Satires 2.6 (Fairclough)

This is what I prayed for!—a piece of land not so very large, where there would be a garden, and near the house a spring of ever-flowing water, and up above these a bit of woodland. More and better than this have the gods done for me. I am content. Nothing more do I ask, O son of Maia, save that thou make these blessings last my life long. If I have neither made my substance larger by evil ways, nor mean to make it smaller by excesses or neglect; if I offer up no such foolish prayers as these: “O if there could be added that near corner, which now spoils the shape of my little farm! O that some lucky strike would disclose to me a pot of money, like the man who, having found a treasure-trove, bought and ploughed the self-same ground he used to work on hire, enriched by favour of Hercules”—if what I have gives me comfort and content, then thus I pray to thee: make fat the flocks I own, and all else save my wit, and, as thou art wont, still be my chief guardian!

So, now that from the city I have taken myself off to my castle in the hills, to what should I sooner give renown in the Satires of my prosaic Muse? Here no wretched place-hunting worries me to death, nor the leaden scirocco, nor sickly autumn, that brings gain to hateful Libitina.

O Father of the dawn, or Janus, if so thou hearest rather, from whom men take the beginnings of the work and toil of life—such is Heaven’s will—be thou the prelude of my song! At Rome thou hurriest me off to be surety: “Come! bestir yourself, lest someone answer duty’s call before you.” Whether the North-wind sweeps the earth, or winter drags on the snowy day in narrower circle, go I must. Later, when I have said in clear and certain tones what may work me harm, I must battle in the crowd and do damage to the slow of pace. “What do you mean, madman? What are you driving at?” So some ruffian assails me with angry curses: “You would jostle everything in your way, should you be posting back to Maecenas, thinking only of him.”

That gives pleasure and is like honey, I’ll not deny. But as soon as one comes to the gloomy Esquiline, a hundred concerns of others dance through my head and all about me: “Roscius begs you to meet him to-morrow at Libo’s Wall before seven o’clock.” “The clerks beg you, Quintus, to be sure to return to-day on some fresh and important business of common interest.” “Have Maecenas put his seal to these papers.” If you say, “I’ll try,” “You can, if you will,” he adds insistently.

The seventh year—nay, nearer the eighth—will soon have sped, since Maecenas began to count me among his friends—merely thus far, as one he would like to take in his carriage when on a journey, and confide to his ears trifles like this: “What’s the time?” “Is the Thracian Chicken a match for Syrus?” “The morning frosts are nipping now, if people are careless,” and such chat as is safely dropped into a leaky ear. For all these years, every day and hour, our friend has been more and more the butt of envy. Has he viewed the games, or played ball in the Campus with Maecenas? “Fortune’s favourite!” all cry. Does a chilly rumour run from the Rostra through the streets? Whoever comes my way asks my opinion: “My good sir, you must know—you come so much closer to the gods: you haven’t heard any news about the Dacians, have you?” “None whatever.” “How you will always mock at us!” But heaven confound me, if I have heard a word! “Well, is it in the three-cornered isle, or on Italian soil, that Caesar means to give the soldiers their promised lands?” When I swear I know nothing, they marvel at me as, forsooth, the man of all men remarkably and profoundly reticent.

Amid such trifling, alas! I waste my day, praying the while: O rural home: when shall I behold you! When shall I be able, now with books of the ancients, now with sleep and idle hours, to quaff sweet forgetfulness of life’s cares! O when shall beans, brethren of Pythagoras, be served me, and with them greens well larded with fat bacon! O nights and feasts divine! When before my own Lar we dine, my friends and I, and feed the saucy slaves from the barely tasted dishes. Each guest, as is his fancy, drains cups big or small, not bound by crazy laws, whether one can stand strong bumpers in gallant style, or with mild cups mellows more to his liking. And so begins a chat, not about other men’s homes and estates, nor whether Lepos dances well or ill; but we discuss matters which concern us more, and of which it is harmful to be in ignorance—whether wealth or virtue makes men happy, whether self-interest or uprightness leads us to friendship, what is the nature of the good and what is its highest form.

Now and then our neighbour Cervius rattles off old wives’ tales that fit the case. Thus, if anyone, blind to its anxieties, praises the wealth of Arellius, he thus begins: “Once on a time—such is the tale—a country mouse welcomed a city mouse in his poor hole, host and guest old friends both. Roughly he fared, frugal of his store, yet could open his thrifty soul in acts of hospitality. In short, he grudged not his hoard of vetch or long oats, but bringing in his mouth a dried raisin and nibbled bits of bacon he served them, being eager by varying the fare to overcome the daintiness of a guest, who, with squeamish tooth, would barely touch each morsel. Meanwhile, outstretched on fresh straw, the master of the house himself ate spelt and darnel, leaving the titbits to his friend. At last the city mouse cries to him: “What pleasure can you have, my friend, in living so hard a life on the ridge of a steep grove? Wouldn’t you put people and the city above these wild woods? Take my advice: set out with me. Inasmuch as all creatures that live on earth have mortal souls, and for neither great nor small is there escape from death, therefore, good sir, while you may, live happy amid joys; live mindful ever of how brief your time is!” These words struck home with the rustic, who lightly leaped forth from his house. Then both pursue the journey as planned, eager to creep under the city walls by night.

And now night was holding the mid space of heaven, when the two set foot in a wealthy palace, where covers dyed in scarlet glittered on ivory couches, and many courses remained over from a great dinner of the evening before, in baskets piled up hard by. So when the town mouse has the rustic stretched out on purple covers, he himself bustles about in waiter-style, serving course after course, and doing all the duties of the home-bred slave, first tasting everything he serves. The other, lying at ease, enjoys his changed lot, and amid the good cheer is playing the happy guest, when of a sudden a terrible banging of the doors tumbled them both from their couches. In panic they run the length of the hall, and still more terror-stricken were they, as the lofty palace rang with the barking of Molossian hounds. Then says the rustic: “No use have I for such a life, and so farewell: my wood and hole, secure from alarms, will solace me with homely vetch.”