Letters to his Friends/Book 6

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¹ Although the universal confusion of affairs is such that every man complains of his own lot as being worse than any other, and there is not a man who would not rather be anywhere else in the world than where he is, still I have no doubt that the worst form of misery at the present time for an honest citizen is to be at Rome. For although, wherever a man is, he has the same feeling of exasperation at the ruin both of the public and of his private interests, still his eyes intensify his grief, being compelled to see what others only hear, and forbidding any distraction of his thoughts from his woes. Accordingly, though you cannot but be distressed by the thought of all you have lost, you must at any rate rid your mind of that special sorrow which I am told afflicts you most—the fact of your not being at Rome. For great as is your annoyance at being cut off from your family ​and possessions, the objects of your regret are as well off as ever they were—could not indeed be better off if you were with them—and are in no special danger. And it is not right, when you are thinking of your family, that you should either claim any peculiar favour of fortune, or refuse to submit to the common lot.

² When, however, you are thinking of yourself, my dear Torquatus, it is incumbent upon you so to order your reflections as not to summon to the conclave of your thoughts either despair or fear. For neither has the man^[2] who has hitherto been less just to you than your deserts demanded, failed to give distinct indications of being more mildly disposed towards you; nor, after all, has the very man to whom you appeal for safety any clear and assured method of securing his own. And, though the issues of all wars are uncertain, I clearly see that, while victory on the one side is no source of danger to you, apart, of course, from what is involved in the general ruin, victory on the other^[3] is what you yourself, as I am well aware, have never been afraid of.

³ I am left to suppose then that what causes you the bitterest anguish is precisely what I regard in the light of a consolation—the common danger of the whole state; and for that overwhelming evil, however glibly philosophers may talk, I fear no real consolation can possibly be discovered except that of which the efficacy is in exact proportion to each man's moral strength and nerve. For if to have a sound judgement, and to act aright, is all that is requisite for a good and happy life, to speak of a man, who can hold his head up because he is con​scious of the purity of his aims, as being miserable is, I apprehend, impiety. For I do not suppose that it was the rewards of victory that tempted us formerly^[4] to leave behind us our country, our children, and all we possessed; no, I think we were following the path of a definite duty, a duty of justice and loyalty which we owed to the commonwealth and to our own dignity; nor again at the time we did so were we so fatuous as to imagine that we had victory in our hands.

⁴ If therefore that has occurred, the possible happening of which we put plainly before our eyes when we first took up the cause, we ought not to let our spirits sink as though something had occurred, the very possibility of which we never contemplated. Let us then be so minded as we are bidden to be by reason and truth, and that is to remember that we are not to be held responsible for anything in life other than wrong conduct; and since we are not guilty of that, to bear all the ills of humanity with calmness and self-restraint. And the conclusion to which these remarks point is this—that, though all be lost, virtue none the less seems able by herself to maintain her own ground. But if public affairs admit of any hope, then, whatever the situation turns out to be, you can claim a share in that hope.

⁵ And yet, as I write these words, it keeps occurring to me that I am the very man you have so often rebuked for his pessimism, and so often tried to rouse by your personal influence from his hesitancy and diffidence. But in those days, I assure you, it was not the soundness of our cause, but our policy that I impugned. I saw that we were too late in opposing arms that had long before been strength​ened by our own actions; and I grieved that a question of public right should be settled, not by conference or our moral authority, but by the pike and by the sword. And when I stated that what did occur would happen, I was not venturing to foretell the future; no, it was simply that I was afraid of that happening which I saw was a possibility, and would be the ruin of us if it did come to pass; especially when, had I been obliged to make a forecast, one way or the other, as to the development and issue of the campaign, the forecast I could have made with the greater certainty was, that just that would happen which did come to pass. For while we excelled in those qualities which do not display themselves in battle, we were inferior in the practice of arms and the physical fitness of our men. But do you, I beg of you, show that courage now which you thought I ought to have shown then.

⁶ My reason for writing thus is, that when I made searching inquiries about you, your freedman Phylargyrus, out of the loyalty of his heart (that was certainly my impression), informed me that you are subject to occasional fits of profound anxiety; you ought not to be so, nor should you doubt that if any form of constitution survives you will occupy the position due to you, or that, if none survives, you will be in no more wretched plight than the rest of us. The present crisis, however, which holds us all breathless with suspense, you should face with all the more self-control for two reasons—you are resident in that city where the principles on which life should be governed had their birth and nurture,^[5] and you have with you one to whom you have ever been singularly attached—Servius Sulpicius, whose ​kindly feeling and wisdom is, I am sure, a comfort to you; had we but followed his authority and counsel we should have submitted to the autocracy of a civilian rather than to the victory of an armed soldier.^[6]

⁷ But perhaps I have dealt with these matters at unnecessary length; I shall take less space to set forth what is more important. I have nobody in the world to whom I owe more than I do to you; those to whom I was indebted, you yourself know how heavily, have been snatched away from me by the calamity of this war. What my own position is at the present moment I am fully aware. But since there is never a man so hopelessly prostrate but that he is capable of some considerable accomplishment and performance if he devotes himself wholly and solely to the work he has in hand, I should be glad if you would regard whatever counsel or practical assistance I can give you, certainly all my enthusiasm, as a debt I owe to yourself and your children.

¹ I beg of you not to imagine that my writing to you less frequently than I used to do is due to my having forgotten you, but either to my illness (though I think I am now recovering from it a little) or to my being away from Rome, so that it is impossible for me to know who are going out to you. I should like you, therefore, to regard it as an established fact that I remember you with the warmest affection, ​and that I am no less interested in whatever concerns you than in what concerns myself.

² Your case has hitherto suffered greater vicissitudes than people either desired or expected;^[7] but as to that, considering how bad the times are, there is no reason, believe me, for you feeling aggrieved. For it is inevitable that the Republic should be eternally harassed by the clash of arms, or some day see those arms laid aside and gain a new existence, or be utterly extinguished. If the sword is to be master, you have nothing to fear, either from those who are accepting your submission, or from those whom you have supported; if the state ever breathes again, when that sword is sheathed by the terms of a settlement, or flung away in sheer weariness, or wrested from one side by the victory of the other, you will then be permitted to enjoy both your position and your prosperity; but if there is to be ruin, absolute and universal, and the final issue is to be what that most sagacious of men, Marcus Antonius, used to fear even in those early days^[8] when he apprehended the imminence of all these disasters, well, there is always this consolation—a poor one, it is true, especially for a citizen and man of your type, but one we cannot but accept—that no man should make a special grievance of what happens to all alike.

