Letter 60

On the Ides of August [August 13] I received four letters sent by you: one in which you reproach me and beg me to be stronger; a second in which you tell me that Crassus's freedman has reported to you about my anxiety and my wasted appearance; a third in which you set out the proceedings in the Senate; and a fourth about the matter you write of, that you have been assured by Varro concerning Pompey's goodwill. [2] To the first I write you this in reply: that I grieve in such a way that I am not only not abandoned by my reason, but that this very fact pains me—that I have no occasion to use a mind so sound, and no one to use it with. For if you feel my absence, mine alone, not without sorrow, what do you suppose I feel, who am without both you and everyone else? And if you, who are unharmed, miss me, how do you imagine that I myself long for my very safety? I do not wish to recount the things of which I have been stripped, not only because you are not unaware of them, but also so that I may not tear open my own grief afresh. This I do affirm: that no man was ever deprived of such great blessings, nor ever fell into such great miseries. Time, moreover, not only does not lighten this grief but even increases it. For other sorrows are softened by age, but this one cannot but be increased daily both by the sense of present misery and by the recollection of my past life. For I long not only for my possessions, nor for my family, but for my very self. For what am I now? But I will not act in such a way as to wring your heart with my complaints, or to lay hands too often on my own wounds. As for your defending those whom I wrote to you had envied me, and Cato among them—I, for my part, think him so far removed from that wickedness that I grieve all the more that the pretended friendship of others carried more weight with me than his loyalty. As for the others whom you defend, they ought to be approved by me if they are by you. But we are doing all this too late. [3] I think Crassus's freedman spoke nothing sincerely. You write that the matter was handled properly in the Senate. But what about Curio? Did he not read that speech? Where it was brought out from, I do not know. But Axius, writing to me about the proceedings of the same day, does not praise Curio in the same terms. Yet he may have left something out, while you would surely not have written anything but the truth. Varro's talk raises expectations of Caesar. And would that Varro himself might throw his weight into the cause! This he will surely do, both of his own accord and with you pressing him. [4] If fortune ever makes me master once more of yourselves and of my country, I shall certainly bring it about that you, one out of all my friends, rejoice most of all; and the services and the devotion of mine which formerly shone too little—for it must be confessed—I shall so fulfill that you will think me restored to you just as much as to my brother and our children. If I have wronged you in any way—or rather, since I have wronged you—forgive me; for I have wronged my own self more violently. Nor do I write this because I am unaware that you have been afflicted with the greatest grief at my misfortune; but surely, if you ought to love me, and ought to have loved me, as much as you do love me and have loved me, you would never have allowed me to lack the counsel in which you were so rich, nor would you have allowed me to be persuaded that it was to our advantage that the law about the colleges be carried through. But you only offered tears to my grief—which was a mark of affection—just as I myself did; whereas that which my deserts could have brought about, that you should ponder day and night what I ought to do, that was neglected by you through my fault, not yours. And if not only you, but anyone at all, had been there to call me back from a most shameful resolve—me, terrified by Pompey's less than generous reply—which you above all were best able to do, then I should either have fallen with honor, or we should be living today as victors. Here you will forgive me; for I accuse my very self far more, and then I seek you out as a second self of mine and at the same time a partner in my fault. And if I am restored, we shall seem to have erred even less, and we shall certainly be cherished by you through no service of mine but through your own. [5] As for your writing that you spoke with Culleo about the law directed against a single person [the privilegium of Clodius]—there is something in that, but it is much better that it be abrogated. For if no one obstructs it, this is the surer way; but if there shall be someone who will not allow it to be carried, the same man will interpose his veto against the decree of the Senate. Nor is there any need for anything else but that it be abrogated; for the earlier law did me no harm. And if we had been willing either to praise it as it was promulgated, or to ignore it as it deserved to be ignored, it could not have harmed us at all. Here first my own judgment failed me, and indeed it harmed me—blind, blind I say, we were in changing our dress, in appealing to the people, which, unless proceedings had begun to be taken against me by name, was a ruinous thing to do. But I keep going over things past—yet for this reason: that, if anything is done, you should not touch that law in which there are many popular provisions. [6] But it is foolish of me to prescribe