5.VI.--TO DOMITIUS APOLLINARIS.
I was charmed with the kind consideration which led you, when you heard
that I was about to visit my Tuscan villa in the summer, to advise me
not to do so during the season that you consider the district unhealthy.
Undoubtedly, the region along the coast of Tuscany is trying and
dangerous to the health, but my property lies well back from the sea;
indeed, it is just under the Apennines, which are the healthiest of our
mountain ranges. However, that you may not have the slightest anxiety
on my account, let me tell you all about the climatic conditions, the
lie of the land, and the charms of my villa. It will be as pleasant
reading for you as it is pleasant writing for me.
In winter the air is cold and frosty: myrtles, olives and all other
trees which require constant warmth for them to do well, the climate
rejects and spurns, though it allows laurel to grow, and even brings it
to a luxuriant leaf. Occasionally, however, it kills it, but that does
not happen more frequently than in the neighbourhood of Rome. In
summer, the heat is marvellously tempered: there is always a breath of
air stirring, and breezes are more common than winds. Hence the number
of old people to be found there: you find the grandfathers and great-
grandfathers of the young people still living; you are constantly
hearing old stories and tales of the past, so that, when you set foot
there, you may fancy that you have been born in another century.
The contour of the district is most beautiful. Picture to yourself an
immense amphitheatre, such as only Nature can create, with a wide-
spreading plain ringed with hills, and the summits of the hills
themselves covered with tall and ancient forests. There is plentiful
and varied hunting to be had. Down the mountain slopes there are
stretches of underwoods, and among these are rich, deep-soiled hillocks-
-where if you look for a stone you will have hard work to find one--
which are just as fertile as the most level plains, and ripen just as
rich harvests, though later in the season. Below these, along the whole
hillsides, stretch the vineyards which present an unbroken line far and
wide, on the borders and lowest level of which comes a fringe of trees.
Then you reach the meadows and the fields--fields which only the most
powerful oxen and the stoutest ploughs can turn. The soil is so tough
and composed of such thick clods that when it is first broken up it has
to be furrowed nine times before it is subdued. The meadows are
jewelled with flowers, and produce trefoil and other herbs, always
tender and soft, and looking as though they were always fresh. For all
parts are well nourished by never-failing streams, and even where there
is most water there are no swamps, for the declivity of the land drains
off into the Tiber all the moisture that it receives and cannot itself
absorb.
The Tiber runs through the middle of the plain; it is navigable for
ships, and all the grain is carried down stream to the city, at least in
winter and spring. In summer the volume of water dwindles away, leaving
but the name of a great river to the dried-up bed, but in the autumn it
recovers its flood. You would be delighted if you could obtain a view
of the district from the mountain height, for you would think you were
looking not so much at earth and fields as at a beautiful landscape
picture of wonderful loveliness. Such is the variety, such the
arrangement of the scene, that wherever the eyes fall they are sure to
be refreshed.
My villa, though it lies at the foot of the hill, enjoys as fine a
prospect as though it stood on the summit; the ascent is so gentle and
easy, and the gradient so unnoticeable, that you find yourself at the
top without feeling that you are ascending. The Apennines lie behind
it, but at a considerable distance, and even on a cloudless and still
day it gets a breeze from this range, never boisterous and rough, for
its strength is broken and lost in the distance it has to travel. Most
of the house faces south; in summer it gets the sun from the sixth hour,
and in winter considerably earlier, inviting it as it were into the
portico, which is broad and long to correspond, and contains a number of
apartments and an old-fashioned hall. In front, there is a terrace laid
out in different patterns and bounded with an edging of box; then comes
a sloping ridge with figures of animals on both sides cut out of the
box-trees, while on the level ground stands an acanthus-tree, with
leaves so soft that I might almost call them liquid. Round this is a
walk bordered by evergreens pressed and trimmed into various shapes;
then comes an exercise ground, round like a circus, which surrounds the
box-trees that are cut into different forms, and the dwarf shrubs that
are kept clipped. Everything is protected by an enclosure, which is
hidden and withdrawn from sight by the tiers of box-trees. Beyond is a
meadow, as well worth seeing for its natural charm as the features just
described are for their artificial beauty, and beyond that there
stretches an expanse of fields and a number of other meadows and
thickets.