³ If you consider, as I am sure you do, the inward significance of these few words—more are not to be entrusted to a despatch—you will doubtless understand without any letter from me that you have something to hope for, and nothing to fear either in this or any other stable form of government; but in the event of universal ruin, since you would not ​desire to survive the Republic, even if allowed to do so, that you must accept your lot, especially as it has no connexion with any fault of yours. But enough of this. I should like you to write and tell me what you are doing, and where you are likely to be, so that I may know either where to write, or where to come.

¹ In my last letter^[9] I was tempted by my friendliness, rather than because the circumstances demanded it, to be somewhat prolix; for neither did your manliness require any encouragement of mine, nor, considering my own utter destitution, was my case and condition such as to warrant my encouraging anyone else.

² On this occasion too I must be briefer. For if there was no need of so many words then, there is no greater need at all now; and if there was then, what I have already written is enough, especially as there has been nothing new to add. For though I daily hear something of these affairs, which I believe reach your ears too, it all amounts to the same thing in the end; and that end I see as clearly with my mind as the things we behold with our eyes; and indeed there is nothing I see which I am not quite sure that you see also. For though no man can divine what the issue of a battle will be, I can yet see the issue of the war, or, if not exactly that, I can at any rate see, since one side or the other must necessarily prove victorious, what is likely to be the effect of victory on either side.

​³ And, understanding this^[10] so fully, I see such a position that it seems that it will be no evil if, even before a decisive victory, that befalls which is lield out as being of all things the most to be dreaded.^[11] For to live on such terms as we should have to live after that is the depth of misery, but no wise man has ever held that to die is any misery, even for one who is in prosperity. But you are in a city in which the very walls of the houses themselves seem able to say all this, or even more, and after a nobler fashion.

⁴ I can assure you of this, though it is but a poor consolation that is based on the miseries of others, that you are in no whit greater danger now than any one either of those who have gone off to the war, or of those who have stayed at home. The former are engaged in battle, the latter fear the conqueror.

That, however, is a poor consolation; this other one has greater weight, and I hope you take advantage of it, as I certainly do; for never, while I exist, shall anything cause me pain, as long as I am guiltless of any wrong conduct; and if I cease to exist, I lose all sensation.

But here again in writing thus to you I am but "sending an owl to Athens."^[12] You and yours and all you possess are my chief concern, and will be as long as I live.

¹ There is no news for me to send you, and even if there were, I know that you generally get the in- ​formation from your family. As to the future, however, though it is always difficult to dogmatize, still one can get fairly near the truth by conjecture, if the matter is such that its issue can be foreseen. In the present instance I think I realize no more than this, that the war will not be of long duration; though even on this very point there are some who are of a different opinion. For myself, as I write these words I believe something of importance has already occurred, not that I know it for certain, but because it is not hard to form a conjecture. For, though the Lord of War is ever impartial,^[13] and the results of battles always uncertain, on this occasion so great are the forces on each side, and so well equipped, it is said, for a decisive engagement, that nobody will be surprised whichever of the two commanders prove the victor. The general opinion, and it grows stronger every day, is this, that although the causes of the combatants differ very materially, there will after all not be much difference in the results of victory on one side or the other. Of the one party^[14] we have already, I think I may say, had some experience; as regards the commander^[15] of the other, there is not a man but reflects how much to be dreaded is the anger of a conqueror with his sword unsheathed.

At this point, if you think I am aggravating your grief when I ought to be assuaging it, by trying to console you, I confess that I can discover no consolation for our common calamities except this—and this after all, if you can but take it to your heart, is the most convincing, and the one of which I avail myself more and more each day—I mean that the best possible consolation in trouble is the con​sciousness of a right purpose, and that there is no serious evil other than wrong conduct; and since we are so far from it, that our sentiments have ever been of the soundest, and it is the result of our policy rather than the policy itself that is the subject of censure, and since we have fully discharged our obligations, well then, let us bear what has come to pass with self-restraint. But, be that as it may, I do not presume to console you for the troubles common to all of us; they indeed require greater inventiveness in the comforter, and exceptional courage in the sufferer. But why you should have no special sorrow of your own, anybody could explain to you easily enough. For though a certain person has acted with less despatch than I had expected in relieving you, I have no doubt at all as to what that person thinks about your restoration. As to the others, I don't suppose that you are in any hurry to know my opinion.

³ There remains the fact that it is painful to you to be so long away from your family; it must be a grief to you, especially to be separated from those boys of yours, who are the merriest fellows in the world. But, as I wrote to you before, the times are such that everybody thinks he is worse off than anybody else, and where each man is, there he least wants to be. Myself, I consider that we who are at Rome are the most to be pitied, not only because in the case of anything that is evil, the sight of it is more painful than the hearing of it, but also because we are more exposed to any sudden danger that may arise than if we were away. Though I must say, speaking for myself who profess to comfort you, it is not so much the literature to which I have always devoted myself, as length of time that has brought me relief.

​⁴ You remember the bitterness of my grief, in which my chief consolation is, that I saw further than anybody else, when what I desired, however unfavourable the terms, was peace. And though that is due to mere chance, and no prophetic inspiration of mine, I still find a pleasure in the hollow credit of having been far-seeing.

In the second place, and this is a source of consolation common to both of us, if I were now called upon to quit the stage of life, the Republic from which I should have to tear myself is not one which it would pain me to forgo, especially when the change would deprive me of all perception. My age too makes it easier for me, and the fact that my life is now at its close, and not only is it gladdened by the thought of a course well run, but it forbids my fearing any violence in that change to which nature herself has nearly brought me.

And lastly, the man, I might even say the men, who have fallen in this war were of such a character, that it seems an act of shamelessness not to accept the same doom should circumstances compel it. For my own part, there is no contingency I do not contemplate, and there is no calamity so crushing but that I believe it to be hanging over my head. But since there is more evil in our anticipation of it than in the very thing we dread, I am ceasing to fear, especially as what hangs over me not only involves no pain, but will itself be the end of pain.

But what I have said is enough, or rather more than I need have said; it is not my garrulity, however, but my friendliness that is to blame for the unusual length of my letters.

⁵ I was sorry that Servius^[16] should have left Athens; ​for I have no doubt that you have often found it a great relief daily to meet and converse with one who is a most intimate friend of yours and at the same time a man of excellent character and remarkable discernment; on your part I would have you keep up your spirits, as is your duty, and indeed your habit, with the courage that characterizes you; on my part, I shall attend with zealous assiduity to all that, so far as I can judge, you wish to be done and is of importance to you and yours. And in so doing, while imitating your kindly feeling towards me, in the matter of good services I shall never overtake you.

