A Consolation to Himself Upon the Departure of the Excellent Sallust

If I were not to discourse with you on the same matters on which I have discoursed with myself — now that I have learned you must journey away from us — I should think myself the poorer in consolation, my dear comrade; or rather, I should reckon that I had at the very outset procured for myself no relief at all, unless I shared it with you. For since we two have shared in common many labours, both grievous and pleasant, in deed and in word, in private affairs and in public, at home and on campaign, we must find some healing remedy in common for our present circumstances, whatever they may be. But who could imitate for us the lyre of Orpheus, or echo back the songs of the Sirens, or discover the drug that banishes grief — whether it was that tale full of Egyptian stories, or what he himself composed when in the verses that follow he wove in the sufferings of Troy, since Helen had learned from the Egyptians not what the Greeks and Trojans did to one another, but rather of what kind those words ought to be that will take away the pains from men's souls and prove the authors of gladness and serenity? For pleasure and pain, somehow, seem to be fastened to the same crest and to give place to one another by turns. The wise say that even the most toilsome of the things that befall us bring to the man of understanding a satisfaction no less than their hardship, since the bee too draws sweet dew from the bitterest herb that grows about Hymettus, and is the maker of honey. Moreover, those bodies which are sound and robust are nourished by whatever food comes to hand, and things that seem disagreeable have often proved to such men not merely harmless but the very cause of strength; whereas to those whose bodies are in poor condition by nature, by diet, and by habit, ailing the whole of their lives, even the lightest things are wont to add the heaviest harm. So too of the mind: those who have so tended it that it is not utterly diseased but moderately healthy — even if not with the vigour of Antisthenes and Socrates, nor the manliness of Callisthenes, nor the imperturbability of Polemo, yet so as to be able to choose the moderate course in such matters — may perhaps find contentment even in more troublesome circumstances.

I myself, indeed, making trial of myself, to see how I am and shall be disposed toward your departure, was grieved as deeply as when first I left behind at home my own teacher. For all at once the memory of everything came over me: of the fellowship in our labours, which we bore together with one another; of the unfeigned and pure converse; of the guileless and just companionship; of our joint action in all that was honourable; of the steadfast and unregretted zeal and resolve we showed against the wicked, of how often we stood side by side with equal spirit, of like temper and beloved friends. And besides all this there came over me the memory of "Odysseus was left alone" — for now I am very like to him, since a god has led you, as Hector, out of range of the missiles which the slanderers so often let fly at you, or rather at me, wishing through you to wound me, supposing me capable of capture only on this one point: if they should rob me of my faithful friend, my eager comrade-in-arms, and the partner who without excuse shared my dangers and my company. Yet I think you grieve at this no less than I do now, because you have a smaller portion of the toils and dangers, but rather fear more on my behalf, and for my life, lest it suffer harm. For I too set your affairs in no second place to my own, and I perceived that you were likewise disposed toward me. Hence with good reason I am stung, and stung sharply, because you, who for all else might say, "Naught troubles me, for my own state stands well; / I alone am the cause of grief and care." But of this, it seems, we partake equally — you grieving only on my account, I forever longing for your company and remembering the friendship which we, blended together, agreed upon: arising chiefly and first of all from virtue, and then also from the service which I continually rendered you and you to me — not confirming it by oaths or such constraints, as did Theseus and Pirithous, but in such wise that, ever holding the same thoughts and choosing the same ends, we were so far from doing evil to any of our fellow citizens that we never even took counsel together to that end; whereas if anything good has come about or been deliberated in common by us, others may tell of it.