At the head of the portico there runs out the dining-room, from the
doors of which can be seen the end of the terrace with the meadow and a
good expanse of country beyond it, while from the windows the view on
the one hand commands one side of the terrace and the part of the villa
which juts out, and on the other the grove and foliage of the adjoining
riding-school. Almost opposite to the middle of the portico is a
summer-house standing back a little, with a small open space in the
middle shaded by four plane-trees. Among them is a marble fountain,
from which the water plays upon and lightly sprinkles the roots of the
plane-trees and the grass plot beneath them. In this summer-house there
is a bed-chamber which excludes all light, noise, and sound, and
adjoining it is a dining-room for my friends, which faces upon the small
court and the other portico, and commands the view enjoyed by the
latter. There is another bed-chamber, which is leafy and shaded by the
nearest plane-tree and built of marble up to the balcony; above is a
picture of a tree with birds perched in the branches equally beautiful
with the marble. Here there is a small fountain with a basin around the
latter, and the water runs into it from a number of small pipes, which
produce a most agreeable sound. In the corner of the portico is a
spacious bed-chamber leading out of the dining-room, some of its windows
looking out upon the terrace, others upon the meadow, while the windows
in front face the fish-pond which lies just beneath them, and is
pleasant both to eye and ear, as the water falls from a considerable
elevation and glistens white as it is caught in the marble basin. This
bed-chamber is beautifully warm even in winter, for it is flooded with
an abundance of sunshine.
The heating chamber for the bath adjoins it, and on a cloudy day we turn
in steam to take the place of the sun's warmth. Next comes a roomy and
cheerful undressing room for the bath, from which you pass into a cool
chamber containing a large and shady swimming bath. If you prefer more
room or warmer water to swim in, there is a pond in the court with a
well adjoining it, from which you can make the water colder when you are
tired of the warm. Adjoining the cold bath is one of medium warmth, for
the sun shines lavishly upon it, but not so much as upon the hot bath
which is built farther out. There are three sets of steps leading to
it, two exposed to the sun, and the third out of the sun though quite as
light. Above the dressing-room is a ball court where various kinds of
exercise can be taken, and a number of games can be played at once. Not
far from the bath-room is a staircase leading to a covered passage, at
the head of which are three rooms, one looking out upon the courtyard
with the four plane-trees, the second upon the meadow, and the third
upon the vineyards, so each therefore enjoys a different view. At the
end of the passage is a bed-chamber constructed out of the passage
itself, which looks out upon the riding-course, the vineyards, and the
mountains. Connected with it is another bed-chamber open to the sun,
and especially so in winter time. Leading out of this is an apartment
which adjoins the riding-course of the villa.
Such is the appearance and the use to which the front of my house is
put. At the side is a raised covered gallery, which seems not so much
to look out upon the vineyards as to touch them; in the middle is a
dining-room which gets the invigorating breezes from the valleys of the
Apennines, while at the other side, through the spacious windows and the
folding doors, you seem to be close upon the vineyards again with the
gallery between. On the side of the room where there are no windows is
a private winding staircase by which the servants bring up the
requisites for a meal. At the end of the gallery is a bed-chamber, and
the gallery itself affords as pleasant a prospect therefrom as the
vineyards. Underneath runs a sort of subterranean gallery, which in
summer time remains perfectly cool, and as it has sufficient air within
it, it neither admits any from without nor needs any. Next to both
these galleries the portico commences where the dining-room ends, and
this is cold before mid-day, and summery when the sun has reached his
zenith. This gives the approach to two apartments, one of which
contains four beds and the other three, and they are bathed in sunshine
or steeped in shadow, according to the position of the sun.
But though the arrangements of the house itself are charming, they are
far and away surpassed by the riding-course. It is quite open in the
centre, and the moment you enter your eye ranges over the whole of it.
Around its borders are plane-trees clothed with ivy, and so while the
foliage at the top belongs to the trees themselves, that on the lower
parts belongs to the ivy, which creeps along the trunk and branches, and
spreading across to the neighbouring trees, joins them together.
Between the plane-trees are box shrubs, and on the farther side of the
shrubs is a ring of laurels which mingle their shade with that of the
plane-trees. At the far end, the straight boundary of the riding-course
is curved into semicircular form, which quite changes its appearance.
It is enclosed and covered with cypress-trees, the deeper shade of which
makes it darker and gloomier than at the sides, but the inner circles--
for there are more than one--are quite open to the sunshine. Even roses
grow there, and the warmth of the sun is delightful as a change from the
cool of the shade. When you come to the end of these various winding
alleys, the boundary again runs straight, or should I say boundaries,
for there are a number of paths with box shrubs between them. In places
there are grass plots intervening, in others box shrubs, which are
trimmed to a great variety of patterns, some of them being cut into
letters forming my name as owner and that of the gardener. Here and
there are small pyramids and apple-trees, and now and then in the midst
of all this graceful artificial work you suddenly come upon what looks
like a real bit of the country planted there. The intervening space is
beautified on both sides with dwarf plane-trees; beyond these is the
acanthus-tree that is supple and flexible to the hand, and there are
more boxwood figures and names.
