Letters of Vesuvius

by Pliny the Younger

These texts are modified from the Loeb 1915 version of Pliny’s Epistulae¹, letters 16 and 20 from Book 6.²

First letter to Tacitus

Your request that I would send you an account of my uncle’s end, so that you may transmit a more exact relation of it to posterity, deserves my acknowledgements; for if his death shall be celebrated by your pen, the glory of it, I am aware, will be rendered for ever deathless. For notwithstanding he perished, as did whole peoples and cities, in the destruction of a most beautiful region, and by a misfortune memorable enough to promise him a kind of immortality: notwithstanding he has, himself, composed many and lasting work⁠—I am persuaded that the mentioning of him in your immortal writings will greatly contribute to eternize his name. Happy I esteem those, whom Providence has gifted with the ability, either to do things worthy of being written, or to write in a manner worthy of being read; but most happy they, who are blessed with both talents, in which latter class, my uncle will be placed both by his own writings and by yours. The more willingly do I undertake⁠—nay, solicit⁠—the task you set me.

He was, at that time, with the fleet under his command at Misenum. On the ninth day before the Kalends of September,³ about one in the afternoon, my mother desired him to observe a cloud of very unusual size and appearance. He had sunned himself, then taken a cold bath, and after a leisurely luncheon, was engaged in study. He immediately called for his shoes and went up an eminence, from whence he might best view this very uncommon appearance. It was not at that distance discernible from what mountain this cloud issued, but it was found afterwards to be Vesuvius. I cannot give you a more exact description of its figure, than by resembling it to that of a pine tree, for it shot up a great height in the form of a trunk, which extended itself at the top into several branches; because I imagine, a momentary gust of air blew it aloft, and then failing, forsook it; thus causing the cloud to expand laterally as it dissolved, or possibly the downward pressure of its own weight produced this effect. It was at one moment white, at another dark and spotted, as if it had carried up earth or cinders.

My uncle, true savant that he was, deemed the phenomenon important and worth a nearer view. He ordered a light vessel to be got ready, and gave me the liberty, if I thought proper, to attend him. I replied that I would rather study; and, as it happened, he himself had given me a theme for composition. As he was coming out of the house he received a note from Rectina, the wife of Bassus, who was in the utmost alarm at the imminent danger (his villa stood just below us, and there was no way to escape but by sea); she earnestly entreated him to save her from such deadly peril. He changed his first design and what he began with a philosophical, he pursued with an heroical, turn of mind. He ordered large galleys to be launched, and went himself on board one, with the intention of assisting not only Rectina, but many others; for the villas stand extremely thick upon that beautiful coast. Hastening to the place from whence others were flying, he steered his direct course to the point of danger, and with such freedom from fear, as to be able to make and dictate his observations upon the successive motions and figures of that terrific object.

And now cinders, which grew thicker and hotter the nearer he approached, fell into the ships, then pumice-stones too, with stones blackened, scorched, and cracked by fire, then the sea ebbed suddenly from under them, while the shore was blocked up by landslips from the mountains. After considering for a moment whether he should retreat, he said to the captain who was urging that course, “Fortune favors the bold; carry me to Pomponianus.” Pomponianus was then at Stabiae, distant by half the width of the bay (for, as you know, the shore, insensibly curving in its sweep, forms here a vessel for the sea). He had already embarked his baggage; for though at Stabiae the danger was not yet near, it was fully in view, and certain to be extremely near, as soon as it spread; and he resolved to fly as soon as the contrary wind should cease. It was fully favorable, however, for carrying my uncle to Pomponianus. He embraces, comforts, and encourages his alarmed friend, and in order to soothe the other’s fears by his own unconcern, desires to be conducted to a bathroom; and, after having bathed, he sat down to supper with great cheerfulness, or at least (what is equally heroic) with all the appearance of it.

In the meanwhile, Mount Vesuvius was blazing in several places, with spreading and towering flames, whose radiant brightness the darkness of the night set in high relief. But, my uncle, in order to soothe apprehensions, kept saying that some fires had been left alight by the terrified country people, and what they saw were only deserted villas on fire in the abandoned district. After, this he retired to rest, and it is most certain that his rest was a most genuine slumber; for his breathing, which, as he was pretty fat, was somewhat heavy and sonorous, was heard by those who attended his chamber-door. But the court which led to his apartment now lay so deep under a mixture of pumice-stones and ashes, that if he had continued longer in his bedroom, exiting would have been impossible. After being awakened, he came out, and returned to Pomponianus and the others, who had sat up all night. They consulted together as to whether they should hold out in the house, or to wander about in the open. For the house now tottered under repeated and violent concussions, and seemed to rock to and fro as if torn from its foundations. In the open air, on the other hand, they dreaded the falling pumice-stones, light and porous though they were; yet this, by comparison, seemed the lesser danger of the two; a conclusion which my uncle arrived at by balancing reasons, and the others by balancing fears. They tied pillows upon their heads with napkins; and this was their whole defense against the showers that fell round them.

It was now day everywhere else, but there, a deeper darkness prevailed than in the most obscure night; relieved, however, by many torches and different lights. They thought it proper to go down to the shore to observe from close at-hand, if they could possibly put out to sea, but they found the waves still running extremely high and contrary. There, my uncle, having thrown himself down upon a disused sail, repeatedly called for, and drank, an amount of cold water; soon after, flames, and a strong smell of sulphur⁠—which was the forerunner of them⁠—dispersed the rest of the company in flight; and only roused him. He raised himself up with the assistance of two of his slaves, but instantly fell; some unusually-gross vapor, as I conjecture, having obstructed his breathing and blocked his windpipe, which was not only naturally weak and constricted, but chronically inflamed. When day dawned again (the third day from the last he had seen) his body was found entire and uninjured, and still fully-clothed as in life; its posture was that of a sleeping, rather than a dead man.

