The father and the gods

In my father I observed gentleness of temper and an unshakeable hold on decisions reached after careful thought; no vanity about what people call honors; a love of hard work and persistence; a readiness to listen to anyone who had something to propose for the common good; an unwavering commitment to giving each person what he deserved; and a knowledge, born of experience, of when to act forcefully and when to hold back. I saw that he had gotten entirely past any passion for boys; he considered himself no more than any other citizen; he freed his friends from any obligation to dine with him or to accompany him when he traveled, and those who had been kept away by pressing matters always found him unchanged toward them. I also observed his habit of careful inquiry into everything under deliberation, and his persistence—he never broke off an inquiry simply because he was satisfied with the first impressions that offered themselves. His disposition was to keep his friends, never growing tired of them quickly, and yet never excessive in his attachment either. He was content and cheerful in every situation; he foresaw things far in advance and arranged even the smallest matters without any fuss; he cut short at once any popular applause and all flattery; he was always watchful over what the administration of the empire required, careful with public spending, and patient under the criticism this brought him. He was not superstitious about the gods, nor did he curry favor with people through gifts or by trying to please them or flatter the crowd. In everything he showed sobriety and firmness, never anything base in thought or act, and no love of novelty. As for the comforts of life, which fortune supplied him in abundance, he used them without arrogance and without apology—enjoying them plainly when he had them, and not missing them when he didn't. No one could ever call him a sophist, a glib household-bred slave, or a pedant; everyone recognized him as a man fully mature, complete, beyond flattery, capable of managing both his own affairs and those of others. He honored genuine philosophers without reproaching those who only claimed to be philosophers, nor was he easily taken in by them. He was easy in conversation and made himself agreeable without any tiresome affectation. He took reasonable care of his bodily health, not like someone overly attached to life, nor out of vanity about his looks, but not carelessly either, so that through his own attentiveness he very rarely needed a doctor's care, medicine, or ointments. He was quick and without envy to give way to those who had some particular gift—eloquence, or knowledge of law, or of morals, or anything else—and he actively helped each one gain the recognition he deserved. He always acted in keeping with the customs of his country, without any show of doing so. He was not fond of change or restless, but liked to stay in the same places and occupy himself with the same things; after his bouts of headache he would return at once, fresh and vigorous, to his usual business. His secrets were few, very rare, and concerned only public matters. He showed prudence and economy in staging public spectacles, in public building projects, in gifts to the people, and in similar things—for he was a man who looked to what ought to be done, not to the reputation to be gained by doing it. He did not bathe at unusual hours; he had no passion for building; he was not particular about food, or the weave and color of his clothes, or the good looks of his slaves. His clothing came from Lorium, his coastal villa, and mostly from Lanuvium. We know how he behaved toward the tax collector at Tusculum who asked his pardon—and all his conduct was of that kind. There was nothing harsh in him, nothing implacable, nothing violent—nothing, so to speak, carried to the point of sweat. He examined everything point by point, as if he had all the time in the world, calmly, in order, with vigor and consistency. What is recorded of Socrates could be said of him too: that he was able both to abstain from and to enjoy those things which many people are too weak to abstain from and cannot enjoy without losing control. To be strong enough for both—to endure the one and stay sober in the other—is the mark of a man with a perfect and unconquerable soul, as he showed during the illness of Maximus.

To the gods I owe good grandparents, good parents, a good sister, good teachers, good companions, good relatives and friends—nearly everything good. I owe it to the gods, too, that I was never driven into wronging any of them. I had a temperament that might have led me there if the opportunity had arisen, but by their favor circumstances never combined to put me to that test. I am grateful that I was not raised any longer with my grandfather's mistress; that I kept the bloom of my youth intact; and that I did not prove my manhood before the proper time, but even put it off. That I was placed under a ruler and father able to strip away all my pride. He showed me that it is possible to live in a palace without bodyguards, embroidered robes, torches, statues, and such display, and to live almost like a private citizen without becoming meaner in thought or less energetic in public duties suited to a ruler. That I had a brother whose character roused me to watch over myself and whose respect and affection pleased me. That my children were not born stupid or physically deformed. That I did not advance further in rhetoric, poetry, and similar studies—subjects I might have thrown myself into completely if I had felt I was making progress. That I lost no time in advancing those who raised me to the honors they seemed to want, rather than putting them off with a promise to do it later because they were still young. That I came to know Apollonius, Rusticus, and Maximus. That I received clear and repeated impressions of what it means to live according to nature. As far as it depended on the gods and their gifts, help, and inspiration, nothing kept me from living that way at once. I still fall short through my own fault, by failing to heed the gods' warnings and, I might almost say, their direct instructions. That my body has held up this long under such a way of life. That I never touched Benedicta or Theodotus, and that even after falling into passionate infatuations I was cured of them. That although I was often out of patience with Rusticus, I never did anything I had cause to regret. That my mother, though fated to die young, spent her last years with me. That whenever I wanted to help someone in need, I was never told I lacked the means; and that I was never forced by the same necessity to accept something from someone else. That I have a wife like mine, so obedient, affectionate, and unpretentious. That I had no shortage of good tutors for my children. That remedies were shown to me in dreams, among others for coughing up blood and for dizziness … And that when I developed a leaning toward philosophy, I did not fall into the hands of a sophist or waste my time over historians, untangling syllogisms, or studying phenomena in the heavens. All these things call for the help of the gods and of fortune. Among the Quadi, on the Granua.