At the upper end is a couch of white marble covered with a vine, the
latter being supported by four small pillars of Carystian marble. Jets
of water flow from the couch through small pipes and look as if they
were forced out by the weight of persons reclining thereon, and the
water is caught in a stone cistern and then retained in a graceful
marble basin, regulated by pipes out of sight, so that the basin, while
always full, never overflows. The heavier dishes and plates are placed
at the side of the basin when I dine there, but the lighter ones, formed
into the shapes of little boats and birds, float on the surface and
travel round and round. Facing this is a fountain which receives back
the water it expels, for the water is thrown up to a considerable height
and then falls down again, and the pipes that perform the two processes
are connected. Directly opposite the couch is a bed-chamber, and each
lends a grace to the other. It is formed of glistening marble, and
through the projecting folding doors you pass at once among the foliage,
while both from the upper and lower windows you look out upon the same
green picture. Within is a little cabinet which seems to belong at once
to the same and yet another bed-chamber. This contains a bed and it has
windows on every side, yet the shade is so thick without that but little
light enters, for a wonderfully luxuriant vine has climbed up to the
roof and covers the whole building. You can fancy you are in a grove as
you lie there, only that you do not feel the rain as you do among trees.
Here too a fountain rises and immediately loses itself underground.
There are a number of marble chairs placed up and down, which are as
restful for persons tired with walking as the bed-chamber itself. Near
these chairs are little fountains, and throughout the whole riding-
course you hear the murmur of tiny streams carried through pipes, which
run wherever you please to direct them. These are used to water the
shrubs, sometimes in one part, sometimes in another, and at other times
all are watered together.
I should long since have been afraid of boring you, had I not set out in
this letter to take you with me round every corner of my estate. For I
am not at all apprehensive that you will find it tedious to read about a
place which certainly would not tire you to look at, especially as you
can get a little rest whenever you desire, and can sit down, so to
speak, by laying down the letter. Moreover, I have been indulging my
affection for the place, for I am greatly attached to anything that is
mainly the work of my own hands or that some one else has begun and I
have taken up. In short--for there is no reason is there? why I should
not be frank with you, whether my judgments are sound or unsound--I
consider that it is the first duty of a writer to select the title of
his work and constantly ask himself what he has begun to write about.
He may be sure that so long as he keeps to his subject-matter he will
not be tedious, but that he will bore his readers to distraction if he
starts dragging in extraneous matter to make weight. Observe the length
with which Homer describes the arms of Achilles, and Virgil the arms of
Aeneas--yet in both cases the description seems short, because the
author only carries out what he intended to. Observe how Aratus hunts
up and brings together even the tiniest stars--yet he does not exceed
due limits. For his description is not an excursus, but the end and aim
of the whole work. It is the same with myself, if I may compare my
lowly efforts with their great ones. I have been trying to give you a
bird's eye view of the whole of my villa, and if I have introduced no
extraneous matter and have never wandered off my subject, it is not the
letter containing the description which is to be considered of excessive
size, but rather the villa which has been described.
However, let me get back to the point I started from, lest I give you an
opportunity of justly condemning me by my own law, by not pursuing this
digression any farther. I have explained to you why I prefer my Tuscan
house to my other places at Tusculum, Tibur and Praeneste. For in
addition to all the beauties I have described above, my repose here is
more profound and more comfortable, and therefore all the freer from
anxiety. There is no necessity to don the toga, no neighbour ever calls
to drag me out; everything is placid and quiet; and this peace adds to
the healthiness of the place, by giving it, so to speak, a purer sky and
a more liquid air. I enjoy better health both in mind and body here
than anywhere else, for I exercise the former by study and the latter by
hunting. Besides, there is no place where my household keep in better
trim, and up to the present I have not lost a single one of all whom I
brought with me. I hope Heaven will forgive the boast, and that the
gods will continue my happiness to me and preserve this place in all its
beauty. Farewell.
http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/etext02/ltpln10.txt
====
这一篇关于花园的小普林尼书信,对了解古罗马遗址很重要。中文译
作《致多弥提乌斯》,网上找不到。
- posted on 01/17/2007
II.17.--TO GALLUS.
