On another occasion, O Seneca, I begged and obtained the pardon of a great man indeed.[24] I should desire similar indulgence on thy part, if I express myself more sharply than is quite consistent with the reverence due to thy calling and to the peace of the grave. Whosoever has seen that I have not spared Marcus Cicero—whom (upon thy authority[25]) I called the bright luminary and fountain-head of Latin eloquence—will surely have no just cause for indignation because in continuing to speak the truth, I shall not spare thee or anyone else. I derive great enjoyment from speaking with you, O illustrious characters of antiquity. Each succeeding age has suffered your works to remain in great neglect; but our own age is quite content, in its ignorance, with a dearth that has become extraordinary. For my part, I daily listen to your words with more attention than can be believed; and so, perchance, I shall not be considered impertinent in desiring you in your turn to listen to me once.
I am fully aware that thou art to be numbered among those whose names are illustrious. Were I unable to gather this from any other source, I should still learn it from a great foreign authority. Plutarch, a Greek and the tutor of Emperor Trajan, in comparing the renowned men of his country with those of ours, opposed Marcus Varro to Plato and Aristotle (the former of whom the Greeks call divine, the latter inspired), Vergil to Homer, and Marcus Tullius to Demosthenes. He finally dared to discuss even the vexed question of military leaders, in the treatment of which he was not hampered by the respect due to his great pupil. In one department of learning, however, he did not blush to acknowledge that the genius of the Greeks was distinctly inferior, saying that he knew not whom to place on a par with thee in the field of moral philosophy.[26] Great praise this, especially from the mouth of a man proud of his race, and a startling concession, seeing that he had opposed his Alexander the Macedon to our Julius Caesar.
I cannot explain why it is, but often the most perfect mold of either mind or body is marred by some serious blemish of nature, which speaks in such various language. It may be that our common mother denies perfection to mankind (the more so, indeed, the nearer we seem to approach it), or else that among so much that is beautiful even the slightest defect becomes noticeable. That which in a face of average beauty might be considered an engaging and attractive mark becomes a positively ugly scar on features of surpassing beauty. The juxtaposition of contradictory things always sheds light upon doubtful points.
And yet do thou, O venerable sir and (according to Plutarch) incomparable teacher of moral philosophy, do thou review with me calmly the great error of thy life. Thou didst fall upon evil days, in the reign of the most savage ruler within the memory of man.[27] Though thyself a peaceful mariner, thou didst guide thy bark, heavily laden as it was with the most precious goods, toward an unspeakably dangerous and tempestuous reef. But, I ask, why didst thou tarry there? Was it, perhaps, that thou mightest the better evince thy masterly skill in so stormy a sea? None but a madman would have thus chosen. To be sure, it is the part of a brave man to face danger resolutely, but not that of a wise man to seek it. Were the prudent man to be given a free choice, he would so live that there would never be need of bravery; for nothing would ever happen to him that would compel him to make any call upon it. The wise man will rather (as the name implies) check all excessive demonstrations of joy, and confine his desires within proper bounds. But since the accidents of life are countless, and since our best-laid plans are many times undone thereby, we must oppose to mad fortune an unconquerable fortitude, not from choice (as I have already said), but in obedience to the hard, inexorable laws of necessity.
But shall I not seem to have lost my senses if I continue to preach on virtue to the great teacher of morality, and if I labor to prove that which can by no manner of means be confuted, namely, that it was folly to remain among the shoals? I leave it for thee to judge—nay, for anyone who has learned to sail the sea of life even tolerably well. If thy object was to reap glory from the very difficulty of thy situation, I answer that it would have been most glorious to extricate thyself therefrom and to bring thy ship in safety to some port. Thou didst see the sword hanging perpetually over thy head, yet didst fear not, nor didst thou take any step to escape from such a perilous existence. And thou shouldst have, especially since thou must have realized that thy death was to be that most wretched of all deaths—one entirely devoid of advantage to others and of glory to thyself. Thou hadst fallen, O pitiable man, into the hands of one who had the power to do what he willed,[28] but who willed nothing except it were most vile. At the very beginning of thy intimate acquaintance with him thou wert warned by a startling dream,[29] and thereafter, whenever thou wert closely observant, thou didst discover many traits that proved thy fears to be well grounded. What, therefore, could induce thee to remain so long a member of his household? What couldst thou have in common with such an inhuman and bloodstained pupil? or with courtiers so repugnant to thy very nature? Thou mayest answer: “I wished to flee, but could not;” and thou mayest adduce as a plea that verse of Cleanthes which thou art wont to quote in its Latin form:
Fate leads the willing and drags the unwilling.[30]
Thou mayest, moreover, assert that thou didst desire to renounce thy life of ease, to break the toils in which wealth had enmeshed thee, and, even though in utter destitution, to escape from such a whirlpool. This defense was known also to the ancient historians, and I who follow in their footsteps was not able to pass it over in silence.[31] But if I concealed my innermost thoughts when defending thee in public, dost thou suppose that now, when my words are addressed directly to thee, I shall suppress what my indignation and love of truth urge me to say? Come now, approach nearer, that no stranger may overhear on becoming aware that time has not robbed us of a knowledge of thy doings.
