One more point regarding the comparison of these couples. There are countless testimonies of an excessively ambitious nature in the writings of Cicero and Pliny (who, in my opinion, does not detract much from his uncle’s character): among other things, they ask the historians of their time, under the gaze of everyone, not to forget them in their records; and fortune, as if in defiance, has made the vanity of these requests last until our time, and has gradually caused these stories to be lost. But this surpasses all baseness of heart, in persons of such rank, to have wanted to draw some principal glory from gossip and talk, to the point of using private letters written to their friends: so that, as some had not yet reached their proper season for being sent, they nevertheless had them published with the worthy excuse that they did not want to lose their labor and their sleepless nights.
Is it not fitting for two Roman consuls, sovereign magistrates of the public affairs of the empire of the world, to use their leisure to arrange and nicely polish a beautiful missive, to gain the reputation of being good at the language of their nurse? What would a simple schoolmaster who earns his living from it do? If the actions of Xenophon and Caesar had not far surpassed their eloquence, I do not believe they would ever have written them down. They sought to recommend not by telling, but by doing. And, if the perfection of good speaking could bring some suitable glory to a great personage, certainly Scipio and Laelius would not have resigned the honor of their comedies and all the prettiness and delights of the Latin language to an African slave: for, that this work be theirs, its beauty and excellence maintains it sufficiently, and Terence himself admits it.
I would be displeased to dislodge myself from this belief. It is a kind of mockery and insult to want to assert a man by qualities not befitting his rank, even if they are otherwise praiseworthy, and also by qualities that should not be his main ones: like someone praising a king for being a good painter, or a good architect, or even a good marksman, or a good jester; such praise does not honor him, if it is not presented in addition to, and following, those that are proper to him: namely, for justice and the skill to lead his people in peace and in war.
In this way, Cyrus honored agriculture, and Charlemagne honored eloquence and knowledge of the liberal arts. In my time, I have seen, in stronger terms, people who derived from writing and their titles and their vocation to admit their apprenticeship, to corrupt their pen and to affect the ignorance of quality so vulgar and that our people hold to be rarely found in knowledgeable hands: recommending themselves by better qualities. The companions of Demosthenes on the embassy to Philip praised this prince for being handsome, eloquent and a good drinker: Demosthenes said that these were praises that were more fitting for a woman, a lawyer or a sponge than for a king.
The first to command, while fighting, is the one lying down. (Horace)
Plutarch says further that to appear so excellent in these less necessary parts is to produce against oneself the testimony of having misused one’s leisure and study, which should have been employed in more necessary and useful things. So that Philip, King of Macedonia, having heard his son, the great Alexander, sing at a feast to the envy of the best musicians, said to him, “Are you not ashamed to sing so well? And to that same Philippus, a musician against whom he was debating his art: God forbid, Sire, he said, that so much harm should ever befall you that you hear these things better than I. A king must be able to respond as Iphicrates responded to the orator who pressed him in his invective, in this way: Well, who are you to act so brave? Are you a man at arms? Are you an archer? Are you a pikeman? I am none of these, but I am the one who knows how to command all of them. And Antisthenes used as an argument of little value in Ismenias, of which he was praised for being an excellent flute player.
I know full well that when I hear someone who dwells on the language of the Essays, I would rather they would stop. It is not so much a question of elevating words as of depressing meaning, all the more sharply the more obliquely. If I am mistaken, there are few others who have more to offer in this area, and, be it for better or for worse, no writer has ever sown it either in greater material quantity or at least in denser form on his paper. To make more room, I am only listing the titles. If I were to continue, I would multiply this volume many times over. And how many stories have I included that say nothing, which, if one were to examine them a little ingeniously, would produce infinite essays. Neither they nor my arguments always serve simply as examples, authorities or ornaments. I do not look at them only in terms of the use I derive from them. They often bear, outside of my purpose, the seed of a richer and more daring material, and strike a more delicate note to the left, and for me who do not want to express more, and for those who will encounter my air.
Returning to the virtue of speech, I find little choice between knowing only how to speak badly, or knowing only how to speak well.