Meanwhile, my mother and I were at Misenum. But this has no connection with history, and your inquiry went no farther than concerning my uncle’s death. I will, therefore, put an end to my letter. Suffer me only to add, that I have faithfully related to you what I was either an eye-witness of myself, or heard at the time, when report speaks most true. You will select what is most suitable to your purpose; for there is a great difference between a letter, and a history; between writing to a friend, and writing for the public. Farewell.

Second letter to Tacitus

The letter which, in compliance with your request, I wrote to you concerning the death of my uncle, has raised your curiosity, you say, to know not only what terrors, but what calamities I endured when left behind at Misenum (for there I broke off my narrative)?

“Though my mind shudders to remember,⁠… I will begin.”⁴

My uncle having set out, I gave the rest of the day to study⁠—the object which had kept me at home. After which, I bathed, dined, and retired to short and broken slumbers. There had been, for several days before, some shocks of earthquake, which alarmed us less, as they are frequent in Campania; but that night, they became so violent that one might think that the world was not being merely shaken, but turned topsy-turvy. My mother flew to my chamber; I was just rising, meaning on my part to awaken her if she was asleep. We sat down in the forecourt of the house, which separated it by a short space from the sea. I do not know whether I should call it courage or inexperience⁠—I was not quite eighteen⁠—but I called for a volume of Livy, and began to read, and even went on with the extracts I was making from it, as if nothing were the matter. Lo and behold, a friend of my uncle’s, who had just come to him from Spain, appears on the scene; observing my mother and me seated, and the fact that I have a book in my hand, he sharply censures her patience and my indifference; nevertheless, I still went on intently with my author.

It was now six o’clock in the morning, the light still ambiguous and faint. The buildings around us already tottered, and though we stood upon open ground, as the place was narrow and confined, there was certain and formidable danger of them collapsing. It was not till then we resolved to quit the town. The common people follow us in the utmost consternation, preferring the judgement of others to their own (wherein the extreme of fear resembles prudence), and force us onwards by pressing a crowd in on our rears. Having arrived outside the houses, we halt in the midst of a most strange and dreadful scene. The coaches which we had ordered out, though stood upon the most level ground, were sliding to and fro, and could not be kept steady even when stones were put against the wheels. Then we beheld the sea sucked back, and as it were repulsed by the convulsive motion of the earth; it is at least certain than the shore was considerably enlarged, and now held many sea animals captive on the dry sand. On the other side, a black and dreadful cloud, bursting out in gusts of igneous, serpentine vapor, now and again yawned open to reveal long, fantastic flames, resembling flashes of lightning, but much larger.

Our Spanish friend already mentioned now spoke with more warmth and instancy: “If your brother⁠— if your uncle,” said he, “is still alive, he wishes you both to be safe; if he has perished, it was his desire that you would survive him. Why therefore do you delay your escape?” We could never think of our own safety, we said, while we are uncertain of his. Without further ado, our friend hurried off, and took himself out of danger at the top of his speed.

Soon afterwards, the cloud I have described began to descend upon the earth, and cover the sea. It had already encircled the hidden Capreae, and blotted from sight the promontory of Misenum. My mother now began to beseech, exhort, and command me to escape as best I might; a young man could do it; she, burdened with age and corpulency, would die easy if only she had not caused my death. I replied, I would not be saved without her, and taking her by the hand, I hurried her on. She complies reluctantly and not without reproaching herself for delaying me.

Ashes now fall upon us, though as yet in no great quantity. I looked behind me; great darkness pressed on our rears, and came rolling over the land after us like a torrent. I proposed while we still could see, to turn aside, lest we should be knocked down into the road by the crowd that followed us, and trampled to death in the dark. We had scarce sat down, when darkness spread over us⁠—not like that of a moonless or cloudy night, but of a room when it is shut up, and the lamp put out. You could hear the shrieks of women, the crying of children, and the shouts of men; some were seeking their children, others their parents, others their wives, or husbands, and only distinguishing them by their voices; one lamenting his own fate, another that of his family; some praying to die, from the very fear of dying; many lifting their hands to the gods; but the greater part, imagining that there were no gods left anywhere, and that the last and eternal night had come upon the world.

There were even some who augmented the real perils by imaginary terrors. Newcomers reported that such-and-such a building at Misenum had collapsed or taken fire⁠—falsely, but they were credited. By degrees it grew lighter; which we imagined to be rather the warning of approaching fire (as in truth it was) than the return of day: however, the fire stayed at a distance from us: then again came darkness, and a heavy shower of ashes; we were obliged every now and then to rise and shake them off, otherwise we should have been buried and even crushed under their weight. I might have boasted, that amidst dangers so appalling, not a sigh or expression of fear escaped from me, had not my support been founded in that miserable though strong consolation, that all mankind were involved in the same calamity, and that I was perishing with the world itself.

At last, this dreadful darkness was attenuated by degrees to a kind of cloud or smoke, and passed away; presently the real day returned, and even the sun appeared, though pale as when an eclipse is in progress. Every object that presented itself to our yet-affrighted gaze was changed, covered over with a drift of ashes, as with snow. We returned to Misenum, where we refreshed ourselves as well as we could, and passed an anxious night between hope and fear⁠—though indeed with a much larger share of the latter, for the earthquake still continued, and several enthusiastic people were giving a grotesque turn from their own and their neighbors’ calamities by terrible predictions. Even then, however, my mother and I, notwithstanding the danger that passed and which still threatened us, had no thoughts of leaving the place till we should receive some tidings of my uncle.

And now, you will read this narrative, so far beneath the dignity of a history, without any view of transferring it to your own; and indeed you must attribute it to your own request, if it appears scarcely worthy of a letter. Farewell.