¹ Whenever I see your son—and I see him practically I every day—I promise him my devoted and strenuous support without any qualification whatever on the score of hard work, other engagements, or lack of time; but any favour and influence with this proviso, "to the best of my power and ability." As to your book, I have not only read it, but am still reading it carefully, and I am particularly careful not to leave it lying about; I am most keenly interested in your affairs and fortunes, which seem to me to be getting more comfortable, and improving every day, and I notice that many others are keenly interested in them, of whose devotion, as also of his own hopes, I am quite sure your son has sent you a full account.

² As to those matters, however, which can only be ​the subject of conjecture, I do not presume to claim a deeper insight into the future than what I am convinced is given you by your own vision and discernment; but for all that, since there is a possibility of your being unduly perturbed by the consideration of those matters, I think it my duty to express my own sentiments. The very conditions of life and the trend of the times are such as to make it impossible that the circumstances in which you find yourself should last for any length of time, either in your own case or in that of any others, or that so good a cause and such good citizens should be permanently affected by so intolerable an injustice.

³ And in this connexion, in addition to the hope with which your own personality inspires me to no ordinary degree, not only on account of your position and probity (for these are distinctions which others can claim as well as yourself), there are also those peculiar to yourself in your outstanding ability and admirable courage, and to this I positively affirm that the man who has us in his power attaches great importance; so that you would not have remained for a single moment in your present position were it not that he had considered himself insulted by that very gift of yours in which he finds a charm. But this feeling of offence is itself being mitigated daily, and I have hints from those who live with him that this very opinion he holds of your ability will weigh very heavily in your favour with the great man himself.

⁴ For that reason you must in the first place keep up your spirits and courage; that is a duty laid upon you by your birth, your upbringing, your education, and even your reputation; in the second place you ​must have every confidence in the future too, for the reasons I have noted.

As regards myself, I would have you rest assured that anything I can do for yourself or your children will most readily be done for the asking. That is the least I could do, considering our long-standing friendship, the way I always treat my friends, and your own many kindnesses to me.

¹ I am afraid you think me wanting in my duty towards you—and considering the many mutual services and the similarity in our pursuits that bind us together, it ought not to be so—anyhow I am afraid you feel that I have not done my duty by you in the matter of correspondence. Well, I should have written to you long ago and many times, had I not been daily expecting better news, and preferred that congratulation rather than encouragement should be the theme of my letter. As it is, I shall soon, I hope, be congratulating you, so I hold that subject over for another letter.

² But in the present letter I think that your spirits—though I am told and hope that they have by no means given way—need fortifying again and again by the counsel of one who, if not the wisest of men, is at any rate your best friend, and not in the words I should use to console you as one utterly cast down and now bereft of all hope of restoration, but as one of whose reinstatement in his ​civil rights I have no more doubt than I remember you had of mine. For when those who imagined that the Republic could not fall while I was on my feet had driven me into exile, I remember being told by several visitors who came to see me on their way from Asia, where you then were, that you spoke confidently of my early and glorious return.

³ If you have not been misled by a certain scientific system of Etruscan lore^[18] bequeathed you by your illustrious and excellent father, neither shall I be misled by my own skill in divination, which I have acquired not only from the writings and precepts of the greatest philosophers and my extensive study, as you yourself know, of their teaching, but also from a wide experience in dealing with public affairs, and the many vicissitudes of my political life.

⁴ And I have the more confidence in this divination because, difficult to interpret and distracted as these times have been, it has never once in the slightest particular misled me. I should tell you what I had previously predicted, were I not afraid of your thinking that I am making things up after they have happened. But anyhow there are a large number of people who can testify that though at the beginning I warned Pompey against a coalition with Caesar, I afterwards warned him not to break with him. I saw that the coalition meant the crushing of the Senate's power, and a rupture the stirring up of a civil war. Moreover, I was on the most intimate terms with Caesar, while I had the highest esteem for Pompey; but my advice, without being disloyal to the latter, was beneficial to both.

⁵ Of other instances of my foresight I say nothing; for I should be sorry that Caesar, who has deserved ​so well of me, should be under the impression that I gave such advice to Pompey, that, had he followed it, Caesar, while he would no doubt be distinguished in civil life and a leading man in the state,^[19] would not have the extraordinary power he now has. I expressed the opinion that Pompey ought to go to Spain; and had he done so, there would have been no civil war at all. As to recognizing the candidature of an absentee,^[20] I did not fight so much for making it a legal precedent, as for having it recognized because the people had insisted upon it at the urgent instance of the consul himself.

There arose a pretext for war. What opportunity of either warning or remonstrating did I ever let slip, feeling as I did that a peace even on the most unfavourable terms was preferable to the most righteous of wars? ⁶ My counsel was over-ruled, not so much by Pompey, for he was impressed by it, but by those who relied on Pompey's leadership, and imagined that a victory in that war would exactly suit their private interests and their greed. The war was begun; I took no part in it; it was driven away frcm the shores of Italy,^[21] where I remained as long as I possibly could. But my sense of honour weighed more with me than my fears. I shrank from failing Pompey in his hour of need, considering that on a former occasion he had not failed me in mine. And so, yielding perforce to my sense of duty, or my fear of what good citizens would say, or the promptings of honour (call it what you please), like Amphiaraus in the plays,^[22] I too, not blindly but knowingly, set forth for "the field of ruin spread before my eyes." And in this war no disaster has happened without my foretelling it.

​⁷ And therefore now that, as is the custom of other 7 augurs and astrologers, I too, as a political augur, have by my previous prognostications established in your eyes the credibility of my powers of augury and divination, my system of prediction is one in which you will be bound to believe. Well, then, the augury I give you is not based on the flight of a fowl of the air, nor on the omen-cry of a song-bird on the left, as in our system of augury, nor on the healthy eagerness^[23] of feeding fowls, or the rattle of their food on the ground; no, I have other signs for my observation, and if not more infallible than those others, they are at any rate clearer and less likely to mislead.

⁸ Now in noting these signs for the purposes of my prognostications, I follow a sort of double system, the source of half of which is Caesar himself; of the other half, a studied survey of the present political situation. What I find in Caesar is this—a mild and merciful nature, such as you have so strikingly portrayed in your brilliant work, the Remonstrances.^[24] There is also the fact that outstanding ability, such as yours, has a wonderful charm for him. Moreover, he is inclined to defer to the wishes of your many friends, reasonable as those wishes are, being inspired by an ardent devotion, and untainted by either insincerity or self-seeking. And in this regard he will be profoundly impressed by the unanimous feeling of Etruria.^[25]

⁹ Why then have these considerations so far had little or no effect? Well, because he believes that if he once makes a concession to you, with whom it would seem that he can give better reasons for being angry, he could not resist the appeals of many others. "What then can I hope for," you will ask, ​"from one so angry " Well, it is obvious to him that the very same fountain which has (only slightly I admit) bespattered him, will offer deep draughts of praise to his lips. Finally he is a man of penetrating intelligence who sees far ahead, and he knows perfectly well that a man like you—a man who is by far the greatest nobleman in a district of Italy^[26] which he can ill afford to disregard, and who, in the state to which we all belong, is the peer of any among the most eminent men of his age, whether in ability or popularity or reputation in the eyes of the Roman people—cannot be shut out from political life any longer. He will not want this favour to be attributed some day to the lapse of time, rather than immediately to himself.