That I have good reason to grieve at the present circumstances, deprived not only of a friend but of a faithful fellow-worker — though may the god grant that the separation be but for a little while — I think even the great Socrates, that herald and teacher of virtue, would agree with me, judging him from what we know of him, I mean from the discourses of Plato. For he says: "It appeared to me more difficult to administer public affairs rightly; for one can neither act without friends and faithful comrades, nor easily provide oneself with such men." And if this seemed to Plato a greater task than digging through Athos, what must we expect concerning ourselves, who fall as far short of his sagacity and judgement as he fell short of the god's? For my part, it is not for the sake of service alone — by which, rendering it to one another in public life, we more easily endured what fortune and our adversaries brought to pass against our will — but because I shall soon be in want of my only solace and delight, that with good reason I am stung, and my heart has been stung. For upon what friend shall I henceforth be able to look as so well-disposed? Whose guileless and pure frankness shall I enjoy? Who will counsel me wisely, reprove me with goodwill, strengthen me toward what is honourable without arrogance or vanity, and speak freely, taking away the bitterness from his words, as those who, in compounding their drugs, remove what is too disagreeable but leave the useful part itself? This, then, is the benefit I reaped from your friendship. But bereft at once of so much, what words shall I find that will persuade me — when, through longing for you, your counsels, and your very gentleness, I am in danger of giving up my very soul — to keep still and to bear nobly all that the god has given? For it seems the great Emperor, thinking as he does, has now resolved upon this very thing. What, then, must one conceive, and what charms must one find, to persuade the soul, troubled by this affliction, to bear it gently? Are we to imitate the discourses of Zalmoxis — I mean the Thracian charms which Socrates brought to Athens, and which he thought fit to chant over the fair Charmides before healing the pain in his head? Or are these, as too great and concerned with too great matters, not to be set in motion — like great machines in a little theatre — but rather, gathering from the deeds of former times, whose glorious fame we have heard, as the poet says, plucking the fairest blossoms as from a meadow varied and of many kinds, shall we delight ourselves with such narratives, adding to them a little of what philosophy provides? For just as, I think, those who pour into things excessively sweet I know not what sort of drugs take away their cloying quality, so to such narratives a few additions from philosophy take away the air of importing a needless crowd of ancient history and superfluous garrulity.

"What first, what next, what last shall I recount?" Shall it be how that famous Scipio, who loved Laelius and was loved in turn by him "with equal yoke," as the saying goes, gladly kept his company but did nothing without first inquiring of him and hearing that it ought to be done? Whence, I think, he gave occasion to those who, out of envy, reviled Scipio, alleging that Laelius was the author of the deeds, and Africanus their mere performer. This same report attaches to us also, and I am not only not displeased at it but rather rejoice in it the more. For Zeno makes it the mark of greater virtue to be persuaded by what another has rightly perceived than for a man to perceive of himself what is needful — adapting the saying of Hesiod: "That man is best of all, who hearkens to one who speaks well," saying "hearkens" instead of "conceives all things for himself." Yet not for this reason does it seem to me a graceful saying; for I am persuaded that Hesiod speaks the truer, but that Pythagoras spoke better than both — Pythagoras, who gave occasion to the proverb and bestowed upon life the saying that "friends' goods are common," meaning not money alone, but also the fellowship of mind and wisdom; so that whatever you yourself discovered is no less the property of him who was persuaded, and whatever of yours I performed, of these too you rightly have an equal share. But let these things belong to whichever of us they may seem more to befit, and to the other besides; and the malicious shall gain nothing from such talk. But we must return to Africanus and Laelius. For when Carthage had been destroyed and all the region of Libya had become Rome's slave, Africanus sent off Laelius, who set sail bearing the good tidings to his fatherland; and Scipio was grieved at being left without his friend, yet did not deem his suffering past all consolation. And it is likely that Laelius too was distressed, since he sailed off alone, yet did not make his misfortune unbearable. Cato also sailed away, leaving his intimates at home, as did Pythagoras and Plato and Democritus, who took no companion for their journey, though they left behind at home many of their dearest. Pericles too went on campaign against Samos without taking Anaxagoras with him, and reduced Euboea by that man's counsels — for he had been schooled under him — though he did not drag along his teacher's body, as though it were one of the necessities for battle. And yet, they say, the Athenians against his will deprived even this man of his teacher's company. But, being a man of understanding, he bore the folly of his fellow citizens with self-control and gentleness. For he thought he ought to yield to necessity — to his fatherland, as to a mother who, though not justly, was nevertheless harshly disposed toward their companionship — reasoning thus, as is likely. And we must hear what follows as though from the lips of Pericles himself.