You are surprised, you say, at my infatuation for my Laurentine estate,
or Laurentian if you prefer it so. You will cease to wonder when you
are told the charms of the villa, the handiness of its site, and the
stretch of shore it commands. It is seventeen miles distant from Rome,
so that after getting through all your business, and without loss or
curtailment of your working hours, you can go and stay there. It can be
reached by more than one route, for the roads to Laurentium and Ostia
both lead in the same direction, but you must branch off on the former
at the fourth, and on the latter at the fourteenth milestone. From both
of these points onward the road is for the most part rather sandy, which
makes it a tedious and lengthy journey if you drive, but if you ride it
is easy going and quickly covered. The scenery on either hand is full
of variety. At places the path is a narrow one with woods running down
to it on both sides, at other points it passes through spreading meadows
and is wide and open. You will see abundant flocks of sheep and many
herds of cattle and horses, which are driven down from the high ground
in the winter and grow sleek in a pasturage and a temperature like those
of spring.
The villa is large enough for all requirements, and is not expensive to
keep in repair. At its entrance there is a modest but by no means mean-
looking hall; then come the cloisters, which are rounded into the
likeness of the letter D, and these enclose a smallish but handsome
courtyard. They make a fine place of refuge in a storm, for they are
protected by glazed windows and deep overhanging eaves. Facing the
middle of the cloisters is a cheerful inner court, then comes a dining-
room running down towards the shore, which is handsome enough for any
one, and when the sea is disturbed by the south-west wind the room is
just flecked by the spray of the spent waves. There are folding doors
on all sides of it, or windows that are quite as large as such doors,
and so from the two sides and the front it commands a prospect as it
were of three seas, while at the back one can see through the inner
court, the cloisters, the courtyard, then more cloisters and the hall,
and through them the woods and the distant hills. A little farther
back, on the left-hand side, is a spacious chamber; then a smaller one
which admits the rising sun by one window and by another enjoys his last
lingering rays as he sets, and this room also commands a view of the sea
that lies beneath it, at a longer but more secure distance. An angle is
formed by this chamber and the dining-room, which catches and
concentrates the purest rays of the sun. This forms the winter
apartments and exercise ground for my household. No wind penetrates
thither except those which bring up rain-clouds and only prevent the
place being used when they take away the fine weather. Adjoining this
angle is a chamber with one wall rounded like a bay, which catches the
sun on all its windows as he moves through the heavens. In the wall of
this room I have had shelves placed like a library, which contains the
volumes which I not only read, but read over and over again. Next to it
is a sleeping chamber, through a passage supported by pillars and fitted
with pipes which catch the hot air and circulate it from place to place,
keeping the rooms at a healthy temperature. The remaining part of this
side of the villa is appropriated to the use of my slaves and freedmen,
most of the rooms being sufficiently well furnished for the reception of
guests.
On the other side of the building there is a nicely decorated chamber,
then another room which would serve either as a large bed-chamber or a
moderate sized dining-room, as it enjoys plenty of sunshine and an
extensive sea-view. Behind this is an apartment with an ante-room,
suitable for summer use because of its height, and for winter use owing
to it sheltered position, for it is out of reach of all winds. Another
room with an ante-room is joined to this by a common wall. Next to it
is the cold bath room, a spacious and wide chamber, with two curved
swimming baths thrown out as it were from opposite sides of the room and
facing one another. They hold plenty of water if you consider how close
the sea is. Adjoining this room is the anointing room, then the
sweating room, and then the heating room, from which you pass to two
chambers of graceful rather than sumptuous proportions. Attached to
these is a warm swimming bath which everybody admires, and from it those
who are taking a swim can command a view of the sea. Close by is the
tennis court, which receives the warmest rays of the afternoon sun; on
one side a tower has been built with two sitting rooms on the ground
floor, two more on the first floor, and above them a dining-room
commanding a wide expanse of sea, a long stretch of shore, and the
pleasantest villas of the neighbourhood. There is also a second tower,
containing a bedroom which gets the sun morning and evening, and a
spacious wine cellar and store-room at the back of it. On the floor
beneath is a sitting-room where, even when the sea is stormy, you hear
the roar and thunder only in subdued and dying murmurs. It looks out
upon the exercise ground, which runs round the garden.
This exercise ground has a border of boxwood, or rosemary where the box
does not grow well--for box thrives admirably when it is sheltered by
buildings, but where it is fully exposed to wind and weather and to the
spray of the sea, though it stands at a great distance therefrom, it is
apt to shrivel. On the inside ring of the exercise ground is a pretty
and shady alley of vines, which is soft and yielding even to the bare
foot. The garden itself is clad with a number of mulberry and fig-
trees, the soil being specially suitable for the former trees, though it
is not so kindly to the others. On this side, the dining-room away from
the sea commands as fine a view as that of the sea itself. It is closed
in behind by two day-rooms, from the windows of which can be seen the
entrance to the villa from the road and another garden as rich as the
first one but not so ornamental.