¹⁰ So much for Caesar. Now as to the nature of our times and circumstances. No man is so bitter an enemy to the cause which Pompey, with more courage than calculation, took up as to dare to speak of us as either disloyal citizens or unprincipled men. And here I often admire the sobriety and justice and wisdom of Caesar; he never refers to Pompey except in the most complimentary terms. But, you will object, he has on many occasions treated him as a public man^[27] with undue harshness. Well, that is due to the clash of arms and to victory, not to Caesar. Why, how warmly he has welcomed us all! Cassius he has made his legate; Brutus he has made governor of Gaul; Sulpicius of Greece; Marcellus, with whom he was more indignant than any one, he has recalled with every consideration for his honour.^[28]

¹¹ What then is the import of all this? It means that the very nature of things and of politics as we find them will not tolerate—no, nor will any system ​of government, whether it remains as it is or whether it is changed, ever suffer—in the first place that all men equally implicated should not be treated alike in regard to position and property; and secondly, that honourable men and good citizens with no brand of infamy upon them should not return to that state to which so many convicted of heinous crimes have already returned.

¹² There is my augury for you! And had I the slightest doubt about it, I should not put it forward in preference to those consolatory reflections with which I should easily reassure a man of spirit; I mean that, had you taken up arms in defence of the Republic—for that is what you then thought—with the certain hope of victory, you deserved no particular credit; if, however, considering the uncertainty of the issues and consequences of wars, you had considered the possible contingency of our defeat, then it is not right of you, while you were perfectly prepared to enjoy success, to be now so entirely incapable of facing failure. I should also press this point—how much comfort you ought to find in the consciousness of all you have done, and how much pleasure to soothe your sorrows in your literary pursuits. I should dwell on the heavy disasters that have befallen not only men of old, but also these men of recent times, your own commanders, if they were not your comrades; I should quote the name of many an illustrious foreigner too. For our grief is assuaged when we remind ourselves of what we may call the universal law and the conditions of human life.

¹³ I should also give you a description of our life in Rome—the utter chaos and confusion of it all! ​For there needs must be less regret at being excluded from a ruined, than from a prosperous state. But there is no occasion for this kind of talk. Very soon I shall see you restored to your full rights; such is my hope or rather my clear conviction. Meantime I have long ago not only promised, but already placed at your disposal my zeal, attention, service, and industry while you are away, and at the disposal of him who is with us, that replica of his father in mind and body, your very staunch and admirable son; and that all the more unreservedly now that Caesar in the most friendly manner is making himself more and more agreeable to me every day, while as for his intimates, they make more of me than of anyone else. What influence I acquire with him, whether by personal ascendancy or by favour, that influence I shall use in your interests. See to it on your part that you hold your head up not only as a man of firm resolution, but as one inspired with the best of hopes.

¹ My book^[29] was not delivered to you as quickly as I you expected; well, for that you must pardon my timidity and pity my unhappy position. My son, I am told, was dreadfully afraid—and I don't blame him—that if the book had been published (since the spirit in which a book is written is not so important as the spirit in which it is taken), the publication of ​it would stupidly^[30] do me harm, especially as I am still paying the penalty of my writings. And in that respect my fate has no parallel; for while a clerical error is removed by erasure, and fatuity is penalized by publicity, my mistake is corrected by banishment, though the charge against me amounts to no more than my having spoken ill of an adversary when I was actually in arms against him.

² There is not a man among us, I imagine, who did not pray to the Goddess of Victory to be on his side, not a man who, even when sacrificing with some other object, even at that very moment, I say, did not utter a prayer for the earliest possible defeat of Caesar. If this never enters his mind, his bliss is unalloyed; if he knows it, and is convinced of it, why is he angry with a man who has only written something against his aims, when he has pardoned all those who have so often made supplication to the gods against his welfare?

³ But to go back to where I began, the reason of my timidity was this; I have written about you, I swear it, sparingly and cautiously, not only pulling myself up, but almost turning tail. Now this kind of composition,^[31] as everybody knows, ought to be not only free, but enthusiastic and elevated. Invective is supposed to be unrestrained, but there you must be careful to avoid the pitfall of scurrility; self-praise is always fettered, for one fears the vice of self-assertiveness is not far behind it. The only theme in which you have a free hand is praise of another, any disparagement of whom will inevitably be attributed either to your incompetence or your jealousy. And yet I am inclined to think that what has happened will be more acceptable to ​you and suit you better; for since I could not do the thing with any distinction, my best course was not to meddle with it; the next best to do so as sparingly as possible. But anyhow I did restrain myself. I modified many things, I struck out many things, and a great deal I never put down at all.^[32]

Exactly then as in the case of a ladder, if you were to remove some of the rungs, make deep cuts in others, and leave one here and there not properly fixed, you would be planning a not improbable fall for the climber, instead of providing a means of ascent, so, if in his literary efforts a man is not only bound down but crippled by so many cruel restrictions, what can he produce worth listening to, or likely to win approval?

⁴ When, however, I come upon Caesar's own name, I tremble in every limb, not from fear of punishment, but of what he will think of me; for I only partially know him. What do you suppose to be the state of my mind, when it communes thus with itself, "To this he will not object, but this word sounds suspicious; what if I change it? Well, I am afraid the alternative is even worse. Come now, suppose I say a good word for someone; surely I do not thereby offend him? When I proceed to reproach someone, what if he does not like it? He persecutes the pen of a man in arms against him; what will he do to that of a man defeated and not yet reinstated?"

You yourself too increase my fears when in your Orator^[33] you shelter yourself under the wing of Brutus and try to justify yourself by coupling his name with your own. Now, when you, who are every man's advocate, do this, how ought I to feel about it, I, an old client of yours, and now every ​man's client? Morbidly apprehensive then and tortured by blind suspicion as I am, when most of what one writes is adapted to what one guesses to be the feelings of another, and not to the expression of one's own judgment, you may be sure that I appreciate the difficulty of emerging unscathed, though that is hardly your experience, armed as you are against every eventuality by your own consummate and outstanding genius. Anyhow I have told my son to read the book, and then take it away with him, or else give it to you, but on the one condition only, that you would undertake to correct it, which means that you would make another book of it altogether.