what you should do, or in what manner. If only something were being done! And on this very point your letters conceal much—so as not, I believe, to disturb me too violently with despair. For what do you see that can be done, or in what way? Through the Senate? But you yourself wrote to me that Clodius had fixed to the doorpost of the Senate house a certain clause of his law: THAT IT BE NOT PERMITTED TO BRING IT FORWARD NOR TO SPEAK OF IT. How then did Domitius say that he would bring it forward? And how did Clodius keep silent before those men whom you write of, both speaking on the matter and demanding that it be brought forward? And if through the people, can it be managed except by the resolution of all the tribunes of the plebs? What about my goods? What about my house? Can it be restored? Or if it cannot, how shall I myself be able to be? Unless you see these things being arranged, to what hope are you summoning me? But if there is no hope, what life is left to me? And so at Thessalonica I am awaiting the proceedings of the Kalends of August [August 1], from which I shall determine whether to take refuge on your estates—so that I may neither see the people I would not wish to see, and may see you, as you write, and may be nearer at hand if anything is done; and I have understood that this is your wish, and my brother Quintus's too—or whether I should go away to Cyzicus. [7] Now, Pomponius, since you imparted nothing of your prudence to my preservation—because you had decided either that there was sufficient counsel in me myself, or that you owed me nothing more than to be at hand—and since I, betrayed, led on, and cast into ruin, neglected all my defenses, abandoned and left behind all Italy already roused to defend me, and handed myself and my family over to my enemies while you looked on and kept silent—you who, if you were not stronger than I in intellect, certainly feared less—if you can, raise me up in my affliction and help me in this; but if all ways are blocked, see to it that I know that very thing, and stop reproaching me at last, or consoling me along with everyone else. If I were finding fault with your faithfulness, I should not above all entrust myself to your house; I find fault with my own madness, because I believed that I was loved by you as much as I myself wished. And if that had been so, you would have shown the same faithfulness but greater care; you would certainly have held me back as I was plunging toward ruin; you would not have undertaken those labors which you are now undertaking amid our shipwreck. [8] Therefore see to it that you write to me everything fully, having looked into and examined it all, and that you wish, as you do, for me to be somebody—since what I was, and what I could have been, I can no longer be—and that you consider that by this letter it is not you but my own self whom I have accused. If there shall be any to whom you think it necessary that letters be given in my name, I should like you to draft them and see that they are delivered. Dispatched on the fourteenth day before the Kalends of September [August 17].

On August 13 I received four letters from you,—one in terms of reproof, urging me to firmness, another telling me of Crassus’ freedman’s account of my careworn appearance, a third relating the doings in the House, and a fourth containing Varro’s confirmation of your opinion as to Pompey’s wishes. My answer to the first is that though I am distressed, it has not unhinged my mind: nay, I am even distressed that, though my mind is so sound, I have neither place nor opportunity for using it. For, if you feel the loss of a single friend like myself, what do you suppose my feelings are, when I have lost you and every one else? And if you, on whom no ban of outlawry has fallen, miss my presence, you can imagine the aching void outlawry leaves in me. I will not mention all that I have lost,—you know it well enough, and it would only open my wound again. But this I do assert that no one has ever lost so much and no one has ever fallen into such a depth of misery. Time too, instead of lightening my grief, can but add to it: for other sorrows lose their sting as time passes, but my sorrow can but grow daily, as I feel my present misery and think on my past happiness. I mourn the loss not only of my wealth and my friends but of my old self. For what am I now? But I will not wring your soul with my complaints nor keep fingering my sore. You write in defence of those who, I said, envied me and among them Cato. Of him I have not the least suspicion: indeed I am sorry that the false friendship of others had more weight with me than his loyalty. As to the others I suppose I should acquit them if you do. But it is too late to matter now. I don’t think Crassus’ freedman meant what he said. You say things went well in the House. But what about Curio? Hasn’t he read that speech? Goodness knows how it got published. Axius however, writing on the same day an account of the meeting, has less to say for Curio. Still he might well miss something, while you would certainly not have written what was not true. Varro’s talk with you gives me hopes of Caesar. I only wish Varro himself would throw his weight into my cause; and I think he will with a little pressing from you, if not of his own accord. If ever I have the fortune to see you and my country again, I will not fail to give you more cause for joy at my recall than all my