I have inspected the house, which is constructed of hewn stone; the wall which encloses a forest; the towers also, buttressed out on both sides for the purpose of defending the house; the well, concealed among buildings and shrubbery, large enough to keep a whole army supplied; and the small bath, buried in darkness according to the old style, for our ancestors did not think that one could have a hot bath except in darkness.
It was therefore a great pleasure to me to contrast Scipio’s ways with our own. Think, in this tiny recess the “terror of Carthage,” to whom Rome should offer thanks because she was not captured more than once, used to bathe a body wearied with work in the fields!
For he was accustomed to keep himself busy and to cultivate the soil with his own hands, as the good old Romans were wont to do. Beneath this dingy roof he stood; and this floor, mean as it is, bore his weight.
But who in these days could bear to bathe in such a fashion? We think ourselves poor and mean if our walls are not resplendent with large and costly mirrors; if our marbles from Alexandria are not set off by mosaics of Numidian stone, if their borders are not faced over on all sides with difficult patterns, arranged in many colors like paintings; if our vaulted ceilings are not buried in glass; if our swimming-pools are not lined with Thasian marble, once a rare and wonderful sight in any temple—pools into which we let down our bodies after they have been drained weak by abundant perspiration; and finally, if the water has not poured from silver spigots.
It was therefore a great pleasure to me to contrast Scipio’s ways with our own. Think, in this tiny recess the “terror of Carthage,” to whom Rome should offer thanks because she was not captured more than once, used to bathe a body wearied with work in the fields!
For he was accustomed to keep himself busy and to cultivate the soil with his own hands, as the good old Romans were wont to do. Beneath this dingy roof he stood; and this floor, mean as it is, bore his weight.
But who in these days could bear to bathe in such a fashion? We think ourselves poor and mean if our walls are not resplendent with large and costly mirrors; if our marbles from Alexandria are not set off by mosaics of Numidian stone, if their borders are not faced over on all sides with difficult patterns, arranged in many colors like paintings; if our vaulted ceilings are not buried in glass; if our swimming-pools are not lined with Thasian marble, once a rare and wonderful sight in any temple—pools into which we let down our bodies after they have been drained weak by abundant perspiration; and finally, if the water has not poured from silver spigots.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 86.2
If you carefully examine the contents of a man’s home, you also can learn much about the content of his character.
This is only possible, however, if we do not confuse preferences with principles, the style for the substance, since in matters of taste there can be no dispute. Consider instead how a choice of surroundings reflects a deeper judgment about the perceived goods in life, and whether the furnishings are intended to gratify the body or to dignify the soul.
This has less to do with how much we might possess, and more to do with why we might wish to possess it. Is the house a place to grow in love, or is it a means to impress the neighbors? Are those books consulted for the sake of wisdom, or they displayed for the sake of putting on an act? Observe the setting, and you will soon have your answer.
I cannot claim to understand the Roman customs about bathing, but I have noticed how Americans are increasingly concerned about the size of their kitchens. This seems odd, because our families are far smaller than they ever were, and we cook far less than we ever did.
I compare my grandmother, who would prepare meals all day in a space not much larger than a closet, to my boss’s trophy wife, who displays a row of unused cappuccino makers on her granite countertops.
I am confused when the pantry in a McMansion has its own echo. I can’t figure out why a man has three different grills on his patio, and yet he only orders out from Rib Crib. If there are towels in the guest bathroom, I shouldn’t have to worry about drying my hands with them. If the pair of 4x4 trucks in the driveway are meant to make you look like a gentleman farmer, I would at least expect there to be some mud on the fenders.
As for my own bathroom, our real estate agent insisted that the cavernous jacuzzi was a major selling point, and yet I miss the cozy tub of my youth. I don’t need mood lighting to brush my teeth, or a dozen mirrors to comb my hair. And still, my mailbox is full of brochures about updating my obsolete conveniences: “Act now, before it’s too late!”
Through all of this nonsense, my trusty tomcat is happy to do all of his business in the field behind the house.
If you carefully examine the contents of a man’s home, you also can learn much about the content of his character.
This is only possible, however, if we do not confuse preferences with principles, the style for the substance, since in matters of taste there can be no dispute. Consider instead how a choice of surroundings reflects a deeper judgment about the perceived goods in life, and whether the furnishings are intended to gratify the body or to dignify the soul.
This has less to do with how much we might possess, and more to do with why we might wish to possess it. Is the house a place to grow in love, or is it a means to impress the neighbors? Are those books consulted for the sake of wisdom, or they displayed for the sake of putting on an act? Observe the setting, and you will soon have your answer.
I cannot claim to understand the Roman customs about bathing, but I have noticed how Americans are increasingly concerned about the size of their kitchens. This seems odd, because our families are far smaller than they ever were, and we cook far less than we ever did.
I compare my grandmother, who would prepare meals all day in a space not much larger than a closet, to my boss’s trophy wife, who displays a row of unused cappuccino makers on her granite countertops.
I am confused when the pantry in a McMansion has its own echo. I can’t figure out why a man has three different grills on his patio, and yet he only orders out from Rib Crib. If there are towels in the guest bathroom, I shouldn’t have to worry about drying my hands with them. If the pair of 4x4 trucks in the driveway are meant to make you look like a gentleman farmer, I would at least expect there to be some mud on the fenders.
As for my own bathroom, our real estate agent insisted that the cavernous jacuzzi was a major selling point, and yet I miss the cozy tub of my youth. I don’t need mood lighting to brush my teeth, or a dozen mirrors to comb my hair. And still, my mailbox is full of brochures about updating my obsolete conveniences: “Act now, before it’s too late!”
Through all of this nonsense, my trusty tomcat is happy to do all of his business in the field behind the house.
—Reflection written in 1/2014
IMAGE: Fortunino Matania, A Roman Senator in His Lakeside Villa (c. 1920)
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