sized, pleasant,
undressing-room into the cold-bath-room, in which is a large gloomy
bath: but if you are inclined to swim more at large, or in warmer water,
in the middle of the area stands a wide basin for that purpose, and near
it a reservoir from which you may be supplied with cold water to brace
yourself again, if you should find you are too much relaxed by the warm.
Adjoining the cold bath is one of a medium degree of heat, which enjoys
the kindly warmth of the sun, but not so intensely as the hot bath,
which projects farther. This last consists of three several
compartments, each of different degrees of heat; the two former lie open
to the full sun, the latter, though not much exposed to its heat,
receives an equal share of its light. Over the undressing-room is built
the tennis-court, which admits of different kinds of games and different
sets of players. Not far from the baths is the staircase leading to the
enclosed portico, three rooms intervening. One of these looks out upon
the little area with the four plane-trees round it, the other upon the
meadows, and from the third you have a view of several vineyards, so
that each has a different one, and looks towards a different point of
the heavens. At the upper end of the enclosed portico, and indeed taken
off from it, is a room that looks out upon the hippodrome, the
vineyards, and the mountains; adjoining is a room which has a full
exposure to the sun, especially in winter, and out of which runs another
connecting the hippodrome with the house. This forms the front. On the
side rises an enclosed portico, which not only looks out upon the
vineyards, but seems almost to touch them. From the middle of this
portico you enter a dining-room cooled by the wholesome breezes from the
Apennine valleys: from the windows behind, which are extremely large,
there is a close view of the vineyards, and from the folding doors
through the summer portico. Along that side of the dining-room where
there are no windows runs a private staircase for greater convenience in
serving up when I give an entertainment; at the farther end is a
sleeping-room with a look-out upon the vineyards, and (what is equally
agreeable) the portico. Underneath this room is an enclosed portico
resembling a grotto, which, enjoying in the midst of summer heats its
own natural coolness, neither admits nor wants external air. After you
have passed both these porticoes, at the end of the dining-room stands a
third, which according as the day is more or less advanced, serves
either for Winter or summer use. It leads to two different apartments,
one containing four chambers, the other, three, which enjoy by turns
both sun and shade. This arrangement of the different parts of my house
is exceedingly pleasant, though it is not to be compared with the beauty
of the hippodrome,' lying entirely open in the middle of the grounds, so
that the eye, upon your first entrance, takes it in entire in one view.
It is set round with plane-trees covered with ivy, so that, while their
tops flourish with their own green, towards the roots their verdure is
borrowed from the ivy that twines round the trunk and branches, spreads
from tree to tree, and connects them together. Between each plane-tree
are planted box-trees, and behind these stands a grove of laurels which
blend their shade with that of the planes. This straight boundary to the
hippodrome[75] alters its shape at the farther end, bending into a
semicircle, which is planted round, shut in with cypresses, and casts a
deeper and gloomier shade, while the inner circular walks (for there are
several), enjoying an open exposure, are filled with plenty of roses,
and correct, by a very pleasant contrast, the coolness of the shade with
the warmth of the sun. Having passed through these several winding
alleys, you enter a straight walk, which breaks out into a variety of
others, partitioned off by box-row hedges. In one place you have a
little meadow, in another the box is cut in a thousand different forms,
sometimes into letters, expressing the master's name, sometimes the
artificer's, whilst here and there rise little obelisks with fruit-trees
alternately intermixed, and then on a sudden, in the midst of this
elegant regularity, you are surprised with an imitation of the negligent
beauties of rural nature. In the centre of this lies a spot adorned with
a knot of dwarf plane-trees. Beyond these stands an acacia, smooth and
bending in places, then again various other shapes and names. At the
upper end is an alcove of white marble, shaded with vines and supported
by four small Carystian columns. From this semicircular couch, the
water, gushing up through several little pipes, as though pressed out by
the weight of the persons who recline themselves upon it, falls into a
stone cistern underneath, from whence it is received into a fine
polished marble basin, so skilfully contrived that it is always full
without ever overflowing. When I sup here, this basin serves as a table,
the larger sort of dishes being placed round the margin, while the
smaller ones swim about in the form of vessels and water-fowl. Opposite
this is a fountain which is incessantly emptying and filling, for the
water which it throws up to a great height, falling back again into it,
is by means of consecutive apertures returned as fast as it is received.