other friends: and, though I must confess that up to now my friendly attentions have not been as conspicuous as they should have been, I will be so persistent with them, that you shall feel that I have been restored to you quite as much as to my brother and children. If ever I have wronged you or rather for the wrongs that I have done you, forgive me. I have wronged myself far more deeply. I do not write this in ignorance of your great grief at my misfortune, but because, if I had earned a right to all the affection you lavish and have lavished on me, you would never have suffered me to stand in need of that sound common sense of yours, and you would not have let me be persuaded that it was to my interest to let the bill about the guilds be passed. But you, like myself, only gave your tears to my distress, as a tribute of affection: and it was my fault, not yours, that you did not devote day and night to pondering on the course I should take, as you might have done, if my claims on you had been stronger. If you or anyone had dissuaded me from the disgraceful resolve I formed in my alarm at Pompey’s ungenerous reply,—and you were the person best qualified to do so—I should either have died with honour, or should to-day be living in triumph. You will pardon what I have said. I am blaming myself far more than you, and you only as my second self, and because I want a companion in my guilt. If I am restored, our common guilt will seem far less, and you, at any rate, will hold me dear for services rendered, not received, by you. You mention talking to Culleo about this bill being directed against an individual. There is something in that point: but it is much better to have it repealed. If no one vetoes it, it is by far the surest course. If on the other hand anyone is opposed to it, he will veto the Senate’s decree too. There is no necessity to repeal anything else as well: the former law did not touch me. If we had had the sense to support it when it was brought forward, or to take no notice of it, which was all it deserved, it never would have done us any harm. It was then I first lost the use of my wits, or rather used them to my own destruction. It was blind, absolutely blind of us to put on mourning, to appeal to the crowd—a fatal thing to do before I was attacked personally. But I keep harping on what is over and done with. My point, however, is to urge you, when you do make a move, not to touch that law on account of its claims to popularity. But it is absurd of me to lay down what you should do or how. If only something could be done! And on that very point I am afraid your letters keep back a good deal, to save me from giving way to even deeper despair. What course of action do you suppose can be taken and how? Through the Senate? But you yourself have told me that a clause of Clodius’ bill, forbidding any motion or reference to my case, has been posted up in the House. How then does Domitius propose to make a motion? And how is it that Clodius holds his tongue, when the men you mention talk about the case and ask for a motion? And, if you think of acting through the people, can it be managed without the consent of all the tribunes? What about my goods and chattels? What about my house? Will they be restored? If not, how can I be? If you don’t see your way to managing that, what is it you want me to hope for? And, if there is nothing to hope for, what sort of life can I lead? Under these circumstances I am awaiting the gazette for August 1 at Thessalonica, before I make up my mind whether to take refuge on your estate, where I can avoid seeing those I don’t want to see, and see you, as you point out in your letter, and be nearer at hand if any action is being taken, or whether I shall go to Cyzicus. I believe you and Quintus want me to keep at hand. Now, Pomponius, you used none of your wisdom in saving me from ruin—either because you thought I had enough common sense myself, or because you thought you owed me nothing but the support of your presence: while I, basely betrayed and hurried to my ruin, threw down my arms and fled, deserting my country, though all Italy would have stood up and defended me with enthusiasm. You looked on in silence, while I betrayed myself, my family and my possessions, to my enemies, though, even if you had not more sense than I had, you certainly had less cause for panic. Now, if you can, raise me from my fall, and in that render me assistance. But, if all ways are blocked, let me know of the fact, and do not keep on either reproaching me or offering us your sympathy. If I had any fault to find with your loyalty, I should not trust myself to your house in preference to all others. It is my own folly in thinking that your affection for me was as great as I wished it to be, that I am finding fault with. If it had been so, you would not have shown more loyalty, but you would have taken more trouble, and you would certainly have prevented me from rushing to my fate, and would not have had all the trouble you are now taking to repair the shipwreck. So please let me know all that you can ascertain for certain, and continue to wish to see me a somebody again, even if I cannot regain the position I once held and might have held. I hope you won’t think it is you and not myself I am blaming in this letter. If there is anyone to whom you think a letter ought to be sent in my name, please write one and see that it is sent. August 17.