⁵ As to my journey to Asia,^[34] though it is pressed upon me as absolutely necessary, I have carried out your orders. Now, why am I urging you in particular to act for me? Well, you see the time has come when my case must be definitely settled. It is no good, my dear Cicero, waiting for my son. He is but a young man, and, whether because of his impetuosity, or his youthfulness, or his apprehensions, he cannot give due consideration to everything. It is you who have got to shoulder the whole business^[35]; all my hope is in you. It is you who seize with characteristic penetration upon the points which rejoice the heart and take the fancy of Caesar. Everything must originate with you, and be brought to an issue through your instrumentality. You have much influence with the great man himself, more than anyone with all his friends.

⁶ If you convince yourself of the one fact that this is not merely a call upon your generosity, to do whatever you have been asked to do (though that is ​a great and important consideration), but that the whole business is on your shoulders, why, then you will carry it through; unless of course my misery makes me too tactless, or my friendship too presumptuous, in laying this burden upon you. But an excuse may be found for either in your own lifelong custom. For you have so accustomed yourself to take trouble for your friends that your intimates no longer merely hope for it from you, but demand it of you. As far as concerns the book which my son will give you, I entreat you not to permit its publication, or else to correct it in such a way as to prevent its doing me any harm.

¹ Largus, who is devoted to you, informed me in the course of conversation that the first of January had been fixed as the limit of your stay.^[36] All that had happened having convinced me that whatever Balbus and Oppius had arranged in Caesar's absence was usually confirmed by him, I earnestly pleaded with them to grant me the favour of allowing you to remain in Sicily as long as we desired it. Now although it had always been their habit either readily to promise anything of such a nature as would not run counter to the feelings of their party, or else, even if they refused, to give a reason for their refusal, on this occasion they thought it best to give no immediate answer to my petition. However they came back to me on that same day and granted ​my request that you should remain in Sicily as long as you desired it, adding that they would guarantee your doing so would not in the slightest degree affect your interests. Now that you have been informed what you are permitted to do, I think you ought to know what my own idea is.

² When all this had been settled a letter was delivered to me from you, in which you ask my advice as to what I suggest you should do, whether you should settle down in Sicily or set out to finish off your arrears of business in Asia. Your discussing alternatives in this way did not seem to me to fit in with what Largus said. He spoke to me in such a way as to imply that you were not at liberty to remain in Sicily any longer, whereas you discuss the question as though that permission had been given you. But whether the latter or the former is the truth, my own opinion is that you ought to stay in Sicily. The proximity of the island to Rome will help you, whether in carrying your point by the frequent interchange of letters and messengers, or in expediting your return, when the matter is either arranged according to your request, as I hope it will be, or settled once for all in some other way. And that is why I am strongly of opinion that you ought to stay.

³ I shall recommend you with all earnestness to my friend T. Furfanius Postumus ^[37] and his legates, who are also my friends, when they arrive here; for they are all at Mutina. They are excellent fellows, fond of men like yourself, and very intimate with me. Whatever occurs to me to do which I judge to be in your interests, that I shall do on my own initiative. If there is anything I do not know, I have only to ​be apprised of it to prove myself the most zealous of men. Although the personal interview I shall have with Furfanius will make it quite unnecessary for you to have a letter from me to him, still, as it is the pleasure of your relations that you should have a letter from me to put in his hands, I have humoured them. A copy of that letter is transcribed below.

¹ Nobody could possibly be on terms of more familiar intimacy with anybody than I have always been with Aulus Caecina. For not only did I enjoy much of the society of that distinguished man and gallant gentleman, his father, but for this Caecina from his very boyhood, both because he gave me great hopes of high integrity and extraordinary eloquence, and also because our lives were very closely knit together by the mutual favours of friendship as well as by community of tastes—for him, I say, I have always had such an affection that there was no man in the world with whom I lived on terms of greater intimacy.

² I need write no more. You see for yourself how necessary it is for me to look after his welfare and property in every possible way. It only remains for me, now that I have more proofs than ever to assure me of your sentiments regarding the fortune of loyal citizens and the disasters of the state, to make this one request of you, and no more—that the goodwill you would have been likely to entertain ​EPISTULAE AD FAMILIARES. VI. ix. -xa. towards Caecina on your own account may be so abundantly enhanced by my recommendation as not to fall short of the esteem I understand you have for myself. You can do nothing that would give me greater pleasure than this.

¹ How highly I esteem and always have esteemed you, and how highly I am assured you esteem me, I can testify for myself. For I have been much troubled by your policy, or rather your misfortune, in remaining too long in civil war, and the present result—that the recovery of your estate and position takes more time than it properly should, and than I could have wished—is no less an anxiety to me than my misfortunes have always been to you. I have accordingly revealed my inmost thoughts to Postumulenus and Sestius and, oftener than to anyone, to our friend Atticus, and most recently of all to your freedman Theudas, and frequently assured each of them individually that I desired in every possible way to satisfy your own and your children's expectations; and I should be glad if you would write to your people to the effect that they must consider all I can command, at any rate,—my endeavours, advice, possessions, and loyalty—as at their beck and call for any purpose whatever.

² Did I possess that influence and popularity which, in that state I have served in the way you know, I ​ought to possess, you also would be what you formerly were—at once most worthy of every highest position and assuredly in your own order^[39] easily the foremost man.

But now that we have both been ruined under the same political conditions and for the same reason, I promise you not only what I have specified above, which is still mine to promise, but also whatever besides I seem to myself still to retain out of the remnants, as it were, of my old-time dignity. For Caesar himself, as I have been able to gather from many indications, is not unfavourably inclined to me, and practically all his most intimate friends also, being, as it so happens, under an obligation to me for signal services in the past, are showing me marked attention and respect.

And so, if I find any way open to me to deal with the matter of your fortunes, that is to say, your reinstatement in your rights—for everything depends upon that and what they tell me makes me daily more disposed to be hopeful about it—then I shall deal with it personally and energetically.

³ I need not go into details. All my devotion and friendliness I lay at your feet without reserve. But it is of great importance to me that all your people should know this, and all that is required is a letter from you, so that they may understand that whatever belongs to Cicero is at the disposal of Trebianus. My object in doing this is to convince them that nothing is so difficult but that my undertaking it on your behalf would be a pleasure.

​

⁴ I should have sent you a letter before,^[40] were I able to find the right note to strike in writing. For at such a time as this it is the part of a friend either to offer consolation or to make promises. Consolation I set aside, since many people have been telling me with what courage and wisdom you were bearing the injustice of the times, and how profoundly comforted you were by the consciousness of what you have done, and had it in your mind to do.

Well, if this is what you are doing, you are reaping the rich reward of the excellent studies in which I know you have always been occupied, and I urge you again and again to go on doing so.

