Pliny 6.16: A Prosaic Analysis

Today, I am going to tell you another story. If you recall, the last story I relayed to you from the long-deceased Ancient Roman legend Pliny the Younger was Halloween-themed, riddled with ghosts and inexplicable hauntings. Therefore, it is highly debatable whether any of these events occurred (the broad consensus on the existence of ghosts, both then and now, is that there is none). However, the story I am going to tell you now is far more rooted in history. Although Pliny's writings absolutely fluctuate between the realm of fantasy and reality, and many an esteemed historian contests the specifics of his reporting, the broad strokes of his experience are incontestable: in 79 AD, Mount Vesuvius erupted, and the cities of Herculaneum, Pompeii, and more were buried under massive piles of ash. Many died, their corpses potentially preserved through a combination of the nature of their burial and our advanced archeological technologies. Some, however, survived and lived to tell the tale. Pliny the Younger is one of such lucky individuals. Far scarier than any ghost, the following letter depicts the experience of his uncle, Pliny the Elder. I have attached the original Latin and my own translation (on the more literal side). After you read the original, try your hand at your own translation, and see where yours and mine differ. Without further ado, I'll let Pliny take it from here.

The Latin Itself

C. Plīnius Tacitō suō s. Petis ut tibi avunculī meī exitum scrībam, quō vērius trādere posterīs possīs. Grātiās agō; nam videō mortī eius, sī celebrētur ā tē, immortālem glōriam esse prōpositam. Quamvīs enim pulcherrimārum clāde terrārum, ut populī ut urbēs memorābilī cāsū, quasi semper vīctūrus occiderit, quamvīs ipse plūrima opera et mānsūra condiderit, multum tamen perpetuitātī eius scrīptōrum tuōrum aeternitās addet. Equidem beātōs putō, quibus deōrum mūnere datum est aut facere scrībenda aut scrībere legenda, beātissimōs vērō quibus utrumque. Hōrum in numerō avunculus meus et suīs librīs et tuīs erit. Quō libentius suscipiō, dēposcō etiam quod iniungis.

Erat Mīsēnī classemque imperiō praesēns regēbat. Nōnum Kal. Septembrēs hōrā ferē septimā māter mea indicat eī appārēre nūbem inūsitātā et magnitūdine et speciē. Ūsus ille sōle, mox frīgidā, gustāverat iacēns studēbatque; poscit soleās, ascendit locum ex quō maximē mīrāculum illud cōnspicī poterat. Nūbēs, incertum procul intuentibus ex quō monte; —Vesuvium fuisse posteā cognitum est—oriēbātur, cuius similitūdinem et fōrmam nōn alia magis arbor quam pīnus expresserit.

6. Nam longissimō velut truncō ēlāta in altum quibusdam rāmīs diffundēbātur, crēdō quia recentī spīritū ēvecta, dein senēscente eō dēstitūta aut etiam pondere suō victa in lātitūdinem vānēscēbat, candida interdum, interdum sordida et maculōsa prout terram cineremve sustulerat. 7. Magnum propiusque nōscendum, ut ērudītissimō virō, vīsum. Iubet liburnicam aptārī; mihi sī venīre ūnā vellem facit cōpiam; respondī studēre mē mālle, et forte ipse quod scrīberem dederat. 8. Ēgrediēbātur domō; accipit cōdicillōs Rectīnae Tascī imminentī perīculō exterritae - nam villa eius subiacēbat, nec ūlla nisī nāvibus fuga—ut sē tantō discrīminī ēriperet ōrābat.

9. Vertit ille cōnsilium et quod studiōsō animō incohāverat obit maximō. Dēdūcit quadrirēmēs, ascendit ipse nōn Rectīnae modō sed multīs—erat enim frequēns amoenitās ōrae—lātūrus auxilium. 10. Properat illūc unde aliī fugiunt, rēctumque cursum rēcta gubernācula in perīculum tenet adeō solūtus metū, ut omnēs illīus malī mōtūs omnēs figūrās, ut dēprēnderat oculīs, dictāret ēnotāretque. 11. Iam nāvibus cinis incidēbat, quō propius accēderent, calidior et dēnsior; iam pūmicēs etiam nigrīque et ambustī et frāctī igne lapidēs; iam vadum subitum ruīnāque montis lītora obstantia. Cūnctātus paulum an retrō flecteret, mox gubernātōrī ut ita faceret monentī ‘Fortēs,’ inquit, ‘fortūna iuvat: Pomponiānum pete.’

12. Stabiīs erat dirēmptus sinū mediō—nam sēnsim circumāctīs curvātīsque lītoribus mare īnfunditur—ibi quamquam nōndum perīculō appropinquante, cōnspicuō tamen et cum crēsceret proximō, sarcinās contulerat in nāvēs, certus fugae sī contrārius ventus resēdisset. Quō tunc avunculus meus secundissimō invectus, complectitur trepidantem cōnsōlātur hortātur, utque timōrem eius suā sēcūritāte lēnīret, dēferrī in balineum iubet; lōtus accubat cēnat, aut hilaris aut—quod aequē magnum—similis hilarī.

