Seneca - Moral Letters - 86： On Scipio's Villa

86. On Scipio's Villa Greetings from Seneca to his friend Lucilius. 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 marvellous 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 Liturnum, thinking to make the state a debtor for his own exile no less than for the exile of Hannibal. 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 Thacian marble, once a 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. I have so far been speaking of the ordinary bathing establishments. What shall I say when I come to those of the freedmen? What a vast number of statues, of columns that support nothing but are built for decoration, merely in order to spend money! And what masses of water that fall crashing from level to level! We have become so luxurious that we will have nothing but precious stones to walk upon. In this bath of Scipio's there are tiny chinks—you cannot call them windows—cut out of the stone wall in such a way as to admit light without weakening the fortifications. Nowadays, however, people regard baths as fit only for moths if they have not been so arranged that they receive the sun all day long through the widest of windows, if men cannot bathe and get a coat of tan at the same time, and if they cannot look out from their bathtubs over stretches of land and sea. So it goes, the establishments which had drawn crowds and had won admiration when they were first opened are avoided and put back in the category of venerable antiques as soon as luxury has worked out some new device, to her own ultimate undoing. In the early days, however, there were few baths, and they were not fitted out with any display, for why should men elaborately fit out that which costs a penny only, and was invented for use, not merely for delight? The bathers of those days did not have water poured over them, nor did it always run fresh as if from a hot spring, and they did not believe that it mattered at all how perfectly pure was the water into which they were to leave their dirt. Ye gods, what a pleasure it is to enter that dark bath, covered with a common sort of roof, knowing that therein your hero Cato, as Aedile, or Fabius Maximus, or one of the Cornelii, has warmed the water with his own hands. For this also used to be the duty of the noblest Aediles, to enter these places to which the populace resorted, and to demand that they be cleaned and warmed to a heat required by considerations of use and health, not the heat that men have recently made fashionable, as great as a conflagration, so much so, indeed, that a slave condemned for some criminal offence now ought to be bathed alive. It seems to me that nowadays there is no difference between the bath is on fire, and the bath is warm. How some persons nowadays condemned Scipio as a boar, because he did not let daylight into his perspiring room through wide windows, or because he did not roast in 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 spic 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, Buchilus smells of perfume. Show me a Buchilus in these days. His smell would be the veritable goat-smell. He would take the place of the Gargonius, with whom Horus 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? If what I am saying shall seem to you too pessimistic, charge it up against Scipio's country house, where I have learned a lesson from Agialus, a most careful householder and now the owner of this estate. He taught me that a tree can be transplanted no matter how far gone in years. We old men must learn this precept, for there is none of us who is not planting an olive-yard for his successor. I have seen them bearing fruit in due season after three or four years of unproductiveness. And you too shall be shaded by the tree, which is slow to grow, but bringeth shade to cheer, your grandsons in the far-off years, as our poet Virgil says. Virgil sought, however, not what was nearest to the truth, but what was most appropriate, and aimed not to teach the farmer, but to please the reader. For example, omitting all other errors of his, I will quote the passage in which it was incumbent upon me to-day to detect a fault. In spring so beans then too, O clover plant, thou'rt welcomed by the crumbling furrows, and the millet culls for yearly care. You may judge by the following incident whether those plants should be set out at the same time, or whether both should be sowed in the spring. It is June at the present writing, and we are well on towards July, and I have seen this very day farmers harvesting beans and sowing millet. But to return to our olive-yard again, I saw it planted in two ways. If the trees were large, Agialis took their trunks, and cut off the branches to the length of one foot each. He then transplanted along with the bowl, after cutting off the roots, leaving only the thick part from which the roots hang. He smeared this with manure, and inserted it in the hole, not only heaping up the earth about it, but stamping and pressing it down. Besides, the trunk is not shaken so much, and for this reason the packing makes it possible for the young roots to come out and get a hold in the soil. These are of necessity still soft, they have but a slight hold, and a very little shaking uproots them. This bowl, moreover, Agialis lots clean before he covers it up, for he maintains that new roots spring from all the parts which have been shorn. Moreover, the trunk itself should not stand more than three or four feet out of the ground, for there will thus be at once a thick growth from the bottom, nor will there be a large stump, all dry and withered, as is the case with old olive-yards. The second way of setting them out was the following. He set out in similar fashion branches that were strong and of soft bark, as those of young saplings are wont to be. These grow a little more slowly, but since they spring from what is practically a cutting, there is no roughness or ugliness in them. This too I have seen recently, an aged vine transplanted from its own plantation. In this case the fibres should be gathered together, if possible, and then you should cover up the vine stem more generously, so that roots may spring up even from the stalk. I have seen such plantings made not only in February, but at the very end of March. The plants take hold of and embrace alien elms. But old trees, he declares, which are, so to speak, thick-stemmed, should be assisted with tank-water. If we have this help, we are our own rainmakers. I do not intend to tell you any more of these precepts, lest, as Agialis did with me, I may be training you up to be my competitor. Farewell.