"For me, the city and fatherland is the universe, and my friends are the gods and divine spirits and all good men, wherever they may be. Yet we must honour also the land in which we were born, since this is a divine law, and obey whatever it commands, and use no force against it, nor, as the proverb says, kick against the goads; for the yoke of necessity, as it is called, is inexorable. Yet we must not lament or wail at the harsher of its commands, but reason out the matter itself. Now it bids Anaxagoras depart from us, and I shall not see the best of my companions, on whose account I was vexed with the night, because it did not show me my friend, while to day and to the sun I owed thanks, because they granted me to behold him whom I most loved. But if Nature has given you eyes only, Pericles, as she has to the beasts, it is no wonder that you should grieve exceedingly; but if she has breathed a soul into you and set within you a mind, by which you now behold through memory many of the things that have come to pass, though they are not present, and by which reasoning, discovering many of the things that are to be, sets them before the mind as if to be seen with eyes — and of present things gives the mind not only those before the eyes, which imagination stamps and offers it to judge and behold, but shows it also things far off and removed by tens of thousands of stadia more vividly than what lies at the foot and before the eyes — why should you grieve so greatly and bear it so bitterly? And that my argument is not without witness: 'Mind sees and mind hears,' says the Sicilian — a thing so keen and of such inconceivable swiftness that, when Homer wishes to portray one of the gods as moving with incredible speed of journey, he says, 'As when the mind of a man darts forth.' Using this, then, you will most easily from Athens behold the man in Ionia, and most easily from among the Celts the man in Illyria and Thrace, and the man among the Celts from Thrace and Illyria. For it does not befall men, as it does plants which cannot survive when they change their accustomed soil where the blending of the seasons is contrary, that by changing place for place they are either utterly destroyed or alter their character and shift away from what they had formerly rightly resolved. It is not likely, then, that one's goodwill should grow blunter — rather that one should love and cherish all the more; for insolence follows upon surfeit, but longing upon want. In this way too, then, we shall fare the better, our goodwill toward one another being heightened, and we shall hold one another seated in our own minds like statues. And now I shall behold Anaxagoras, and again he shall behold me; and nothing prevents us even from beholding one another at the same time — not the flesh and sinews and the cast of form, the breast modelled after the body's archetype (though even this, perhaps, nothing prevents from appearing in our minds), but in respect of virtue and actions and discourses and conversations and the meetings we have so often held with one another, not without grace hymning education and justice and the mind that governs mortal and human things, and discoursing of polity and laws and ways of virtue and worthy pursuits, so far as occurred to us as we recalled these in due season. Considering these things, nourished by these images, perhaps we shall give no heed to the phantoms of nocturnal dreams, nor will the perception, ill-disposed by the body's temperament, cast upon the mind empty and idle apparitions. For we shall not call upon sense-perception itself to serve and minister to us; rather, the mind, fleeing it, will practise upon these things, roused to the apprehension and habitual contemplation of incorporeal things. For it is by mind and the higher part that we are joined together; and those things which have escaped perception and are separated in place — or rather have no need of place at all — we are by nature fitted to behold and to grasp, all of us who have lived worthily of such a vision, conceiving it and joining ourselves to it."

But Pericles, being a man of lofty spirit, reared in freedom in a free city, beguiled himself with loftier discourses; whereas I, born of "such mortals as now are," soothe and lead myself on with more human discourses, and take away the excessive bitterness of grief, trying to fit some consolation to each of the disagreeable and strange phantoms that ever befall me from this matter — like a charm for the bite of a beast that bites our very heart and inward parts. This, then, is the first of the apparent hardships for me: now I shall be left alone, in want of pure converse and free intercourse; for I have, for the time, no one with whom I may speak with equal confidence. Is it not, then, easy for me to converse even with myself? Will someone rob me even of my thought, and compel me to think other things and to admire what is contrary to my will? Or is this a monstrous thing, like writing on water, or boiling a stone, or searching out the tracks of birds' flight as they fly? Since, then, no one robs us of these, we shall surely keep some company with ourselves; and perhaps the god too will suggest something good. For it is not likely that a man who has entrusted himself to the higher power should be utterly neglected and left wholly forlorn; rather, the god "holds his hand over him," and gives him courage, and breathes might into him, and sets in his mind what must be done and turns him from what must not be done. A divine voice attended Socrates too, forbidding him to do what was not right; and Homer says of Achilles, "for he put it in his mind," since the god rouses our thoughts as well, whenever the mind, turning back upon itself, first communes with itself and then with the god through itself alone, hindered by none. For the mind has no need of hearing in order to learn, nor does the god need a voice in order to teach what is needful; rather, apart from all sense-perception, communion with the higher comes to the mind. In what manner and how, there is now no leisure to set forth; but that it comes to pass is clear, and the witnesses are plain — not men of no repute, nor worthy to be ranked in the company of the Megarians, but among those who carried off the first prize for wisdom. Since, then, we must expect that a god will assuredly be present to us, and that we ourselves shall keep company with ourselves, the excessive bitterness must be taken away from our grief. For Odysseus too, shut up alone on the island for seven whole years and then lamenting — I praise his endurance otherwise, but I do not admire his lamentations. For what profit is there in gazing upon the fishy sea and shedding tears? But not to give up nor to despair in the face of fortune, but to prove a man to the uttermost of toils and dangers — this seems to me greater than human measure. It is not just, then, to praise such men yet not imitate them, nor to suppose that the god readily lent his aid to them but will overlook the men of today, when he sees them laying claim to that virtue for the sake of which he delighted in those of old. For it was not for beauty of body — else Nireus ought rather to have been beloved — nor for strength, since the Laestrygonians and Cyclopes were beyond measure stronger than he, nor for wealth, for so Troy would have remained unsacked. But why should one trouble to seek the cause for which the poet calls Odysseus dear to the gods, when one may hear it from the poet himself? "Because you are courteous and quick of wit and prudent." It is plain, then, that if these qualities should come to us also, the higher power will not fail in what is its own, but, according to the oracle once given to the Lacedaemonians, the god, whether called or uncalled, will be present.