We have (thou must know) a most trustworthy authority, one who, though writing of men in the highest station, was influenced neither by fear nor favor, Suetonius Tranquillus. And dost thou know what he says? That thou didst discourage Nero’s reading of the ancient orators in order that thou mightest retain him the longer as an admirer of thine own writings.[32] In other words, thou didst strive with might and main to be dear to one to whom thou shouldst have found some means of becoming an object of sovereign contempt and derision, by either feigning to have, or else really possessing, an irrepressible tongue. Am I not right? The first cause of all thy misery was the shallowness of thy aim, not to say its worthlessness. Though weighed down with years, thou didst pursue the elusive phantom of glory entirely too joyously, I might almost say childishly. Let us grant for the moment that it was the advice of another, or an error on thy part, or even fate that made thee the teacher of that ungovernable man—for in seeking to excuse our own faults we are wont to lay the blame on fate. But it was thy fault that thou didst remain his sponsor. Thou canst not accuse fortune; thy prayers were answered and thou obtainedst that which thou hadst so ardently longed for.
But how was it all to end? Ah, thou wretched man! Since thou hadst endeared thyself to that wild youth to such an extent as to render it impossible for him to leave thee at will, shouldst thou not at least have borne with greater resignation the yoke which thou hadst assumed of thine own accord?[33] Shouldst thou not at least have refrained from branding the name of thy master with everlasting infamy?[34] Didst thou not know that tragedy is the most serious of all compositions, as Naso says?[35] And we all know how biting, how virulent, and how vehement is the tragedy that thou didst write against him.[36] Receive my words in good part, O Seneca, and be calm, for the more impatiently one listens to the truth the more deeply is he wounded by it. Unless perchance I am wronging thee, and the contention of some be true, that the author of those tragedies is not thou, but another bearing the same name. For the Spaniards assert both that Cordova produced two Senecas,[37] and that the name of that tragedy (written against Nero) is Octavia. In this play there is a passage that gives rise to the suspicion of authorship.[38] If we accept the conclusions drawn therefrom, thou wilt be entirely acquitted of having written the tragedy to avenge the burden of thy yoke. As far as style is concerned, that other author (whoever he is) is by no means thy inferior, although he is later than thou in time and far behind thee in reputation. The more inadequate is the attack on infamous conduct, the weaker is the intellectual power of the writer. Indeed, beyond the attack on Nero there is (in my opinion) no other excuse for the writing of that much-discussed play. And the attack must be inadequate in this case, for I realize that no bitterness of either thought or expression could be quite commensurate with the abominable deeds of that man—if he be worthy the name of man.
Consider, however, whether it was proper for thee to write of him as thou didst, when the relationship between you was that of subject and sovereign, subordinate and superior, teacher and pupil. Was it fitting that thou shouldst write thus of him whom it was thy custom to flatter, or rather (not to mince matters) by flattering, deceive? Re-read the books which thou didst dedicate to him on the subject of Mercy;[39] recollect the sentiments expressed in the volume which thou didst address to Polybius on Consolation; finally, run over thy other works, the fruit of many sleepless nights, provided that the waters of Lethe have not wiped out all memory of them. Do as I say, and (I am sure) thou wilt be ashamed of the praises thou didst lavish upon thy pupil. I for one cannot comprehend thy effrontery in penning such words of such a man; I cannot read them without a sense of shame. But thou wilt have recourse to the customary defense, I know. Thou wilt adduce the youth of the prince and his disposition, which gave promise of much better results; and thou wilt endeavor to defend the error of thy choice by his sudden and unexpected change in life.[40] As if these arguments were unknown to us! But consider this, how utterly inexcusable it was that a few, unimportant acts of a charlatan prince, and his murmured hypocritical phrases on duty, should have warped the mind and judgment of a man of thy discretion, thy years, thy experience in life, and thy learning. Tell me, pray, what deed of Nero pleased thee? I mean of course before he plunged headlong into the abyss of disgraceful crimes—that earlier period whose deeds some historians record (to use their own words)[41] with no reproof, others with no inconsiderable amount of praise. Which of them, I ask, pleased thee? Was it his fondness for contending in the chariot-race,[42] or for playing on the cithern? We read, in fact, that he diligently applied himself to these pursuits; that at first he practiced in secret, in the presence of his slaves and the squalid poor only, but that later he performed even in public, and, though a monarch, drove his chariot in sight of all Rome like an ordinary charioteer; and that, posing as a pre-eminent player, he worshiped the cithern presented to him as if it had been a divinity.[43] At last, elated at these successes, and as if not content with the critical acumen of the Italians, he visited Achaia, and, puffed up by the adulation of the art-loving Greeks, declared that only they were worthy of being his listeners.[44] Ridiculous monster, savage beast![45] Or, perhaps, didst thou consider the following a sure omen of a good and conscientious ruler, that he consecrated on the Capitol his first growth of beard, the first molting of his inhuman face?[46]