Facing the alcove (and reflecting upon it as great an ornament as it
borrows from it) stands a summer-house of exquisite marble, the doors of
which project and open into a green enclosure, while from its upper and
lower windows the eye falls upon a variety of different greens. Next to
this is a little private closet (which, though it seems distinct, may
form part of the same room), furnished with a couch, and notwithstanding
it has windows on every side, yet it enjoys a very agreeable gloom, by
means of a spreading vine which climbs to the top, and entirely
overshadows it. Here you may lie and fancy yourself in a wood, with this
only difference, that you are not exposed to the weather as you would be
there. Here too a fountain rises and instantly disappears--several
marble seats are set in different places, which are as pleasant as the
summer-house itself after one is tired out with walking. Near each is a
little fountain, and throughout the whole hippodrome several small rills
run murmuring along through pipes, wherever the hand of art has thought
proper to conduct them, watering here and there different plots of
green, and sometimes all parts at once. I should have ended before now,
for fear of being too chatty, had I not proposed in this letter to lead
you into every corner of my house and gardens. Nor did I apprehend your
thinking it a trouble to read the description of a place which I feel
sure would please you were you to see it; especially as you can stop
just when you please, and by throwing aside my letter, sit down as it
were, and give yourself a rest as often as you think proper. Besides, I
gave my little passion indulgence, for I have a passion for what I have
built, or finished, myself. In a word, (for why should I conceal from my
friend either my deliberate opinion or my prejudice?) I look upon it as
the first duty of every writer to frequently glance over his title-page
and consider well the subject he has proposed to himself; and he may be
sure, if he dwells on his subject, he cannot justly be thought tedious,
whereas if, on the contrary, he introduces and drags in anything
irrelevant, he will be thought exceedingly so. Homer, you know, has
employed many verses in the description of the arms of Achilles, as
Virgil has also in those of Aeneas, yet neither 'of them is prolix,
because they each keep within the limits of their original design.
Aratus, you observe, is not considered too circumstantial, though he
traces and enumerates the minutest stars, for he does not go out of his
way for that purpose, but only follows where his subject leads him. In
the same way (to compare small things with great), so long as, in
endeavouring to give you an idea of my house, I have not introduced
anything irrelevant or superfluous, it is not my letter which describes,
but my villa which is described, that is to be considered large. But to
return to where I began, lest I should justly be condemned by my own
law, if I continue longer in this digression, you see now the reasons
why I prefer my Tuscan villa to those which I possess at Tusculum,
Tiber, and Praeneste.[76] Besides the advantages already mentioned, I
enjoy here a cozier, more profound and undisturbed retirement than
anywhere else, as I am at a greater distance from the business of the
town and the interruption of troublesome clients. All is calm and
composed; which circumstances contribute no less than its clear air and
unclouded sky to that health of body and mind I particularly enjoy in
this place, both of which I keep in full swing by study and hunting. And
indeed there is no place which agrees better with my family, at least I
am sure I have not yet lost one (may the expression be allowed![77]) of
all those I brought here with me. And may the gods continue that
happiness to me, and that honour to my villa. Farewell.
LIII -- To CALVISIUS
IT is certain the law does not allow a corporate city to inherit any
estate by will, or to receive a legacy. Saturninus, however, who has
appointed me his heir, had left a fourth part of his estate to our
corporation of Comum; afterwards, instead of a fourth part, he
bequeathed four hundred thousand sesterces.[78] This bequest, in the eye
of the law, is null and void, but, considered as the clear and express
will of the deceased, ought to stand firm and valid. Myself, I consider
the will of the dead (though I am afraid what I say will not please the
lawyers) of higher authority than the law, especially when the interest
of one's native country is concerned. Ought I, who made them a present
of eleven hundred thousand sesterces[79] out of my own patrimony, to
withhold a benefaction of little more than a third part of that sum out
of an estate which has come quite by a chance into my hands? You, who
like a true patriot have the same affection for this our common country,
will agree with me in opinion, I feel sure. I wish therefore you would,
at the next meeting of the Decurii, acquaint them, just briefly and
respectfully, as to how the law stands in this case, and then add that I
offer them four hundred thousand sesterces according to the direction in
Saturninus' will. You will represent this donation as his present and
his liberality; I only claim the merit of complying with his request. I
did not trouble to write to their senate about this, fully relying as I
do upon our intimate friendship and your wise discretion, and being
quite satisfied that you are both able and willing to act for me upon
this occasion as I would for myself; besides, I was afraid I should not
seem to have so cautiously guarded my expressions in a letter as you
will be able to do in a speech. The countenance, the gesture, and even
the tone of voice govern and determine the sense of the speaker, whereas
a letter, being without these advantages, is more liable to malignant
misinterpretation. Farewell.
LIV -- To MARCELLINUS