Along its side stretches a covered portico, almost long enough for a
public building. It has windows on both sides, most of them facing the
sea; those looking on the garden are single ones, and less numerous than
those on the other side, as every alternate window was left out. All
these are kept open when it is a fine day and there is no wind; when the
wind is high, the windows only on the sheltered side are opened and no
harm is done. In front of the portico is a terrace walk that is
fragrant with violets. The portico increases the warmth of the sun by
radiation, and retains the heat just as it keeps off and breaks the
force of the north wind. Hence it is as warm in front as it is cool
behind. In the same way it checks the south-west winds, and similarly
with all winds from whatever quarter they blow--it tempers them and
stops them dead. This is its charm in winter, but in summer it is even
greater, for in the mornings its shade tempers the heat of the terrace
walk, and in the afternoon the heat of the exercise ground and the
nearest part of the garden, the shadows falling longer and shorter on
the two sides respectively as the sun rises to his meridian and sinks to
his setting. Indeed, the portico has least sunshine when the sun is
blazing down upon its roof. Consequently it receives the west winds
through its open windows and circulates them through the building, and
so never becomes oppressive through the stuffy air remaining within it.
At the head of the terrace and portico successively is a garden suite of
rooms, my favourite spot and well worthy of being so. I had them built
myself. In this is a sunny chamber which commands the terrace on one
side, the sea on another, and the sun on both; besides an apartment
which looks on the portico through folding doors and on the sea through
a window. In the middle of the wall is a neat recess, which by means of
glazed windows and curtains can either be thrown into the adjoining room
or be cut off from it. It holds a couch and two easy-chairs, and as you
lie on the couch you have the sea at your feet, the villa at your back,
and the woods at your head, and all these views may be looked at
separately from each window or blended into one prospect. Adjoining is
a chamber for passing the night in or taking a nap, and unless the
windows are open, you do not hear a sound either of your slaves talking,
or the murmur of the sea, or the raging of the storms; nor do you see
the flashes of the lightning or know that it is day. This deep
seclusion and remoteness is due to the fact that an intervening passage
separates the wall of the chamber from that of the garden, and so all
the sound is dissipated in the empty space between. A very small
heating apparatus has been fitted to the room, which, by means of a
narrow trap-door, either diffuses or retains the hot air as may be
required. Adjoining it is an ante-room and a chamber projected towards
the sun, which the latter room catches immediately upon his rising, and
retains his rays beyond mid-day though they fall aslant upon it. When I
betake myself into this sitting-room, I seem to be quite away even from
my villa, and I find it delightful to sit there, especially during the
Saturnalia, when all the rest of the house rings with the merry riot and
shouts of the festival-makers; for then I do not interfere with their
amusements, and they do not distract me from my studies.
The convenience and charm of the situation of my villa have one drawback
in that it contains no running water, but I draw my supply from wells or
rather fountains, for they are situated at a high level. Indeed, it is
one of the curious characteristics of the shore here that wherever you
dig you find moisture ready to hand, and the water is quite fresh and
not even brackish in the slightest degree, though the sea is so close
by. The neighbouring woods furnish us with abundance of fuel, and other
supplies we get from a colony of Ostia. The village, which is separated
only by one residence from my own, supplies my modest wants; it boasts
of three public baths, which are a great convenience, when you do not
feel inclined to heat your own bath at home, if you arrive unexpectedly
or wish to save time. The shore is beautified by a most pleasing
variety of villa buildings, some of which are close together, while
others have great intervals between them. They give the appearance of a
number of cities, whether you view them from the sea or from the shore
itself, and the sands of the latter are sometimes loosened by a long
spell of quiet weather, or--as more often happens--are hardened by the
constant beating of the waves. The sea does not indeed abound with fish
of any value, but it yields excellent soles and prawns. Yet our villa
provides us with plenty of inland produce and especially milk, for the
herds come down to us from the pastures whenever they seek water or
shade.
Well, do you think that I have just reasons for living here, for passing
my time here, and for loving a retreat for which your mouth must be
watering, unless you are a confirmed town-bird? I wish that your mouth
did water! If it did, the many great charms of my little villa would be
enhanced in the highest degree by your company. Farewell.
====
This one is also excellent!
- Re: Epistle V.6, TO DOMITIUS APOLLINARIS -- Pliny the Youngerposted on 01/17/2007
xw: Thanks!
- Re: Epistle V.6, TO DOMITIUS APOLLINARIS -- Pliny the Youngerposted on 01/17/2007
lucy wrote:
xw: Thanks!
thanks for reading!
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