accepi Idibus Sextilibus quattuor epistulas a te missas, unam qua me obiurgas et rogas ut sim firmior, alteram qua Crassi libertum ais tibi de mea sollicitudine macieque narrasse, tertiam qua demonstras acta in senatu, quartam de eo quod a Varrone scribis tibi esse confirmatum de voluntate Pompei. [2] ad primam tibi hoc scribo, me ita dolere ut non modo a mente non deserar sed id ipsum doleam, me tam firma mente ubi utar et quibuscum non habere. nam si tu me uno non sine maerore cares, quid me censes qui et te et omnibus? et si tu incolumis me requiris, quo modo a me ipsam incolumitatem desiderari putas? nolo commembrare quibus rebus sim spoliatus, non solum quia non ignoras sed etiam ne rescindam ipse dolorem meum; hoc confirmo neque tantis bonis esse privatum quemquam neque in tantas miserias incidisse. dies autem non modo non levat luctum hunc sed etiam auget. nam ceteri dolores mitigantur vetustate, hic non potest non et sensu praesentis miseriae et recordatione praeteritae vitae cotidie augeri. desidero enim non mea solum neque meos sed me ipsum. quid enim sum? sed non faciam ut aut tuum animum angam querelis aut meis vulneribus saepius manus adferam. nam quod purgas eos quos ego mihi scripsi invidisse et in eis Catonem, ego vero tantum illum puto ab isto scelere afuisse ut maxime doleam plus apud me simulationem aliorum quam istius fidem valuisse. ceteros quod purgas, debent mihi probati esse, tibi si sunt. sed haec sero agimus. [3] Crassi libertum nihil puto sincere locutum. in senatu rem probe scribis actam. sed quid Curio? an illam orationem non legit? quae unde sit prolata nescio. sed Axius eiusdem diei scribens ad me acta non ita laudat Curionem. at potest ille aliquid praetermittere, tu, nisi quod erat, profecto non scripsisti. Varronis sermo facit exspectationem Caesaris. atque utinam ipse Varro incumbat in causam! quod profecto cum sua sponte tum te instante faciet. [7] ego si me aliquando vestri et patriae compotem fortuna fecerit, certe efficiam ut maxime laetere unus ex omnibus amicis meaque officia et studia quae parum antea luxerunt (fatendum est enim) sic exsequar ut me aeque tibi ac fratri et liberis nostris restitutum putes. si quid in te peccavi ac potius quoniam peccavi ignosce; in me enim ipsum peccavi vehementius. neque haec eo scribo quo te non meo casu maximo dolore esse adfectum sciam, sed profecto, si quantum me amas et amasti tantum amare deberes ac debuisses, numquam esses passus me quo tu abundabas egere consilio nec esses passus mihi persuaderi utile nobis esse legem de collegiis perferri. sed tu tantum lacrimas praebuisti dolori meo, quod erat amoris, tam quam ipse ego; quod meritis meis perfectum potuit, ut dies et noctes quid mihi faciendum esset cogitares, id abs te meo non tuo scelere praetermissum est. quod si non modo tu sed quisquam fuisset qui me Pompei minus liberali responso perterritum a turpissimo consilio revocaret, quod unus tu facere maxime potuisti, (aut occubuissem honeste) aut victores hodie viveremus. hic mihi ignosces; me enim ipsum multo magis accuso, deinde te quasi me alterum et simul meae culpae