Letter 2.16

Your letter would have caused me great pain if reason itself had not already driven away every distress, and if my mind, hardened by long despair over public affairs, had not become callous to any new grief. Still, I do not know why my earlier letters led you to suspect what you write. What was in them except a complaint about the times - times that trouble your mind no less than mine? I know the sharpness of your intelligence too well to think you do not see what I see. What amazes me is that you, who ought to know me deeply, could be led to think either that I am so shortsighted as to desert from rising fortune to sinking and almost fallen fortune, or so inconsistent as to throw away the favor I had gathered from a man at the height of success, betray myself, and take part in civil war - the very thing I have avoided from the beginning and always. What, then, is my gloomy plan? Perhaps to withdraw into some solitude. You know how my stomach, which yours once resembled, and even my eyes, are sickened by the arrogance of unworthy people. Add to this the irritating parade of my lictors and the title of imperator by which I am addressed. If I were free of that burden, I would be content with any small hiding place in Italy. But these laurels of mine catch not only people's eyes but now even the little voices of the malicious. Even so, I have never thought of leaving without your approval. You know my little properties; I must stay on them so as not to burden my friends. The fact that I am most comfortable by the sea makes some people suspect that I want to sail away. Perhaps I would not dislike that, if I could sail to peace. But how could I sail to war, especially against a man whom I hope I have satisfied, and on behalf of a man whom no one can now satisfy? You could easily have seen my view from that time when you came to meet me at Cumae. I did not conceal from you what Titus Ampius had said. You saw how strongly I shrank from leaving the city when I heard it. Did I not assure you that I would endure anything rather than leave Italy for civil war? What has happened, then, to change my plan? Has not everything rather urged me to keep the same view? Please believe this, which I think you do believe: in these miseries I seek nothing except that people may someday understand that I preferred nothing to peace, and, once peace was despaired of, avoided nothing so much as civil arms. I think I will never regret this consistency. I remember our friend Quintus Hortensius used to boast that he had never taken part in civil war. My praise in this matter will be brighter, because in his case it was attributed to timidity; in mine I do not think that can be said. Nor do the dangers you set before me, faithfully and lovingly, frighten me. In this disturbance of the whole world, there is no bitterness that does not seem to hang over everyone's head. I would gladly have bought off that danger from the republic at the cost of private and domestic losses, even the very losses you warn me to avoid. If any republic remains, I will leave my son, whom I am glad is dear to you, a sufficiently rich inheritance in the memory of my name. If none remains, nothing will happen to him apart from the rest of the citizens. As for your asking me to consider my son-in-law, an excellent young man and very dear to me, can you doubt, knowing how much I value him and my dear Tullia, that this care troubles me deeply? It troubles me all the more because, amid common miseries, I still comforted myself with this little hope: that my Dolabella, or rather ours, would be freed from the difficulties he had brought on himself by his generosity. Please ask what days he endured in the city while he was there, how bitter for him and how dishonorable for me as his father-in-law. So I am not waiting for the Spanish campaign, about which I am fully convinced things stand as you write, nor am I planning anything clever. If there is ever a state again, there will surely be a place for me. If there is not, you yourself, I think, will come to the same lonely places where you will hear that I have settled. But perhaps I am prophesying wildly, and all this will end better. I remember the despairing words of men who were old when I was young. Perhaps I am now imitating them and using the fault of my age. I wish it may be so. But still - I suppose you have heard that a purple-bordered toga is being woven for Oppius. Our friend Curtius is thinking of a double-dyed one, but the dyer keeps him waiting. I sprinkled in this joke so that you would know I can still laugh, even in anger. As for what I wrote about Dolabella, I advise you to watch it as if your own interests were at stake. This will be my final word: I will do nothing stormy, nothing rash. Still, wherever I may be, I ask you to protect me and my children as our friendship and your honor demand.

