How some persons nowadays condemn Scipio as a boor because he did not let daylight into his perspiring room through wide windows, or because he did not roast in the strong sunlight and dawdle about until he could stew in the hot water!
“Poor fool,” they say, “he did not know how to live! He did not bathe in filtered water; it was often turbid, and after heavy rains almost muddy!”
But it did not matter much to Scipio if he had to bathe in that way; he went there to wash off sweat, not ointment. And how do you suppose certain persons will answer me? They will say: “I don’t envy Scipio; that was truly an exile’s life—to put up with baths like those!”
Friend, if you were wiser, you would know that Scipio did not bathe every day. It is stated by those who have reported to us the old-time ways of Rome that the Romans washed only their arms and legs daily—because those were the members which gathered dirt in their daily toil—and bathed all over only once a week.
Here someone will retort: “Yes; pretty dirty fellows they evidently were! How they must have smelled!”
But they smelled of the camp, the farm, and heroism. Now that spick-and-span bathing establishments have been devised, men are really fouler than of yore.
What says Horatius Flaccus, when he wishes to describe a scoundrel, one who is notorious for his extreme luxury? He says: “Buccillus smells of perfume.”
Show me a Buccillus in these days; his smell would be the veritable goat-smell—he would take the place of the Gargonius with whom Horace in the same passage contrasted him. It is nowadays not enough to use ointment, unless you put on a fresh coat two or three times a day, to keep it from evaporating on the body. But why should a man boast of this perfume as if it were his own?
“Poor fool,” they say, “he did not know how to live! He did not bathe in filtered water; it was often turbid, and after heavy rains almost muddy!”
But it did not matter much to Scipio if he had to bathe in that way; he went there to wash off sweat, not ointment. And how do you suppose certain persons will answer me? They will say: “I don’t envy Scipio; that was truly an exile’s life—to put up with baths like those!”
Friend, if you were wiser, you would know that Scipio did not bathe every day. It is stated by those who have reported to us the old-time ways of Rome that the Romans washed only their arms and legs daily—because those were the members which gathered dirt in their daily toil—and bathed all over only once a week.
Here someone will retort: “Yes; pretty dirty fellows they evidently were! How they must have smelled!”
But they smelled of the camp, the farm, and heroism. Now that spick-and-span bathing establishments have been devised, men are really fouler than of yore.
What says Horatius Flaccus, when he wishes to describe a scoundrel, one who is notorious for his extreme luxury? He says: “Buccillus smells of perfume.”
Show me a Buccillus in these days; his smell would be the veritable goat-smell—he would take the place of the Gargonius with whom Horace in the same passage contrasted him. It is nowadays not enough to use ointment, unless you put on a fresh coat two or three times a day, to keep it from evaporating on the body. But why should a man boast of this perfume as if it were his own?
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 86
As a child of two continents, it was sometimes hard to feel at home, but it also gave me the benefit of seeing a few things from a broader perspective. Even in my own lifetime, many of those contrasts have gradually disappeared, as our cultures become homogenized, so I now torture my own children with endless stories about how both America and Europe used to be. Like Seneca, my intention is to point toward what is perennial, not merely to linger on the past.
At American schools, I was confused when my peers were always talking about taking showers, at many different times during the day, and they became deeply anxious if they were ever denied the chance to do so. There were showers in the morning, and showers in the evening, and showers after sports or any sort of physical exertion. I finally realized they had an aversion to the slightest presence of sweat, which also explained why the continually covered themselves with a variety of deodorants and antiperspirants.
Now my mother, very of much of the European old school, would not have permitted me to leave the house dirty or smelly, but I was never told to shower daily. I was, however, expected to wash thoroughly as a part of my routine, and I would be sent back to the bathroom if I cut any corners. A sink, a washcloth, and a bar of soap were the tools. A proper bath was added once a week, and only more often if I somehow made a terrible mess of myself.
To the American, the European would seem like a filthy beast, stinking to high heaven, and to the European, the American would seem like a spoiled brat, wallowing in decadence. Both were exaggerations, of course, and yet I couldn’t help but notice how the average Bostonian was still a far sloppier, grubbier, and, dare I say, ruder fellow than the average Austrian. Let us be careful about what we mean by being clean.