socium quaero. ac si restituor, etiam minus videbimur deliquisse abs teque certe quoniam nullo nostro tuo ipsius beneficio diligemur. [5] quod te cum Culleone scribis de privilegio locutum, est aliquid sed multo est melius abrogari. si enim nemo impediet, sic est firmius; sin erit qui ferri non sinat, idem senatus consulto intercedet. nec quicquam aliud opus est [quam] abrogari; nam prior lex nos nihil laedebat. quam si ut est promulgata laudare voluissemus aut ut erat neglegenda neglegere, nocere omnino nobis non potuisset. hic mihi primum meum consilium defuit sed etiam obfuit Caeci, caeci inquam fuimus in vestitu mutando, in populo rogando, quod nisi nominatim mecum agi coeptum esset fieri perniciosum fuit. sed pergo praeterita verum tamen ob hanc causam ut, si quid agetur, legem illam in qua popularia multa sunt ne tangatis. [6] verum est stultum me praecipere quid agatis aut quo modo. Vtinam modo agatur aliquid! in quo ipso multa occultant tuae litterae, credo, ne vehementius desperatione perturber. quid enim vides agi posse aut quo modo? per senatumne? at tute scripsisti ad me quoddam caput legis Clodium in curiae poste fixisse, NE REFERRI NEVE DICI LICERET. Quo modo igitur Domitius se dixit relaturum? quo modo autem iis quos tu scribis et de re dicentibus et ut referretur postulantibus Clodius tacuit? ac si per populum, poteritne nisi de omnium tribunorum pl. sententia? quid de bonis? quid de domo? poteritne restitui? aut si non poterit, egomet quo modo potero? haec nisi vides expediri, quam in spem me vocas? sin autem spei nihil est, quae est mihi vita? itaque exspecto Thessalonicae acta Kal. Sext., ex quibus statuam in tuosne agros confugiam, ut neque videam homines quos nolim et te, ut scribis, videam et propius sim si quid agatur, idque intellexi cum tibi tum Quinto fratri placere, an abeam Cyzicum. [7] nunc, Pomponi, quoniam nihil impertisti tuae prudentiae ad salutem meam, quod aut in me ipso satis esse consili decreras aut te nihil plus mihi debere quam ut praesto esses, quoniamque ego proditus, inductus, coniectus in fraudem omnia mea praesidia neglexi, totam Italiam iam erectam ad me defendendum destitui et reliqui, me, meos meis tradidi inimicis inspectante et tacente te qui, si non plus ingenio valebas quam ego, certe timebas minus, si potes, erige adflictos et in eo nos iuva; sin omnia sunt obstructa, id ipsum fac ut sciamus et nos aliquando aut obiurgare aut communiter consolari desine. ego si tuam fidem accusarem, non me potissimum tuis tectis crederem; meam amentiam accuso quod (me) a te tantum amari quantum ego vellem putavi. quod si fuisset, fidem eandem, curam maiorem adhibuisses, me certe ad exitium praecipitantem retinuisses, istos labores quos nunc in naufragiis nostris suscipis non subisses. [8] qua re fac ut omnia ad me perspecta et explorata perscribas meque, ut facis, velis esse aliquem, quoniam qui fui et qui esse potui iam esse non possum, et ut his litteris non te sed me ipsum a me esse accusatum putes. si qui erunt quibus putes opus esse meo nomine litteras dari, velim conscribas curesque dandas. data xiiii Kal. Sept.