⁵ At the same time, I have this to say: excellently versed as you are in facts, in precedents, and in the whole of history (and I am no novice myself either, though with studies I have perhaps had less to do than I could wish, and with practical affairs even more than I could wish), I pledge you my word that the bitter injustice you are suffering will not be of long duration, and that for two reasons—the very man who has supreme power is himself daily, I think, moving insensibly towards a position of equipoise and the natural order of things,^[41] and, secondly, our cause itself is such that by this time together with the state—and that cannot lie prostrate for ever—it is necessarily recovering life and vigour, while every day our fears are falsified by ​some unexpectedly mild and liberal measure. And as everything now depends upon the oscillations, slight as they often are, of time and circumstance, I shall keep my eye on every swing of the pendulum, and let slip no opportunity of helping you and lightening your lot.

⁶ Therefore that second kind of letter-writing^[42] which I mentioned will daily become easier for me, so that I can even make promises. As to that, I should prefer to act rather than to talk. I should like you to believe that, so far as I have been able to ascertain, you have more friends than any of those who are and have been as unfortunate as yourself, and that I yield precedence to no one of them. Do not fail to maintain a high and courageous spirit, and that depends upon yourself alone; what depends upon fortune will be ruled by circumstances, and provided for by the measures we take.

¹ For Dolabella I have had so far no more than a kindly regard; I was under no obligation to him; I had never, as it happened, any occasion to be so, and he was in my debt, because I had not failed him in the days of his danger.^[43] Now I am beholden to him for a kindness so exceptional—for he has given me the most unbounded satisfaction first in the matter of your property, and now in your restoration—that I am more indebted to him than to any ​man alive. And as to your restoration, I congratulate you upon it so whole-heartedly, that you would please me better by offering me your congratulations than by thanking me; I can well dispense with your doing the latter, and you can do the former without insincerity.

² For the rest, now that your high character and merits have thrown open to you the way of return to your family, it befits your wisdom and magnanimity to forget what you have lost, and to reflect upon what you have recovered. You will live with your own people, you will live with us. You have gained more in prestige than you have lost in private property; though you would get more pleasure out of the former too, if only there were any commonwealth in existence.

Vestorius,^[44] our common friend, writes to me that you say you are profoundly grateful to me. That you should speak out so frankly is very gratifying to me, and I have not the slightest objection to your doing so in the presence of others, and particularly of course in the presence of our friend Siro.^[45] For it is my desire that anything I do should be commended most by those who have most discernment. I am anxious to see you as soon as possible.

¹ I congratulate you, my dear Balbus, and my congratulations are sincere; nor am I so insensate as to wish you to have the temporary enjoyment of a false ​felicity, and then be suddenly crushed and so cast down that nothing could ever afterwards raise your spirits even to the point of composure. I have pleaded your cause more openly than my own political position warranted; for the very misfortune of my diminished influence was outweighed by my affection and my unceasing love for you, which you have yourself so assiduously fostered. All the promises bearing upon your return and restoration have been confirmed, certified, and ratified; I have seen, examined, taken part in everything.

² In fact, opportunely enough, I have all Caesar's intimate friends so closely bound to me by familiar acquaintance and kindly feeling that, after him, they account me next. This Pansa,^[47] Hirtius,^[48] Balbus,^[49] Oppius,^[50] Matius^[51] and Postumus,^[52] do so absolutely that their affection for me stands alone. Had I been obliged to secure this by my own personal efforts, I should not, considering the nature of the times, regret having made such efforts. But in no respect have I played the time-server. Here my old ties of friendship with all these men come in, and I have never ceased to plead with them on your behalf. My chief support, however, I have found in Pansa (a man devotedly attached to you, and anxious to be friends with me), since he had influence with Caesar, not less because of his strong personality than ​because Caesar liked him. Tillius Cimber^[53] also has given me complete satisfaction. For it is not self-seeking petitions that carry weight with Caesar, so much as those based on the petitioner's duty to a friend; and as the latter was the case with Cimber, he had more influence than he could possibly have had on behalf of anyone else.

³ Your passport has not been given you at once, because of the astounding rascality of certain persons who would have bitterly resented any pardon being extended to you, whom they call "the trumpet of civil war," and perpetually talk as though they were not delighted that that war had occurred. And this is why we thought that we should act with some degree of secrecy, and that it should by no means be published abroad that your affairs had already been settled. But it will be so very shortly, and I have no doubt that, when you read this letter, the whole business will have been completed. Pansa indeed, a man of weight and to be trusted, not only asseverated, but pledged himself that he would procure the passport without a moment's delay. Anyhow I thought it best that you should have a full account of what has happened; for your wife Eppuleia's oral report and Ampia's tears plainly showed me that you are not quite so unperturbed as your letter would lead me to believe. Moreover, it was their opinion that when they themselves were no longer with you, you would be in a far more anxious state of mind. And so I deemed it highly essential for the alleviation of your distress and sorrow that the real facts of the case should be fully reported to you as real facts.

⁴ You know that I have hitherto been in the habit ​of writing to you in such a way as rather to console a brave and wise man than to lay before you any assured hope of your restoration, except what, once this conflagration had been extinguished, I thought might justly be expected from the Republic itself. Remind yourself of your own letters to me, in which you have ever displayed a high spirit, resolute, and prepared to bear whatever might befall; and I was not surprised at it when I remembered that you had been engaged in public affairs from the earliest years of your life, and that the tenure of your public offices coincided with the most critical periods in the welfare and fortunes of the whole community; yes, and that you entered this very war not merely to play the happy victor, but also, should it so befall, if vanquished, the philosopher.

⁵ In the next place, since you devote your literary activities to putting on record the exploits of men of courage, it is your duty to reflect that you cannot afford to do anything to disprove your own close resemblance to those whom you eulogize.

But this sort of talk would be better suited to those times from which you have now escaped. As it is you have only to prepare yourself to join with us in enduring present conditions; could I but discover a remedy for them, I should pass that same on to you. We have, however, one refuge—that learning and literature of which we have always availed ourselves; in prosperity we regarded them as a source of pleasure only, now we regard them as our very salvation.

But, to revert to what I said at first, you must never have any doubt but that everything connected with your restoration and return has been fully accomplished.

​

¹ Although at such a crisis in your life it was incumbent upon me in view of our friendship to write you something that would either cheer or help you, still I have not hitherto done so because it seemed to me that I could not either mitigate or alleviate your sorrow by anything I could say. But as soon as I began to feel really hopeful that we should very soon find you reinstated in your civil rights, I could not refrain from sending you a clear statement of my sentiments and wishes.

