Letter 26

Only a moment ago I was telling you that old age was within my sight; now I am afraid I have left old age behind me. Some other word fits these years of mine, and certainly this body, for old age is the name of a weary age, not a broken one: count me among the decrepit, among those who are touching the very end.

Yet to you I render my own thanks: I feel no injury of age in my mind, though I feel it in my body. Only my faults and the instruments of my faults have grown old; the mind is vigorous and rejoices that it has little to do with the body. It has laid down a great part of its burden. It exults, and disputes with me about old age; it declares that this is its own flowering time.

Let us believe it; let it enjoy its good. It bids me turn to reflection and discern how much of this tranquillity and moderation of conduct I owe to wisdom, how much to my time of life, and to sift out carefully what I cannot do and what I have no wish to do [the text is here corrupt and the sense uncertain]. For what cause have I to complain, what hardship is there, if whatever was bound to come to an end has failed?

"It is the greatest hardship of all," you say, "to waste away and dwindle and, to speak precisely, to melt away." For we are not struck down and laid low all at once; we are nibbled away. Each single day takes something from our strength. And what end is better than to slip apart toward one's own close, with Nature loosing the knot? It is not that there is anything evil in a sudden blow and an abrupt departure from life, but that this is a gentle road, to be drawn off quietly. As for myself, just as if the trial were drawing near and that day were come which is to pronounce sentence upon all my years, I watch myself and address myself thus:

"It is nothing," I say, "that we have so far displayed, whether in deeds or in words. These are slight and deceptive pledges of the mind, wrapped in many allurements; what progress I have made I shall entrust to death to prove." And so without fear I compose myself for that day on which, with all tricks and paints set aside, I shall pass judgement on myself, to find whether I speak bravely or feel bravely, whether it was all pretence and pantomime, all the defiant words I hurled against fortune.

Set aside men's estimate of you; it is always uncertain and falls out on both sides. Set aside the studies you have pursued your whole life long; death is to pronounce upon you. This is what I mean: disputations and learned conversations and words gathered from the maxims of the wise and cultivated talk do not show the true strength of the mind. For even the most timid have bold speech. What you have achieved will be plain only when you are drawing your last breath. I accept the terms; I do not shrink from the verdict.

These things I say to myself, but think I have said them to you as well. You are younger; what does that matter? Years are not counted out. It is uncertain in what place death awaits you; therefore await it in every place.

I wished to stop here, and my hand was looking toward the close; but the rites must be completed, and this letter must be given its travelling-money. Suppose I do not tell you from where I mean to take my loan: you know whose coffer I draw upon. Wait for me a little while, and the payment shall be made from my own house; meanwhile Epicurus will lend it, who says: "Rehearse death," or, if it suits the sense better, "Pass over to the gods."

The meaning of this is clear: it is an admirable thing to learn death thoroughly. You may perhaps think it superfluous to learn what must be used only once. That is the very reason we ought to rehearse it; we must always go on learning what we cannot put to the test to know whether we know it.

"Rehearse death": he who says this bids us rehearse freedom. He who has learned to die has unlearned how to be a slave; he is above all power, certainly beyond all power. What are prison and guards and bars to him? His door stands open. There is one chain that holds us bound, the love of life; and though this is not to be cast off, it is to be lessened, so that, if circumstance ever demands it, nothing may detain us or hinder us from being ready to do at once what must be done at some time. Farewell.