13. Interim ē Vesuviō monte plūribus locīs lātissimae flammae altaque incendia relūcēbant, quōrum fulgor et clāritās tenebrīs noctis excitābātur. Ille agrestium trepidātiōne ignēs relictōs dēsertāsque vīllās per sōlitūdinem ārdēre in remedium formīdinis dictitābat. Tum sē quiētī dedit et quiēvit vērissimō quidem somnō; nam meātus animae, quī illī propter amplitūdinem corporis gravior et sonantior erat, ab eīs quī līminī obversābantur audiēbātur.

14. Sed ārea ex quā diaeta adībātur ita iam cinere mixtīsque pūmicibus opplēta surrēxerat, ut sī longior in cubiculō mora, exitus negārētur. Excitātus prōcēdit, sēque Pomponiānō cēterīsque quī pervigilāverant reddit. 15. In commūne cōnsultant, intrā tēcta subsistant an in apertō vagentur. Nam crēbrīs vastīsque tremōribus tēcta nūtābant, et quasi ēmōta sēdibus suīs nunc hūc nunc illūc abīre aut referrī vidēbantur. 16. Sub dīō rūrsus quamquam levium exēsōrumque pūmicum cāsus metuēbātur, quod tamen perīculōrum collātio ēlēgit; et apud illum quidem ratiō ratiōnem, apud aliōs timōrem timor vīcit. Cervīcālia capitibus imposita linteīs cōnstringunt; id mūnīmentum adversus incidentia fuit.

17. Iam diēs alibī, illīc nox omnibus noctibus nigrior dēnsiorque; quam tamen facēs multae variaque lūmina solvēbant. Placuit ēgredī in lītus, et ex proximō adspicere, ecquid iam mare admitteret; quod adhūc vastum et adversum permanēbat. 18. Ibi super abiectum linteum recubāns semel atque iterum frīgidam aquam poposcit hausitque. Deinde flammae flammārumque praenūntius, odor sulpuris, aliōs in fugam vertunt, excitant illum. 19. Innītēns servolīs duōbus assurrēxit et statim concidit, ut ego colligō, crassiōre cālīgine spīritū obstrūctō, clausōque stomachō quī illī nātūrā invalidus et angustus et frequenter aestuāns erat.

20. Ubi diēs redditus—is ab eō quem novissimē vīderat tertius—corpus inventum integrum illaesum opertumque ut fuerat indūtus: habitus corporis quiēscentī quam dēfūnctō similior. 21. Interim Mīsēnī ego et māter—sed nihil ad historiam, nec tū aliud quam dē exitū eius scīre voluistī. Fīnem ergō faciam. 22. Ūnum adiciam, omnia mē quibus interfueram quaeque statim, cum maximē vēra memorantur, audieram, persecūtum. Tū potissima excerpēs; aliud est enim epistulam aliud historiam, aliud amīcō aliud omnibus scrībere. Valē.

An English Translation

*Translated by yours truly

You ask that I write to you about the death of my uncle, so that you can hand it over to descendants more truthfully. I give thanks, for I see that immortal glory has been offered to his death if it is celebrated by you. Indeed, although he, in a disaster of most beautiful lands, like the people and cities in the memorable catastrophe, died, he died as if always going to live; although he himself established many works and things going to remain, nevertheless, the eternity of your writings will add much to his perpetuity. Indeed, I think that fortunate people, to whom it is given in service of the gods to either do things that must be written of or to write things that must be read, are the most blessed to whom both are given. Among these will be my uncle, both in my books and in yours. Because of this, I take it up rather gladly; I also demand that you join too. 

He was at Misenum, ruling the fleet with the power to command an army present. On the ninth day before the Kalends of September, at almost the seventh hour, my mother said to him that a cloud appeared uncommon in both size and appearance. He, having enjoyed the sun and soon cold water, had eaten lying down and was studying; he demanded sandals, and he climbed to a place from which he could catch sight of that miracle. The cloud, uncertain from which mountain for those watching from afar,—later it was learned that it’d been Vesuvius—was rising, whose likeness and shape no other tree, more than a pine, depicted.

For it was, having been carried into the sky as if from a very long trunk, was being spread out with certain branches; I believe that because having been carried out by a recent blast, then abandoned by it growing old, or even conquered by its own weight, it was disappearing into its width, sometimes bright, sometimes dirty and spotted just as it had raised earth and ash. It seemed essential and necessary to be investigated more closely, as it would be to any very wise man. He orders the light ship to be equipped; he makes an opportunity if I want to come together; I responded that I prefer to study, and by chance, he himself had given me what I’d write. He was leaving the house; he received the letters of Rectina of Tascus, terrified by the imminent danger, for her house was lying under [it]; there was no escape except by boat—she was begging that he would rescue her from such a great crisis. 