² In the first place then let me tell you what is obvious and clear to me, and that is that Caesar will not be too hard upon you; circumstances, lapse of time, public opinion, and, I am inclined to think, his own disposition, are making him daily more lenient; and while that is what I feel about the others, I am also told that it is so in your case by his most intimate friends, to whom I have not ceased to make supplication in common with your brothers, ever since the news first came from Africa.^[55] And I assure you, that through their unparalleled valour and loyalty and affection for you, and their constant and unceasing anxiety for your welfare, such progress is being made that there is no concession, I believe, which Caesar himself is not prepared to make.

³ But if it takes more time than we could wish, it is because, owing to the pressing engagements of one to whom all sorts of petitions are addressed, it ​has been unusually difficult to approach him; and just now, as the African disaffection^[56] has roused his particular indignation, I fancy he is inclined to keep on tenterhooks for a longer spell those who he thinks have given him a longer spell of trouble and annoyance. But even in regard to this we find him to be daily more yielding and conciliatory. You must therefore take my word for it, and make a mental note of it, that I have given you this specific assurance, that the painful position you are in will not last much longer.

⁴ Now that you have my candid opinion, what my wishes are in your interests will appear from what I do rather than from what I say. Had I as much power as I ought to have in a state-of which I have deserved as well as you, at any rate, consider I have, neither would you be so unfortunately situated as you are; for my ascendancy has been destroyed, and your welfare jeopardized, by one and the same cause. But for all that, so far as the shadow of my former position, so far as the little that is left of my popularity avails, my zeal and counsel, my efforts, influence, and loyalty will invariably be at the disposal of your excellent brothers.

⁵ See to it that you on your part maintain that spirit of courage you have always maintained, firstly for the reason I have given you; secondly because your political aspirations and sentiments have always been such as not only to justify your looking forward to a prosperous future, but also, if your future were in all respects the reverse, to make it your duty, conscious as you are of all you have done and purposed to do, to face every eventuality with a high and heroic spirit.

​

¹ Rest assured that I am devoting all my energies, all my efforts, care, and zeal to the question of your recall; for not only have I always had the highest regard for you, but your brothers also, to whom I am as warmly attached as to yourself, are so singularly dutiful to you in their brotherly affection that they make it impossible for me to omit any act or opportunity that may prove my eager desire to serve you. But what I am doing and have done on your behalf, I should prefer your learning from their letters rather than from mine.

On the other hand I should like to give you my own account of my hopes, indeed my confident and certain assurance, of your restoration. If any man in the world is a coward in matters of importance involving any risk, and always more inclined to apprehend an unfavourable, than to hope for a favourable, issue, I am that man; and if this be a weakness, I admit that I am not free from it.

² But for all that, pessimist as I am, when, four days before the Calends of the first intercalary month,^[57] at your brothers' request I had made my way to Caesar early in the day (but not before I had suffered every kind of humiliation and annoyance in trying to approach him and securing an interview), when your brothers and relatives were prostrating themselves at his feet, and when I had stated all that the case and your critical position demanded, the impression left upon my mind when I went away, ​not only by Caesar's speech, mild and generous as it certainly was, but also by his eyes and expression, and by many other signs as well, which I could more easily discern than describe, was just this—I felt that your restoration was a certainty.

³ You must therefore be of good cheer and full of courage, and since you have faced the most tempestuous times with the serenity of a philosopher, you must now welcome this calmer weather with a glad heart.

In any event I shall attend to your affairs as carefully as their extreme difficulty requires, and I shall have the greatest pleasure in making supplication on your behalf, as I have never yet ceased to do, not to Caesar only, but to all his friends, whom I have found to be very friendly disposed to myself.

I greet you. I am delighted on your account, and rejoice on my own; I love you, and have your interests at heart; I want you to love me too, and should like to know how you are, and what is going on.

I greet you. Had I not personally many valid reasons for my friendship with you, I should go back for the beginnings of that friendship to the days of ​our fathers; but that I think is for those to do who have not followed up their fathers' friendship by any good offices of their own. I shall therefore be content with our own personal friendship, and that is what I rely upon when I beg of you to look after my interests in my absence, if you believe, as you do, that no kindness of yours will ever cease to live in my memory.

¹ I greet you. While I have every other reason for desiring the establishment some day or other of a Republic, I would have you believe that I have an additional reason which increases my longing for it, and that is the promise you make in your letter; for you write that in that event you will spend your days in my company.

² It is a great pleasure to me that you should wish to do so, and your wish is in exact accord with our intimate friendship, and the opinions of me expressed from time to time by that prince of men, your father. For let me assure you that while those who have been, or still are, according to the vicissitudes of the times, in a position to help you are more closely bound to you by the magnitude of their services, there is no man more closely so bound by the ties of friendship than myself. And that is why I am so delighted at your not only remembering our intimacy, but even wishing to increase it.

​

¹ As soon as I received your letter from the hand of your freedman Seleucus, I at once sent a note to Balbus, asking him what was in the law.^[61] His answer was that while those who were actually in business as auctioneers were forbidden to be municipal councillors, those who had retired were not so forbidden. So your friends and mine must be of good heart; for it would be intolerable if, when men who were at this moment practising divination^[62] were being elected on the Senate at Rome, men who had at any time practised as auctioneers should not be allowed to be councillors in the provincial towns.

² There is no news of either of the Spains. It is certain, however, that Pompey^[63] has a large army; for Caesar himself sent me a copy of Paciaecus's^[64] dispatch, in which the number of legions there is stated to be eleven. Messala^[65] also has written to Quintus Salassus that his brother^[66] Publius Curtius was executed by order of Pompey before the eyes of the army, for having arranged, as was alleged, with certain Spaniards that, when Pompey had arrived at some town or other to negotiate for supphes, they should arrest him and take him to Caesar.

​³ As regards your business, seeing that you are a guarantee for Pompey, if only your co-guarantee Galba,^[67] a man more than a little careful in money matters, returns to Rome. I shall not cease to confer with him to find some way out of the difficulty; for I think he trusts me.

⁴ I am extremely glad that you are so favourably impressed with my Orator.^[68] Indeed it is my own conviction that I have concentrated upon that book whatever critical ability I possessed on the subject of oratory. And if the book is really such as you say you think it is, then I too am of some consequence; if not, then I have no objection to my general reputation for critical ability being disparaged in exact proportion to the disparagement of that particular book. I am anxious that our dear Lepta, ^[69] young as he is, should find pleasure in such compositions; though his age is hardly ripe for it, still it can do him no harm to let his ears ring with language of that kind.

