Letter 86: On Scipio’s villa
I am resting at the country house which once belonged to Scipio Africanus himself; and I write to you after doing reverence to his spirit and to an altar which I am inclined to think is the tomb of that great warrior.
That his soul has indeed returned to the skies, whence it came, I am convinced, not because he commanded mighty armies—for Cambyses also had mighty armies, and Cambyses was a madman who made successful use of his madness—but because he showed moderation and a sense of duty to a marvelous extent.
I regard this trait in him as more admirable after his withdrawal from his native land than while he was defending her; for there was the alternative: Scipio should remain in Rome, or Rome should remain free.
“It is my wish,” said he, “not to infringe in the least upon our laws, or upon our customs; let all Roman citizens have equal rights. O my country, make the most of the good that I have done, but without me. I have been the cause of your freedom, and I shall also be its proof; I go into exile, if it is true that I have grown beyond what is to your advantage!”
What can I do but admire this magnanimity, which led him to withdraw into voluntary exile and to relieve the state of its burden? Matters had gone so far that either liberty must work harm to Scipio, or Scipio to liberty. Either of these things was wrong in the sight of heaven.
So he gave way to the laws and withdrew to Liternum, thinking to make the state a debtor for his own exile no less than for the exile of Hannibal.
I am resting at the country house which once belonged to Scipio Africanus himself; and I write to you after doing reverence to his spirit and to an altar which I am inclined to think is the tomb of that great warrior.
That his soul has indeed returned to the skies, whence it came, I am convinced, not because he commanded mighty armies—for Cambyses also had mighty armies, and Cambyses was a madman who made successful use of his madness—but because he showed moderation and a sense of duty to a marvelous extent.
I regard this trait in him as more admirable after his withdrawal from his native land than while he was defending her; for there was the alternative: Scipio should remain in Rome, or Rome should remain free.
“It is my wish,” said he, “not to infringe in the least upon our laws, or upon our customs; let all Roman citizens have equal rights. O my country, make the most of the good that I have done, but without me. I have been the cause of your freedom, and I shall also be its proof; I go into exile, if it is true that I have grown beyond what is to your advantage!”
What can I do but admire this magnanimity, which led him to withdraw into voluntary exile and to relieve the state of its burden? Matters had gone so far that either liberty must work harm to Scipio, or Scipio to liberty. Either of these things was wrong in the sight of heaven.
So he gave way to the laws and withdrew to Liternum, thinking to make the state a debtor for his own exile no less than for the exile of Hannibal.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 86
I first came to Stoicism because it offered me the only practical solution to a very pressing problem: whatever am I to do about the burden of my pain? It asks me to take the basic principles of my nature—about what is good, what is bad, and what is indifferent—and then to directly apply these values in my daily living. The school only appears radical or esoteric if we fail to recognize how it draws all of its conclusions from the universal truths held by any of the world’s wisdom traditions.
It didn’t hurt, however, that I also had an immediate attraction to the peculiar styles of its authors. Musonius Rufus speaks like the teacher I always wished I had. Epictetus has the knack for knocking some sense back into me. Marcus Aurelius expertly calms my wayward passions. And Seneca is the old codger who reminds me why it is okay for me to be a young codger.
Those who care for me have sometimes called me an “old soul”, while those who don’t care for me are likely to describe me as an insufferable curmudgeon. My inclinations tend toward the melancholic, the romantic, and the nostalgic, which make for an interesting brew, such that I will often come across as a hopeless idealist who yearns for some long-lost world.
So, while many people will skip this letter, I find it fascinating to read a retired patrician’s musings about his stay in the former home of a Roman hero. If you are patient, you may find how his glorification of the past can be a guide for our future, and why his pensive observations about bathing and gardening are actually timeless insights into the best and the worst of the human condition.
I am not in the habit of deifying a mortal, but despite the flaws he surely possessed, the Stoics were quite right to praise the character of Scipio Africanus. I regularly turn to the story of his continence during the Second Punic War, to the point where I seek out its depiction in art, but here Seneca admires a moment from his later life, when Scipio was happy to withdraw from the public square, as his continued presence could only lead to greater partisan squabbling.
How often do we find a soldier who can refuse the spoils of war? How often do we find a politician who can resist the temptation of further glory? We are fools to think that a man who cannot rule himself in the bedroom is fit to rule a nation, or that those who only serve their vanity are ever worthy of being served by their subjects. Scipio understood why his own good and the good of his people were always one and the same.
I suppose that might sound a little too crotchety and reactionary for some? At least I am in the good company of Seneca, who understood why the best way is not necessarily the same as the fashionable way. I often think of a quote from A.E. Taylor:
In short, if we mean to be philosophical, our main concern will be that our beliefs should be true; we shall care very little whether they happen to be popular or unpopular with the intellectual 'proletarians' of the moment, and if we can get at a truth, we shall not mind having to go back a long way for it.
I first came to Stoicism because it offered me the only practical solution to a very pressing problem: whatever am I to do about the burden of my pain? It asks me to take the basic principles of my nature—about what is good, what is bad, and what is indifferent—and then to directly apply these values in my daily living. The school only appears radical or esoteric if we fail to recognize how it draws all of its conclusions from the universal truths held by any of the world’s wisdom traditions.
It didn’t hurt, however, that I also had an immediate attraction to the peculiar styles of its authors. Musonius Rufus speaks like the teacher I always wished I had. Epictetus has the knack for knocking some sense back into me. Marcus Aurelius expertly calms my wayward passions. And Seneca is the old codger who reminds me why it is okay for me to be a young codger.
Those who care for me have sometimes called me an “old soul”, while those who don’t care for me are likely to describe me as an insufferable curmudgeon. My inclinations tend toward the melancholic, the romantic, and the nostalgic, which make for an interesting brew, such that I will often come across as a hopeless idealist who yearns for some long-lost world.
So, while many people will skip this letter, I find it fascinating to read a retired patrician’s musings about his stay in the former home of a Roman hero. If you are patient, you may find how his glorification of the past can be a guide for our future, and why his pensive observations about bathing and gardening are actually timeless insights into the best and the worst of the human condition.
I am not in the habit of deifying a mortal, but despite the flaws he surely possessed, the Stoics were quite right to praise the character of Scipio Africanus. I regularly turn to the story of his continence during the Second Punic War, to the point where I seek out its depiction in art, but here Seneca admires a moment from his later life, when Scipio was happy to withdraw from the public square, as his continued presence could only lead to greater partisan squabbling.
How often do we find a soldier who can refuse the spoils of war? How often do we find a politician who can resist the temptation of further glory? We are fools to think that a man who cannot rule himself in the bedroom is fit to rule a nation, or that those who only serve their vanity are ever worthy of being served by their subjects. Scipio understood why his own good and the good of his people were always one and the same.
I suppose that might sound a little too crotchety and reactionary for some? At least I am in the good company of Seneca, who understood why the best way is not necessarily the same as the fashionable way. I often think of a quote from A.E. Taylor:
In short, if we mean to be philosophical, our main concern will be that our beliefs should be true; we shall care very little whether they happen to be popular or unpopular with the intellectual 'proletarians' of the moment, and if we can get at a truth, we shall not mind having to go back a long way for it.
—Reflection written in 1/2014
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