Having beguiled myself with these reflections, I return again to that other point, which in truth seems small, yet in respect of reputation is not ignoble. They say that even Alexander had need of Homer — not, of course, of his company, but of his heralding, as he heralded Achilles and Patroclus and both the Ajaxes and Antilochus. But Alexander, ever despising what was present and longing for what was absent, was not content with what was his own nor satisfied with what had been given; and had he chanced upon Homer, he would perhaps have longed for the lyre of Apollo, with which the god sang the hymn at the wedding of Peleus — deeming this no fiction of Homer's invention, but a true deed woven into the verses, just as, I think, "Dawn in saffron robe was spreading over all the earth," and "The sun leapt up," and "Crete is a land," and all such things as the poets tell, are plain and manifest — some still existing even to our day, others coming to pass. But whether it was some surpassing greatness of virtue and an understanding in no way inferior to his other excellences that led his soul to so great a desire that he reached after greater things than other men, or whether it was some excess of courage and daring that led to vainglory and looked toward arrogance — let it be left for those who wish to praise or blame him to consider in public, if anyone supposes that he belongs to this latter category. As for us, ever contented with what is present and least concerned with what is absent, we are glad when the herald praises us — he who has become for us a spectator and fellow-contestant in all things, not one who has accepted words idly fashioned for favour or for enmity; but it suffices us that he merely acknowledge that he loves us, and as for the rest, be more silent even than those initiated into the mysteries of Pythagoras.

Here too there comes into my mind that which is on everyone's lips: that you will go not only to the Illyrians but also to the Thracians and the Greeks who dwell about that sea — among whom, having been born and reared, I have a deep, ingrained love for the men, the places, and the cities. And perhaps no slight love for us is left behind in the souls of those people too, for whom, I well know, as the saying goes, "you would come most welcome," rendering them a just recompense for those things in which you have left us here. And this I say, not as one praying — since to come back to us speedily by the same road were better — but as considering that, should it come to pass, I shall have toward this too no want of consolation or solace, rejoicing with those men because they shall behold you sent from us. For I now reckon myself among the Celts on your account — a man who ranks among the foremost of the Greeks both in good order of life and in virtue of every other kind, supreme in oratory and not without experience in philosophy, of which the Greeks alone have pursued the noblest parts, hunting out the truth by reason, as is its nature, and not suffering us to attend to incredible tales or to monstrous marvels, as do the multitude of the barbarians. But however this may be, let it now be set aside. As for you — for it is now fitting to escort you on your way with words of good omen — may a gracious god lead you wherever you must journey, and may the god of strangers receive you, and the kindly god of friendship, and lead you safely over the land; and if you must sail, let the waves be calmed. May you appear to all a dear and honoured friend, sweet at your coming, grievous at your leaving; and, cherishing us, may you least of all long for the fellowship of a comrade and a faithful friend. May the god render the Emperor too gracious to you, and grant all else according to your mind, and prepare your homeward journey to us safe and swift. These things I pray for you together with all good and honourable men, and besides these: "Hail and farewell greatly; may the gods grant you blessings, and a return home to your dear native land."