⁵ I am detained at Rome in any case by my dear Tullia's confinement. But even when she is strong again, as I hope she will be, I am still tied by the leg until I can screw the first instalment^[70] out of Dolabella's agents and, to tell you the truth, I am not so keen on travelling as I used to be. I used to delight in my country houses, and their restfulness. My house here is as comfortable as any of my villas, and more restful than the most sequestered spot in the world. So my literary work does not suffer either; I am absorbed in it and there is. nothing to interrupt me, and that is why I think I am more likely to see you here than you are to see me at your place.

​⁶ Let Lepta, that most delightful of boys, get up his Hesiod by heart and have this on his lips: τῆς δ᾽ ἀρετῆς ἱδρῶτα,^[71] and the rest of it.

¹ I am glad Macula^[72] has done his duty. I have always thought his Falernian villa just the place for a short visit, provided it is capacious enough to take in our retinue. In every other respect it is a place I rather like; but I shall not for that reason turn my back on your Petrine^[73] villa; for both the house itself and its wonderfully beautiful situation suggest a prolonged residence there rather than a flying visit.

² I have had a conversation with Oppius about a certain contract in connexion with the royal shows.^[74] Balbus I have not seen since you left; he has such an attack of gout in the feet that he is disinclined for an interview. On the whole, taking everything into consideration, I think your wiser course is not to undertake that responsibility; for your object in taking all that trouble is one you will by no means attain. So numerous are the applicants in close personal touch with him that there is more likelihood of one of them dropping out than of there being an opening for a fresh candidate, especially for one who has nothing to offer but his own toil and trouble; and as to that Caesar will think that he has conferred a favour, if he ever knows anything at all about it, rather than received one. We will ​none the less keep our eyes open for something that holds out a better prospect.^[75] Otherwise, so far from seeking, I think you should fight shy of such a contract. I shall myself stay on at Astura until Caesar arrives, if he ever does.

¹ I gave Cn. Plancius's^[77] servants a letter for you I three days ago, so this will be all the shorter, and, as previously I offered you consolation, so now I shall give you advice. I think you can do nothing better than wait just where you are until you can find out what you ought to do. For apart from the danger you will thus avoid of a long voyage in winter, where there are very few harbours to run into, this also is a consideration of no trivial importance, that you can get away from where you are, as soon as you hear anything definite, at a moment's notice. There is, moreover, no reason whatever for your being in such a hurry to meet them^[78] on their approach. There are many things besides which make me apprehensive, and I have talked them over with our friend Cilo.

² To put it shortly, you could not during these troubles be in any place more conveniently situated, as you can move from it wherever it is necessary with the greatest ease and expedition. But if Caesar returns at the proper time, you will be on the spot; whereas, since there are many things that might ​happen, if anything either hinders or stops him, you will be so placed as to find out all that is going on. I am most decidedly of that opinion.

³ For the rest, as I have frequently urged you to do by letter, I pray you assure yourself of this, that in your position you have nothing you need fear beyond the catastrophe in which the whole state is involved. And though that is most grave, still we have so lived, and are now of such an age, that we ought to bear with fortitude anything that may happen to us through no fault of our own. All your people here are well and are most loyal in their longing for your return, and in their regard and veneration for you. Mind you keep well yourself and do not stir, without good reason, from where you are.

¹ Although, as I write these words, it seems that the end of this most disastrous war is approaching,^[79] or at any rate that something definite has at last been done and accomplished, still not a day passes without my remarking that you were the one man in all that army^[80] who agreed with me, as I with you, and that we alone understood the vast amount of evil that war entailed—a war in which, all hope of peace being ruled out, conquest itself was predestined to be full of bitterness, since it would either bring ruin upon you if defeated, or enslavement if victorious. And therefore I, whom those wise and gallant men, the Domitii and Lentuli, accused of being afraid,— ​and so I undoubtedly was; I was afraid that that would come to pass, which actually did happen,—am now on the contrary afraid of nothing, and there is no contingency for which I am not prepared. While some degree of precaution seemed practicable, it pained me to see that precaution neglected; as it is, however, amid this universal ruin, when a policy of prudence can do no good, it seems that the one course left to us is to bear whatever happens with self-restraint, especially since death is the end of all things, and my conscience tells me that as long as I had the chance I took steps to protect the dignity, and when that was lost, that I was eager to maintain the safety, of the Republic.

² I have written thus, not because I want to talk about myself, but so that you, who have always been so closely associated with me both in conviction and aspiration, may indulge in the same reflections. For it is no small consolation when you recollect that, even if affairs have turned out badly, you at any rate were incontrovertibly right in your opinions. And I do pray that the day will come when we may enjoy some form or other of stable government, and compare notes together on the anxious days we passed through, when we were suspected of timidity, because we declared that that would happen which actually took place.

³ As regards your own affairs, I emphatically assure you that, apart from the ruin of the Republic as a whole, you have nothing to fear; while as regards myself, I beg of you to think this of me—that to the best of my ability, I shall always be at hand to promote your own welfare and that of your children with the utmost possible zeal.

​

¹ It was not the fact of your having sent me no letter that put me off writing to you after your arrival in Italy; no, it was because I could not think of any promise I could make you, being myself utterly destitute, or of any course of action I could recommend, having no policy whatever of my own, or of any consolation I could offer you in these terrible times. Although the present situation shows no improvement whatever and is even far more hopeless than it was, still I thought that a letter from me with nothing in it would be better than no letter at all.

² If I believed that you had attempted in the interests of the state to undertake a task^[82] beyond your power to accomplish, I should still urge you, to the best of my ability, to accept such terms of life as were offered you, and were available. But seeing that you have resolved that the policy you so honourably and gallantly adopted should cease from the very moment when it had pleased fortune herself to put an end to our struggles,^[83] I beg and implore of you in the name of our old and intimate connexion and of my most sincere affection for you, and of yours, just as sincere, for myself, to keep yourself out of harm for all our sakes, for the sake of your mother,^[84] your wife, and all your family, to whom you are and always have been ​most dear; to take thought for your own safety and that of those who are dependent upon you; to apply to the present crisis all the lessons you have learned, all the wisdom bequeathed you by the greatest philosophers, which you have so admirably stored in your memory and assimilated in mind from the days of your early manhood; and finally, to bear, if not with calmness, at least with courage, your yearning for those bound to you by the strongest ties of affection and a thousand acts of kindness—the friends you have now lost.^[85]

³ What I can do myself, I know not, or rather I feel that what I can do is all too little; this much, however, I promise you, that whatever I deem conducive to your welfare and honour, that I will do with as much earnestness as you have consistently shown, and effectively too, in dealing with my affairs. These good intentions of mine I have conveyed to your mother, who is the best of women and most devoted to you.

If you send me any message, I shall act in accordance with what I conceive to be your wishes; but even if you fail to do so, I shall none the less attend most zealously and assiduously to whatever I consider to be to your advantage. Farewell.