CCCXCIII (Fam. II, 16) TO M. CAELIUS RUFUS (IN GAUL) CUMAE (MAY) Your letter would have given me great pain, had it not been that by this time reason itself has dispelled all feelings of annoyance, and had not my mind, from long despair of public safety, become callous to any new sorrow. Nevertheless, I do not know how it happened that you conceived from my former letter the suspicion which you mention in yours. For what did it contain beyond a lamentation over the state of the times, which do not cause me greater anxiety than they do you? For I know the keenness of your intellect too well to suppose that you do not see what I see myself. What surprises me is that, knowing me as thoroughly as you ought to do, you could be induced to think, that I was either so shortsighted as to abandon a fortune in the ascendant for one on the wane and all but entirely sunk; or so inconsistent as to throw away the favour already gained of a man at the height of prosperity, and so be untrue to myself, and — a thing which I have from the beginning and ever since avoided — take part in a civil war. What, then, do you mean by my “lamentable” design? Is it that of retiring, perhaps, to some secluded spot? For you know how it not only turns my stomach — as it used at one time to turn yours also — but sickens my very eyes to see the insolent conduct of mere upstarts. I have the additional gene of the procession of lictors, and the title of imperator, by which I am addressed. If I had been without that burden, I should have been content with any retreat, however humble, in Italy . But these laurelled fasces of mine not only attract the eyes, but now also provoke the remarks of the malevolent. And though that is so, I yet never thought of leaving the country without the approbation of your party. But you know my small estates: I am obliged to stay on them, not to be troublesome to my friends. Now the fact of my finding it pleasantest to reside in my marine villa causes some to suspect me of an intention to embark on a voyage: and, after all, perhaps I should not have been unwilling to do so, had I been able to reach peace: for how could I consistently sail to war: especially against a man who, I hope, has forgiven me, on the side of a man who by this time cannot possibly forgive me? In the next place, you might without any difficulty have understood my feeling at the time of your visit to me in my Cuman villa. For I did not conceal from you what Titus Ampius had said: you saw how I shrank from leaving the city after hearing it. Did I not assure you that I would endure anything rather than quit Italy to take part in a civil war? What, then, has occurred to make me change my resolve? Has not everything been rather in favour of my abiding by my opinion? Pray believe me in this — and I am sure you do think so-that among these miseries I seek for nothing but that people should at length understand that I have preferred peace to everything: that, when that was given up in despair, my first object was to avoid actual civil war. Of this consistent conduct I think I shall never have cause to repent. I remember, for instance, that our friend Q. Hortensius used to plume himself on this particular thing, that he had never taken any part in a civil war. In this matter my credit will be more brilliant, because it was attributed to want of spirit in his case: in mine I do not think that this idea can possibly be entertained. Nor am I terrified by the considerations which you put before me, with the most complete fidelity and affection, with the view of alarming me. For there is no sort of violence that does not seem to be hanging over the heads of all in this world-wide convulsion; and this, indeed, I would with the greatest pleasure have averted from the Republic at the cost of my private and domestic losses, even those against which you bid me be on my guard. To my son, whom I rejoice to see enjoying your affection, I shall leave, if the Republic survives in any shape, a sufficiently noble inheritance in the memory of my name: but if it entirely disappears, nothing will happen to him apart from the rest of the citizens. You ask me to have some regard to my son-in-law-a most excellent young man, and very dear to me: can you doubt, when you know how much I regard both him, and of course my dear Tullia , that this subject gives me the keenest anxiety? The more so, that in the universal disaster I yet used to flatter myself with this little grain of hope, that my, or rather our, Dolabella would be freed from those embarrassments which he had brought upon himself by his own liberality. Pray ask him how he got through the settling days, while he was in the city. How disagreeable they were to him, and how derogatory to myself as his father-in-law! Accordingly, I am neither waiting for the result of the Spanish campaign, as to which I am fully convinced that the truth is as you say, nor am I meditating any astute policy. If there is ever to be a state, there will be doubtless a place for me: but if there is not, you will yourself, as I think, make for the same lonely retreats in which you will hear that I have taken up my abode. But perhaps I am talking wildly, and all these troubles will end better. For I remember the expressions of despair among those who were old men when I was a youth: perhaps I am now imitating them, and indulging in the usual weakness of my time of life. I wish it may be so. But nevertheless!-I suppose you have heard that a purple-bordered toga is being woven for Oppius . For our friend Curtius thinks of a double-dyed one: but the hand that should dye it keeps him waiting. I put in this seasoning of joke to show you that, in spite of my indignation, I am still in the habit of laughing. As to what you say in your letter about Dolabella , I advise you to look to it as closely as if your own interests were at stake. My last remark shall be this: I shall do nothing wild or inconsiderate. However, I beg you, in whatever country I may be, to protect me and my children, as our friendship and your honour demand.

