Scribonia, a woman of the stern old type, was an aunt of Drusus Libo. This young man was as stupid as he was well born, with higher ambitions than anyone could have been expected to entertain in that epoch, or a man like himself in any epoch at all.
When Libo had been carried away ill from the senate-house in his litter, though certainly with a very scanty train of followers—for all his kinsfolk undutifully deserted him, when he was no longer a criminal but a corpse—he began to consider whether he should commit suicide, or await death.
Scribonia said to him: "What pleasure do you find in doing another man's work?"
But he did not follow her advice; he laid violent hands upon himself. And he was right, after all; for when a man is doomed to die in two or three days at his enemy's pleasure, he is really "doing another man's work" if he continues to live.
When Libo had been carried away ill from the senate-house in his litter, though certainly with a very scanty train of followers—for all his kinsfolk undutifully deserted him, when he was no longer a criminal but a corpse—he began to consider whether he should commit suicide, or await death.
Scribonia said to him: "What pleasure do you find in doing another man's work?"
But he did not follow her advice; he laid violent hands upon himself. And he was right, after all; for when a man is doomed to die in two or three days at his enemy's pleasure, he is really "doing another man's work" if he continues to live.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 70
My knowledge of Roman history is sadly not as thorough as I would like it to be, so I had to look up the story of Drusus Libo in the Annals of Tacitus.
At first glance, Seneca may seem to approve of Libo’s decision to take his own life, if for no other reason than he was, at least, redeeming himself of shame and speeding on the inevitable, but when I read the account in Tacitus, I found myself more confused than before. It simply goes to show how our human situation always admits of challenging subtleties, and it is never so easy to unravel a man’s inner motives.
There seems to be a consensus that Libo was neither a thoughtful nor a principled man; he had, after all, permitted himself to be lured by Firmius Catus into flirting with treacherous ambitions against the Emperor, while also falling into a panic when his scheming enemies exposed him. Was it prudence and courage that drove Libo, or was it rather desperation and fear? This makes all the difference, and it is the most important lesson I take away from this letter.
Did the Emperor Tiberius really mean it when he later said that he would have spared Libo’s life, or was he merely putting on another show? Whatever the wretched man’s ultimate fate, it would not have been pleasant, and this is where anyone in a similar situation must take stock of his priorities. Perhaps Scribonia was just being ornery, and perhaps Libo was just being obtuse, and it goes to show why nothing is as simple as it appears.
Instead of speaking either for Libo or for Seneca’s estimation of him, I can only speak for myself. I wish to say that I would have chosen rather differently than Libo did, and yet I am forced to remember all the times I have acted recklessly out of distress.
From the comfort of my rocking chair, I now propose that facing my trial and taking my punishment, without any pathetic pleading or bitter complaint, would give me the opportunity to finally stop being a spoiled brat: a reform at the last moment is no less of a noble deed. But please get back to me if I actually find myself in such circumstances.
I am misdirecting my attention if I am worried about what another man’s work should be, when my true task is taking responsibility for my own work. I only equivocate when I am trying to pass the buck.
My knowledge of Roman history is sadly not as thorough as I would like it to be, so I had to look up the story of Drusus Libo in the Annals of Tacitus.
At first glance, Seneca may seem to approve of Libo’s decision to take his own life, if for no other reason than he was, at least, redeeming himself of shame and speeding on the inevitable, but when I read the account in Tacitus, I found myself more confused than before. It simply goes to show how our human situation always admits of challenging subtleties, and it is never so easy to unravel a man’s inner motives.
There seems to be a consensus that Libo was neither a thoughtful nor a principled man; he had, after all, permitted himself to be lured by Firmius Catus into flirting with treacherous ambitions against the Emperor, while also falling into a panic when his scheming enemies exposed him. Was it prudence and courage that drove Libo, or was it rather desperation and fear? This makes all the difference, and it is the most important lesson I take away from this letter.
Did the Emperor Tiberius really mean it when he later said that he would have spared Libo’s life, or was he merely putting on another show? Whatever the wretched man’s ultimate fate, it would not have been pleasant, and this is where anyone in a similar situation must take stock of his priorities. Perhaps Scribonia was just being ornery, and perhaps Libo was just being obtuse, and it goes to show why nothing is as simple as it appears.
Instead of speaking either for Libo or for Seneca’s estimation of him, I can only speak for myself. I wish to say that I would have chosen rather differently than Libo did, and yet I am forced to remember all the times I have acted recklessly out of distress.
From the comfort of my rocking chair, I now propose that facing my trial and taking my punishment, without any pathetic pleading or bitter complaint, would give me the opportunity to finally stop being a spoiled brat: a reform at the last moment is no less of a noble deed. But please get back to me if I actually find myself in such circumstances.
I am misdirecting my attention if I am worried about what another man’s work should be, when my true task is taking responsibility for my own work. I only equivocate when I am trying to pass the buck.
—Reflection written in 8/2013
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