My uncle changed the plan, and what he’d begun with a studious spirit, he meets with the most incredible spirit. He draws down the quadreme, he himself boards, not only for Rectina but for many—for the pleasantness of the shore was crowded, intending to bring help. He’d hurried there from where others flee; he holds a straight course and straight rudders into danger, to such an extent freed from fear, that he dictated and noted all motion and all forms of that evil as he grasped with his eyes. Already on the boats, ash was falling; the closer they approached, the hotter and denser it became. Now, pumice and stones (black, burning, and broken by fire) were falling; now there were sudden shallow waters, and because of the ruin of the mountain, the shores were obstructing the sea. Having hesitated a little whether he would turn back, he said to the warning helmsman that he should act in this way: “Fortune favors the bold. Seek Pompeiianus.”

Pompianus was at Stabiae, separated from the eruption by the bay in the middle, for the sea is spread on gently rounded and curved shores. There, although the danger was not yet approaching, nevertheless near and obvious since it was growing, he’d gathered bags onto the ships, certain of escape if the opposing wind would recede. By which most favorable wind my uncle was then carried, he embraces, consoles, and encourages the trembling one, and so that Pliny would soothe Pompeiianus’s fear with his own security, he orders himself to be brought into a bath; having bathed, he lay down and ate, either cheerful or—which is equally significant—similar to cheerful. 

Meanwhile, in many places, the broadest flames and tall fires were shining from Mount Vesuvius, fires and flames whose lightning and brightness were increased by the dark night. That one in remedy of fear kept saying that the fires and the houses, having been deserted, having been left behind by the alarm of the farmers, burn through the solitude. Then he gave himself to sleep and rested with the truest sleep indeed; for the motion of his breath, which for that one was more grave and heavy because of the size of his body, by those who were turning about before the door, he was heard.

But the courtyard from which the bedroom was approached had risen so much that it is already filled with ash and mixed pumice, so that if the delay in the bedroom were longer, exit would be denied. Awakened, he proceeded and returned himself to Pompeianus and the others who’d kept watch. They consult in common whether they should stand inside the house or wander in the open air. Because of the frequent and vast tremors, the houses were shaking, and as if having been removed from their foundations, now here, now there, they seemed to go away and come back (as in swaying). Under open sky, although the fall of light and porous pumice was feared, nevertheless, the collection of dangers chose it; and indeed, with that one reason conquered reason, with others fear conquered fear. They bound pillows on their heads, positioned with linen strips; this was a fortification against the falling things.

Now, elsewhere, there was day; here, there was a night thicker and blacker than all nights, a night which, nevertheless, many torches and various lights were breaking up. It was pleasing to leave the shore, and from very close to see what already was allowed in the sea, which so far was remaining vast and in opposition. There, reclining on top of a thrown-out linen sheet, he once again demanded and drank cold water. Then the flames and the announcer of flames, the smell of sulfur, turn others to flight, and excite my uncle. Struggling, he stood with two young slaves and immediately fell, as I gather, with his breath obstructed by the thick vapor, and with his windpipe closed, which for that one was in nature weak and narrow and frequently inflamed.

When daylight returned—the third from that day which he’d most recently seen—the body had been found intact, unharmed, and concealed just as he had been clothed: the condition of the body was more similar to resting than to having died.  Meanwhile, mother and I were at Misenum—but this is nothing to history, and you wanted to know nothing else but what was of his death. Therefore, I shall finish. But I shall add one, that I’ve pursued everything in which I’d been involved, and which I’d heard immediately, when the truest things are recalled. You will choose what is most important; for it is one thing to write a letter, another to write history, one to write to a friend, another to write to all. Farewell. 

A Goodbye (for now...)

In this letter, although it describes an event foreign to the vast majority of those reading this post (a destructive volcano killing those you love), it still speaks to us on a deeply personal level. Through his expertly crafted metaphors, Pliny the Younger provides context for an unfamiliar audience. The image of this event is, no pun intended, burned into the minds of all readers. And, most importantly, Pliny's love for his uncle is palpable. Indeed, it is that profound sense of adoration and loss that this letter conveys that transcends throughout the millennia and makes this piece of history so timeless. Pliny the Elder was, to Pliny the Younger, the epitome of a good man: selfless, rational, and kind. His body may have been lost to the eruption, but Pliny the Younger has cemented his legacy in history; because of our devotion to investigating Ancient Latin texts, he, and all those lost at Pompeii, are made infinite.

We hope you enjoyed this prosaic analysis of Pliny 6.16. Please leave any comments, questions, or concerns below, and be sure to recommend future prose or poems for us to dive into!