XVI. M. CICERO IMP. S. D. M. CAELIO in Cumano; vi vel v Non. Mai. 49 Magno dolore me adfecissent tuae litterae nisi iam et ratio ipsa depulisset omnis molestias et diuturna desperatione rerum obduruisset animus ad dolorem novum. Sed tamen qua re acciderit ut ex meis superioribus litteris id suspicarere quod scribis nescio. Quid enim in illis fuit praeter querelam temporum, quae non meum animum magis sollicitum haberent quam tuum? Nam non eam cognovi aciem ingeni tui quod ipse videam te id ut non putem videre. Illud miror, adduci potuisse te, qui me penitus nosse deberes, ut existimares aut me tam improvidum qui ab excitata fortuna ad inclinatam et prope iacentem desciscerem aut tam inconstantem ut collectam gratiam florentissimi hominis effunderem a meque ipse deficerem et, quod initio semperque fugi, civili bello interessem. Quod est igitur meum triste consilium? Ut discederem fortasse in aliquas solitudines. Nosti enim non modo stomachi mei, cuius tu similem quondam habebas, sed etiam oculorum in hominum insolentium indignitate fastidium. Accedit etiam molesta haec pompa lictorum meorum nomenque imperi quo appellor. Eo si onere carerem, quamvis parvis Italiae latebris contentus essem. Sed incurrit haec nostra laurus non solum in oculos sed iam etiam in voculas malevolorum. Quod cum ita esset, nil tamen umquam de profectione nisi vobis approbantibus cogitavi. Sed mea praediola tibi nota sunt; in his mihi necesse est esse, ne amicis molestus sim. Quod autem in maritimis facillime sum, moveo non nullis suspicionem velle me navigare. Quod tamen fortasse non nollem si possem ad otium. Nam ad bellum quidem, qui convenit? Praesertim contra eum cui spero me satis fecisse ab eo cui iam satis fieri nullo modo potest. Deinde sententiam meam tu facillime perspicere potuisti iam ab illo tempore cum in Cumanum mihi obviam venisti. Non enim te celavi sermonem T. Ampi. Vidisti quam abhorrerem ab urbe relinquenda, cum audissem. Nonne tibi adfirmavi quidvis me potius perpessurum quam ex Italia ad bellum civile exiturum? Quid ergo accidit cur consilium mutarem? Nonne omnia potius ut in sententia permanerem? Credas hoc mihi velim, quod puto te existimare, me ex his miseriis nihil aliud quaerere nisi ut homines aliquando intellegant me nihil maluisse quam pacem, ea desperata nihil tam fugisse quam arma civilia. Huius me constantiae puto fore ut numquam paeniteat. Etenim memini in hoc genere gloriari solitum esse familiarem nostrum Q. Hortensium, quod numquam bello civili interfuisset. Hoc nostra laus erit illustrior quod illi tribuebatur ignaviae, de nobis id existimari posse non arbitror. Nec me ista terrent quae mihi a te ad timorem fidissime atque amantissime proponuntur. Nulla est enim acerbitas quae non omnibus hac orbis terrarum perturbatione impendere videatur. Quam quidem ego a re publica meis privatis et domesticis incommodis libentissime, vel istis ipsis quae tu me mones ut caveam, redemissem. Filio meo, quem tibi carum esse gaudeo, si erit ulla res publica, satis amplum patrimonium relinquam in memoria nominis mei; sin autem nulla erit, nihil accidet ei separatim a reliquis civibus. Nam quod rogas ut respiciam generum meum, adulescentem optimum mihique carissimum, an dubitas, qui scias quanti cum illum tum vero Tulliam meam faciam, quin ea me cura vehementissime sollicitet et eo magis quod in communibus miseriis hac tamen oblectabar specula, Dolabellam meum, vel potius nostrum, fore ab iis molestiis quas liberalitate sua contraxerat liberum? Velim quaeras quos ille dies sustinuerit in urbe dum fuit, quam acerbos sibi, quam mihimet ipsi socero non honestos. Itaque neque ego hunc Hispaniensem casum exspecto, de quo mihi exploratum est ita esse ut tu scribis, neque quicquam astute cogito. Si quando erit civitas, erit profecto nobis locus; sin autem non erit, in easdem solitudines tu ipse, ut arbitror, venies in quibus nos consedisse audies. Sed ego fortasse vaticinor et haec omnia meliores habebunt exitus. Recordor enim desperationes eorum qui senes erant adulescente me. Eos ego fortasse nunc imitor et utor aetatis vitio. Velim ita sit; sed tamen. Togam praetextam texi Oppio puto te audisse; nam Curtius noster dibaphum cogitat, sed eum infector moratur. Hoc aspersi ut scires me tamen in stomacho solere ridere. [de] Dolabella quod scripsi suadeo videas tamquam si tua res agatur. Extremum illud erit: nos nihil turbulenter, nihil temere faciemus. Te tamen oramus, quibuscumque erimus in terris, ut nos liberosque nostros ita tueare ut amicitia nostra et tua fides postulabit.