The Portable Roman Reader (Portable Library) (29 page)

Again, in Xenophon, Cyrus the Elder utters the following words as he is dying: “Think not, my dearest sons, that, when I have left you, I shall cease to be. For while I was with you you did not see my soul, but you knew that it was in this body from the deeds that I performed. Continue to believe, therefore, that it exists as before, even though you see it not. Nor, indeed, would the fame of illustrious men survive their death if the souls of those very men did not cause us to retain their memory longer. I, for my part, could never be persuaded that souls, which lived while they were in human bodies, perished when they left those bodies; nor, indeed, that the soul became incapable of thought when it had escaped from the unthinking corpse, but rather that, when it had been freed from every admixture of flesh and had begun to exist pure and undefiled, then only was it wise. And even when man is dissolved by death it is evident to the sight whither each bodily element departs; for the corporeal returns to the visible constituents from which it came, but the soul alone remains unseen, both when it is present and when it departs. Again, you really see nothing resembling death so much as sleep; and yet it is when the body sleeps that the soul most clearly manifests its divine nature; for when it is unfettered and free it sees many things that are to come. Hence we know what the soul’s future state will be when it has been wholly released from the shackles of the flesh. Wherefore, if what I have said be true, cherish me as you would a god. But on the other hand, if my soul is going to perish along with my body, still you, who revere the gods as the guardians and rulers of this beautiful universe, will keep me in loving and sacred memory.”

This was the view of the dying Cyrus. Let me, if you please, give my own.

No one, my dear Scipio, will ever convince me that your father Paulus, or your two grandfathers, Paulus and Africanus, or the latter’s father and uncle, or many other illustrious men, unnecessary now to name, would have attempted such mighty deeds, to be remembered by posterity, if they had not known that posterity belonged to them. Or, to boast somewhat of myself after the manner of the old, do you think that I should have undertaken such heavy labours by day and by night, at home and abroad, if I had believed that the term of my earthly life would mark the limits of my fame? Would it not have been far better for me to spend a leisured and quiet life, free from toil and strife? But somehow, my soul was ever on the alert, looking forward to posterity, as if it realized that when it had departed from this life, then at last would it be alive. And, indeed, were it not true that the soul is immortal, it would not be the case that it is ever the souls of the best men that strive most for immortal glory. And what of the fact that the wisest men die with the greatest equanimity, the most foolish with the least? Is it not apparent to you that it is because the soul of the one, having a keener and wider vision, sees that it is setting out for a better country, while that of the other, being of duller sight, sees not its path?

Really, Scipio, I am carried away with the desire to see your father, and yours too, Lælius, both of whom I honoured and loved; and, indeed, I am eager to meet not only those whom I have known, but those also of whom I have heard and read and written. And when I shall have set out to join them, assuredly no one will easily draw me back, or boil me up again, as if I were a Pelias. Nay, if some god should give me leave to return to infancy from my old age, to weep once more in my cradle, I should vehemently protest; for, truly, after I have run my race I have no wish to be recalled, as it were, from the goal to the starting-place. For what advantage has life—or, rather, what trouble does it not have? But even grant that it has great advantage, yet undoubtedly it has either satiety or an end. I do not mean to complain of life as many men, and they learned ones, have often done; nor do I regret that I have lived, since I have so lived that I think I was not born in vain, and I quit life as if it were an inn, not a home. For Nature has given us an hostelry in which to sojourn, not to abide.

O glorious day, when I shall set out to join the assembled hosts of souls divine and leave this world of strife and sin! For I shall go to meet not only the men already mentioned, but my Cato, too, than whom no better man, none more distinguished for filial duty, was ever born. His body was burned by me, whereas, on the contrary, it were more fitting that mine had been burned by him; but his soul, not deserting me, but ever looking back, has surely departed for that realm where it knew that I, myself, must come. People think that I have bravely borne my loss—not that I bore it with an untroubled heart, but I found constant solace in the thought that our separation would not be long.

For these reasons, Scipio, my old age sits light upon me (for you said that this has been a cause of wonder to you and Lælius), and not only is not burdensome, but is even happy. And if I err in my belief that the souls of men are immortal, I gladly err, nor do I wish this error which gives me pleasure to be wrested from me while I live. But if when dead I am going to be without sensation (as some petty philosophers think), then I have no fear that these seers, when they are dead, will have the laugh on me! Again, if we are not going to be immortal, nevertheless, it is desirable for a man to be blotted out at his proper time. For as Nature has marked the bounds of everything else, so she has marked the bounds of life. Moreover, old age is the final scene, as it were, in life’s drama, from which we ought to escape when it grows wearisome and, certainly, when we have had our fill.

Such, my friends, are my views on old age. May you both attain it, and thus be able to prove by experience the truth of what you have heard from me.

Chapters 1-5, 10-23

(Gaius Valerius Catullus, 84? B.C.-54 B.C.)

 

Thou miserable Catullus, cease from foolishness
And what thou see‘st is lost and perished, deem that
lost.
The sun shone bright and fair upon thee in those days
When thou didst follow wheresoe’er thy mistress led,
She whom you loved as never other shall be loved.
Then all those many blithe and pleasant deeds were
done
Which you desired; nor did she desire them less.
Verily the sun-shone fair and bright upon thee then.
Now she says nay; thou too, since there’s no help, say
nay.
Pursue not one who flees thee, nor live miserable,
But with a mind grown resolute endure, be stern.
Mistress, farewell. At last Catullus hath grown stem;
He will not seek thee nor entreat thee against thy will.
But thou shalt grieve when no man shall entreat thee
more.
Alas, poor wretch! What bitter life must now be thine!
Who shall court thee? To whom shalt thou seem beau
tiful?
Whom wilt thou love now? By whose name shalt thou
be called?
Whom shalt thou kiss? Whose lips in fondness wilt thou
bite?
But thou, Catullus, be thou resolute and stern.

 

Is it you, my friend of friends, who come,
Dearer to me than a million others,
Veranius, home to your hearth and home,
The aged mother, the loving brothers?
You have come! ah, joy, it is well, it is well.
I shall see you safe, I shall hear you tell
(You best know how) of Hiberian races,
And the deeds they do, and the storied places,
And drawing your neck to my own the while,
I shall kiss the face and the eyes that smile.
Oh! hearts that are happy above the rest,
Is any so happy as I, so blest?