A letter deserves a letter in reply, and therefore –
Dear Pliny the Younger:
I wanted to thank you for your letters, and to apologize for the 1,907-year delay in replying. Normally, I am more prompt in my correspondence practices. Hoping that the fact that I have been alive for only 58 of those 1,907 years will be considered a mitigating circumstance.
I know that you came from an illustrious family – your uncle, Pliny the Elder, was the most renowned Roman scientist of his time – and that you built a long and successful career as lawyer, judge, priest, senator, and consul. And having read your letters – as collected by a Londinium-based publisher called Penguin, in a volume titled The Letters of Pliny the Younger -- I must say that I found them to provide uniquely helpful insights into everyday life in the Roman Empire back in what people in my time call the 1st century A.D.
Most of the Roman authors that I have read – Caesar, Cicero, Virgil, Tacitus, Petronius, Suetonius, Cassius Dio, Marcus Aurelius – deal with life-changing historical events, or with major philosophical topics of their time. Your letters, by contrast, often had a nice everyday quality to them. While you did deal in a powerful and moving manner with big events – and with one big event in particular – I particularly enjoyed those passages of your letters where you spoke with your friends about the mundane, the ordinary, the quotidian.
I thought, for instance, that it was very kind of you to write to your friend Silius Proculus when he asked you to look over some of his poetry, and to assure him that “it is a splendid work and ought not to remain unpublished, to judge from the passages I have heard you read” (p. 101).
Similarly, as my work as a university professor involves writing many letters of recommendation, I appreciated the zest and verve with which you recommended one Cornelius Minicianus for a military tribunate, apologizing to your friend Pompeius Falco for your pertinacity on young Minicianus’ behalf, but providing repeated assurances that Minicianus is “remarkable…for his justice on the bench, courage at the bar, and loyalty in friendship” (p. 200). Throughout the letters, I got a strong sense that you would be a good friend to have.
It was also interesting to read your correspondence with the Emperor Trajan. Obviously, as provincial governor of Bithynia-Pontusis in northwestern Asia Minor, you were anxious to carry out your duties in a manner that would be pleasing to the emperor, as when you asked him if too many invitations were being issued for the dedication of public buildings. Trajan’s replies are always careful and judicious, and sometimes – as when he writes that “I made you my choice so that you could use your good judgement in exercising a moderating influence on the behaviour of the people in your province, and could make your own decisions about what is necessary for their peace and security” (p. 300) – it seems as if he may be finding your constant correspondence a bit wearying, and may want to say to you, Dude! Fac officium tuum! (“Dude! Do your job!”)
But what really brought me to The Letters of Pliny the Younger was the set of letters in which you described the eruption of Mount Vesuvius on August 24 in the year 79 A.D. – a catastrophe that destroyed the cities of Pompeii and Herculaneum on Italy’s west coast. You see, I was traveling with my wife and two grandchildren, from our own home country beyond the Pillars of Hercules, because we wanted to see the ruins of Pompeii, as meticulously excavated by archaeologists since your time.
And Pompeii, I know, was personal to you, because your uncle, Pliny the Elder – the greatest scientist that the Roman Empire ever produced – went toward Pompeii while everyone else was running away from it, so that he could save whomever he could and gather whatever scientific information he could. He gave his life trying to save others. All of these factors, taken together, give your writings about Pompeii singular power.
As you witnessed and survived the eruption of Vesuvius, you provide the best single eyewitness recounting of the disaster that destroyed Pompeii and Herculaneum. From your observation point at Misenum, you were able to watch the whole terrible spectacle unfold.
After a few days of the kind of earth tremors that can occur frequently in Campania, you tell us that on the night of August 24th “the shocks were so violent that everything felt as if it were not only shaken but overturned” (pp. 170-71). You tried to play it cool for a time, asking for a volume of Livy to read. I like Livy, too, but really – is that the time to be reading about the war with Hannibal?
Soon enough, you realized the depth of the danger, as when you “saw the sea sucked away and apparently forced back by the earthquake: at any rate it receded from the shore so that quantities of sea creatures were left stranded on dry sand. On the landward side a fearful black cloud was rent by forked and quivering bursts of flame, and parted to reveal great tongues of fire, like flashes of lightning magnified in size” (p. 171).