Both Seneca and my mother may have been on to something.
By the time I became a teacher, my students still appeared to be showering before class, since most of them crawled in with wet hair, but I was sometimes alarmed by the smell in the room. No, it wasn’t just sweat, it was also stale beer, masked by the pungent scent of cheap body spray. I once observed a young man fumigate himself from head to toe with a can, for well over a minute, which was a world away from my spritz of 4711 after shaving, or that dab of Eau Sauvage on a special occasion, from a bottle that lasted me over a decade.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
I can honestly say that I am very rarely offended by someone’s body odor, and when I am, I must remind myself that it is usually due to circumstances beyond their control. A man who has been working probably should smell of sweat, though if he is well-mannered, he will wash up before he sits down at the table. Nor do I mind the smell of hay, compost, goats, horses, or cattle, as they are a sign that I am in a properly natural place.
What does sadden me, however, is the attempt to conceal our rough physicality, to hide behind some fancy perfume. It is yet another instance of putting on an act, of pretending to be better than we really are. No, I correct myself: not better at all, but worse, because we are hardly being authentic. It isn’t our scent to begin with.
A man should not have to drench himself with chemicals before he faces the world, and a woman should not have to spend an hour “putting on her face” before she is taken seriously.
As a child of two continents, it was sometimes hard to feel at home, but it also gave me the benefit of seeing a few things from a broader perspective. Even in my own lifetime, many of those contrasts have gradually disappeared, as our cultures become homogenized, so I now torture my own children with endless stories about how both America and Europe used to be. Like Seneca, my intention is to point toward what is perennial, not merely to linger on the past.
At American schools, I was confused when my peers were always talking about taking showers, at many different times during the day, and they became deeply anxious if they were ever denied the chance to do so. There were showers in the morning, and showers in the evening, and showers after sports or any sort of physical exertion. I finally realized they had an aversion to the slightest presence of sweat, which also explained why the continually covered themselves with a variety of deodorants and antiperspirants.
Now my mother, very of much of the European old school, would not have permitted me to leave the house dirty or smelly, but I was never told to shower daily. I was, however, expected to wash thoroughly as a part of my routine, and I would be sent back to the bathroom if I cut any corners. A sink, a washcloth, and a bar of soap were the tools. A proper bath was added once a week, and only more often if I somehow made a terrible mess of myself.
To the American, the European would seem like a filthy beast, stinking to high heaven, and to the European, the American would seem like a spoiled brat, wallowing in decadence. Both were exaggerations, of course, and yet I couldn’t help but notice how the average Bostonian was still a far sloppier, grubbier, and, dare I say, ruder fellow than the average Austrian. Let us be careful about what we mean by being clean.
Both Seneca and my mother may have been on to something.
By the time I became a teacher, my students still appeared to be showering before class, since most of them crawled in with wet hair, but I was sometimes alarmed by the smell in the room. No, it wasn’t just sweat, it was also stale beer, masked by the pungent scent of cheap body spray. I once observed a young man fumigate himself from head to toe with a can, for well over a minute, which was a world away from my spritz of 4711 after shaving, or that dab of Eau Sauvage on a special occasion, from a bottle that lasted me over a decade.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
I can honestly say that I am very rarely offended by someone’s body odor, and when I am, I must remind myself that it is usually due to circumstances beyond their control. A man who has been working probably should smell of sweat, though if he is well-mannered, he will wash up before he sits down at the table. Nor do I mind the smell of hay, compost, goats, horses, or cattle, as they are a sign that I am in a properly natural place.
What does sadden me, however, is the attempt to conceal our rough physicality, to hide behind some fancy perfume. It is yet another instance of putting on an act, of pretending to be better than we really are. No, I correct myself: not better at all, but worse, because we are hardly being authentic. It isn’t our scent to begin with.
A man should not have to drench himself with chemicals before he faces the world, and a woman should not have to spend an hour “putting on her face” before she is taken seriously.
—Reflection written in 1/2014
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