Laelius on Friendship (9-12)

Now as for your saying, Fannius, that so great merit is ascribed to me—merit such as I neither admit nor claim —you are very kind; but it seems to me that your estimate of Cato is scarcely high enough. For either no man was wise—which really I think is the better view—or, if anyone, it was he. Putting aside all other proof, consider how he bore the death of his son![*]remembered the case of Paulus, and I had been a constant witness of the fortitude of Gallus, but their sons died in boyhood, while Cato’s son died in the prime of life when his reputation was assured.

Therefore, take care not to give the precedence over Cato even to that man, whom, as you say, Apollo adjudged the wisest of men; for the former is praised for his deeds, the latter for his words.

Now, as to myself, let me address you both at once and beg you to believe that the case stands thus: If I were to assert that I am unmoved by grief at Scipio’s death, it would be for wise men to judge how far I am right, yet, beyond a doubt, my assertion would be false. For I am indeed moved by the loss of a friend such, I believe, as I shall never have again, and—as I can assert on positive knowledge— a friend such as no other man ever was to me. But I am not devoid of a remedy, and I find very great consolation in the comforting fact that I am free from the delusion which causes most men anguish when their friends depart. I believe that no ill has befallen Scipio; it has befallen me, if it has befallen anyone; but great anguish for one’s own inconveniences is the mark of the man who loves not his friend but himself.

But who would say that all has not gone wonderfully well with him? For unless he had wished to live for ever—a wish he was very far from entertaining—what was there, proper for a human being to wish for, that he did not attain? The exalted expectation which his country conceived of him in his childhood, he at a bound, through incredible merit, more than realized in his youth. Though he never sought the consulship, he was elected consul twice—the first time[*]before he was of legal age, the second time at a period seasonable for him, but almost too late for the safety of the commonwealth. And he overthrew the two cities that were the deadliest foes of our empire and thereby put an end not only to existing wars, but to future wars as well. Why need I speak of his most affable manners, of his devotion to his mother, of his generosity to his sisters,[*]of his kindness to his relatives, of his strict integrity to all men? These things are well known to you both. Moreover, how dear he was to the State was indicated by the grief displayed at his funeral. How, then, could he have gained any advantage by the addition of a few more years of life? For even though old age may not be a burden—as I remember Cato, the year before he died, maintained in a discourse with Scipio and myself—yet it does take away that freshness which Scipio kept even to the end.

Therefore, his life really was such that nothing could be added to it either by good fortune or by fame; and, besides, the suddenness of his death took away the consciousness of dying. It is hard to speak of the nature of his death; you both know what people suspect[*]; yet I may say with truth that, of the many very joyous days which he saw in the course of his life—days thronged to the utmost with admiring crowds—the most brilliant was the day before he departed this life, when, after the adjournment of the Senate, he was escorted home toward evening by the Conscript Fathers, the Roman populace, and the Latin allies, so that from so lofty a station of human grandeur he seems to have passed to the gods on high rather than to the shades below.