Truly, what you witnessed and survived was a scene that Pluto and Proserpine in all their wrath could not have inflicted upon the unhappy people of Campania that summer day.
Soon afterwards the cloud sank down to earth and covered the sea; it had already blotted out Capri….Ashes were already falling, not as yet very thickly. I looked round: a dense black cloud was coming up behind us, spreading over the earth like a flood….We had scarcely sat down to rest when darkness fell – not the dark of a moonless or cloudy night, but as if the lamp had been put out in a closed room….[T]he flames remained some distance off; then darkness came on once more and ashes began to fall again, this time in heavy showers. We rose from time to time and shook them off; otherwise, we should have been buried and crushed beneath their weight. (p. 172)
It was moving to read your description of people calling out in the darkness – hoping, in that absolute darkness, to find a loved one by hearing their voice. “People bewailed their own fate or that of their relatives, and there were some who prayed for death in their terror of dying. Many besought the aid of the gods, but still more imagined that there were no gods left, and that the universe was plunged into eternal darkness forevermore” (p. 172). Truly, it must have felt like the end of the world, and you convey all too well the horror of that day.
Even in our faraway land that a Latin-speaking person might refer to as Civitates Foederatae Americae, one hears a great deal about Pompeii, and today people travel from all over the world to see it. At Pompeii, one sees the ruins of what was once a fairly sizeable Roman city. More affecting, on an emotional level, are plaster moulds made from the gaps left where people and animals sought shelter in their last moments of life, before the ash entombed them. Mount Vesuvius, six miles away, is powerful and imposing, but it is easy to imagine the people of Pompeii thinking that they were too far from Vesuvius for the volcano to do them any harm – until that terrible day in August.
There is so much else that I would want to talk about with you – indeed, some areas where I must respectfully disagree with you.
I was dismayed, for example, by your casual acceptance of slavery. Writing about a revolt of enslaved people against a notoriously cruel master, you sympathized only with the slaveholder, complaining that “No master can feel safe because he is kind and considerate”, and denouncing the “brutality…which leads slaves to murder masters” (p. 101). You are wrong, sir; you have it all backward. Slavery, by its very nature, brutalizes; slavery, in treating a human being as a piece of “property,” is the problem. If, by chance, you were to fall into the hands of the Parthians, or to be captured by tribesmen from Germania, would you want to pass the rest of your days as a slave? I thought not.
I was also saddened by the avidity with which you seem to have persecuted members of the Christian religious minority, whom you described as “a degenerate sort of cult carried to extravagant lengths” (p. 294). Indeed, the Emperor Trajan, on whose behalf you were presumably conducting these persecutions, seems to have wanted you to ease up on the Christians somewhat, telling you that “These people are not to be hunted out” (p. 295). And, if you truly believed in the Olympian gods, and in the cult of imperial divinity, would you want to be persecuted for it by Christians? I thought not.
Please understand that I do not wish to engage in the logical fallacy of “presentism” – judging the people of past times by the standards of one’s own time. I have no doubt that the people of, say, the year 3927 – 1,907 years from now – will find much that is wrong and lacking in the way we do things here in the year 2020. I find much lacking in it now. It is just that when it comes to certain topics relating to the rights of humankind, I do feel the need to speak out. People from my country tend to be that way.
Yet I do not wish to close our correspondence on a note of disagreement. Perhaps the passage of the centuries, if it has permitted you to witness the subsequent cycles of human history, has led you to understand that every human being should be free, and should be able to worship (or not) as he or she sees fit. I hope you can see that now.
From my own home civitas or provincia, with its rather Roman-sounding name of Virginia, I thank you for the glimpses that your letters provide into daily life in the Roman Empire. I will remember your letters the next time I am enjoying a glass of Frascati, the delightful white wine of Latium. And I will recommend your letters to classically-inclined readers who want to know more about what a Roman’s day-to-day life was actually like. Many thanks once again.
With sincere regards,
Paul Haspel