Neatness is not a manly ornament. (Seneca)
The wise say that, in terms of knowledge, there is only philosophy, and, in terms of effects, there is only virtue, which is generally suitable for all degrees and all orders. There is something similar in these other two philosophers, for they also promise eternity to the letters they write to their friends; but it is in a different way, and accommodating themselves for a good end to the vanity of others: for they tell them that if the care of making themselves known to future ages and of fame still holds them back from dealing with affairs, and makes them fear the solitude and seclusion to which they wish to call them, let them not trouble themselves any more: especially as they have enough credit with posterity to be able to reply that, if only through the letters they write to them, they will make their name as well known and famous as their public actions could.
And, besides this difference, these are not empty and fleshless letters, which are sustained only by a delicate choice of words, piled up and arranged at a fair cadence, but stuffed and full of beautiful discourses of wisdom, by which one becomes not only eloquent, but wiser, and which teach us not to speak well, but to do well. Such eloquence leaves us wanting to be, not things; except that it is said that that of Cicero, being in such extreme perfection, gives itself body itself.
I will add another story that we read about him in this regard, to give us a tangible sense of his character. He had to give a public speech, and was in a bit of a hurry to prepare himself at his leisure. Eros, one of his servants, came to inform him that the audience had been postponed until the next day. He was so relieved that he gave him his freedom for this good news. On the subject of letters, I want to say that this is a work to which my friends are attached and that I can contribute something. And I would have been more willing to take this form to publish my verses, if I had had someone to talk to. I needed, as I once had, a certain kind of interaction that would attract me, sustain me and lift me up.
For I could only dream of negotiating with the wind, like others, nor forge vain names to maintain in serious matters: sworn enemy of all falsification. I would have been more attentive and more sure, having a strong and friendly address, which I am not, looking at the various faces of a people. And I am disappointed, if he had succeeded me better. I naturally have a comic and private style, but it is in a form of my own, inept for public negotiations, as in any case is my language: too tight, disordered, cut, particular; and I do not understand ceremonious letters, which have no other substance than a beautiful string of courteous words. I have neither the ability nor the taste for these long offers of affection and service. I don’t believe in them that much, and I am sorry to say anything more about them than that.
It is a far cry from the present custom: for there never was such abject and servile prostitution of presentations; life, soul, devotion, adoration, serf, slave, all these words are bandied about so vulgarly that, when they want to convey a more express and respectful will, they have no way of expressing it. I hate to feel the flatterer: who makes me naturally resort to a dry, round and crude speech that makes those who do not know me, somewhat contemptuous. I honor those whom I honor the least; and, when my soul is filled with joy, I forget my composure. And I offer myself meagerly and proudly to those to whom I belong.
And I present myself less to those to whom I have given myself most: it seems to me that they should be able to read it in my heart, and that the expression of my words does injustice to my conception. When it comes to welcoming, taking leave, thanking, greeting, offering my services, and such verbose compliments as the ceremonious laws of our civility demand, I know of no one so stupidly barren of language as myself. And I have never taken on the writing of letters of favor and recommendation, which the recipient has found dry and insipid.
The Italians are great letter printers. I have, I believe, a hundred different volumes: those of Annibale Caro seem to me the best. If all the paper I once daubed for the ladies were in kind, when my hand was truly carried away by my passion, there would perhaps be some page worthy of being communicated to idle youth, dazed by this fury. I always send my letters by post, and so hastily that, although I have unbearably poor penmanship, I prefer to write by hand rather than use someone else’s, because I can never find anyone who can keep up with me, and I never transcribe them.
I have accustomed those who know me to endure readings and drafts, and paper without folds and margins. The ones that cost me the most are the ones that are worth the least: since I drag them out, it’s a sign that I’m not up to it. I like to start without a plan; the first stroke produces the second. Letters these days are more about borders and prefaces than about the subject matter. As I prefer composing two letters to closing and folding one, and always resign this task to someone else: likewise, when the subject matter is finished, I would gladly give someone the task of adding these long harangues, offers and requests that we lodge at the end, and I hope that some new use will relieve us of them; as also to inscribe them with a legend of qualities and titles, for which I have often refrained from writing, especially to people of justice and finance.
So many innovations of offices, such a difficult dispensation and ordering of various honorary titles, which, being so dearly purchased, cannot be exchanged or forgotten without offense. I likewise find it reluctantly to take charge of the front and inscription of the books we have printed.