Perhaps they would reproach us for these things too—and in fact they already have: the luxury of our tables, our fine clothing, our public processions, and the haughty way we treat those we meet.
I had not realized that we were supposed to compete with consuls and prefects and the most celebrated generals, men who apparently have nowhere else to throw their wealth. I did not know that our stomachs should groan from feasting on the poor’s goods, spending what they need on our own excesses and belching over the altars.
Nor did I know that we were supposed to ride pampered horses and be carried high in gleaming carriages. We must apparently have processions go before us and admiring crowds around us. Everyone must make way as though we were wild beasts and part before us, so that our approach can be seen from far away.
If failing in these things has been such a terrible offense, that offense is over now. Forgive me this wrong. Put someone else in charge who will please the majority. Give me solitude, the countryside, and God, whom alone we shall please even by living simply.
It is painful to lose speeches and discussions, public gatherings, this applause that gives us wings, relatives, friends, honors, and the beauty and grandeur of the city. It is painful to lose the brilliance that flashes from every side and dazzles those who look only at the surface rather than bending their gaze inward. But this is still less painful than being tossed about and stained amid public disturbances and turmoil, constantly bending with the crowd.
For people are not looking for priests but for orators; not for stewards of souls but for guardians of money; not for people who offer sacrifice with purity but for powerful patrons.
Still, I will say something in their defense: we are the ones who trained them this way. We became all things to all people, though I do not know whether it was to save everyone or to destroy them.