intercourse with him than Atticus. Their friendly relations lasted
without interruption and without a shadow till their death. They
corresponded during the shortest absences, and, when it was possible,
more than once a day. These letters, sometimes short to communicate a
passing reflection, sometimes long and studied, when events were graver,
playful or serious according to circumstances, that were written in
haste wherever the writers happened to be, these letters reflect the
whole life of the two friends. Cicero characterized them happily when he
said “They were like a conversation between us two.” Unfortunately, at
present, we hear only one of the speakers and the conversation has
become a monologue. In publishing his friend’s letters Atticus took good
care not to add his own. No doubt he did not wish his sentiments to be
read too openly, and his prudence sought to withhold from the public the
knowledge of his opinions and the secrets of his private life; but in
vain he sought to hide himself, the voluminous correspondence that
Cicero kept up with him was sufficient to make him known, and it is easy
to form from it an exact idea of the person to whom it is addressed.
This person is assuredly one of the most curious of an important epoch,
and deserves that we should take the trouble to study him with some
care.
I.
Atticus was twenty years old when the war between Marius and Sulla
began. He saw its beginnings and nearly became its victim; the tribune
Sulpicius, one of the chief heads of the popular party, and his
relation, was put to death with his partisans and friends by Sulla’s
orders, and as Atticus often visited him he ran some risk. This first
danger decided his whole life. As, notwithstanding his age, he had a
firm and prudent mind, he did not allow himself to be discouraged, but
reconsidered his position. If he had had hitherto some slight
inclination towards political ambition, and the idea of seeking public
honours, he gave them up without hesitation when he saw what a price
must sometimes be paid for them. He understood that a republic, in which
power could only be seized by force, was lost, and that in perishing it
was likely to drag down with it those who had served it. He resolved
then to hold himself aloof from public affairs, and his whole policy
consisted henceforth in creating for himself a safe position, outside of
parties, and out of reach of danger.
Sieyès was asked one day: “What did you do during the Terror?” “What did
I do?” he answered; “I lived.” That was a great thing to do. Atticus did
still more, he lived not only during a terror of a few months, but
during a terror of several years. As if to test his prudence and
ability, he was placed in the most troubled period in history. He looked
on at three civil wars, he saw Rome four times invaded by different
leaders, and the massacres recommence at each new victory. He lived, not
humble, unknown, allowing himself to be forgotten in some distant town,
but at Rome, and in full publicity. Everything contributed to draw
attention to him; he was rich, which was a sufficient cause for being
proscribed, he had a great reputation as a man of wit, he willingly
associated with the powerful, and, through his connections at least, he
was regarded as an important person. Nevertheless, he was able to escape
all the dangers that his position and his wealth created for him, and
even contrived to become greater at each of those revolutions which, it
seemed, might have ruined him. Each change of government, which hurled
his friends from power, left him richer and stronger, so that at last he
found himself placed, quite naturally, almost on a level with the new
master. By what miracle of cleverness, by what prodigy of skilful
combinations did he succeed in living honoured, rich and powerful at a
time when it was so difficult to live at all? It was a problem full of
difficulties; this is how he solved it.
In view of the first massacres of which he had been a witness, Atticus
decided to take no part henceforth in public affairs and parties; but
that is not so easy to do as one might think, and the firmest resolution
does not always suffice for success. It is useless to declare that you
wish to remain neutral; the world persists in classing you according to
the name you bear, your family traditions, your personal ties and the
earlier manifestations of your preferences. Atticus understood that, in
order to escape this sort of forced enlistment and to throw public
opinion off the scent, it was necessary to leave Rome, and to leave it
for a long time. He hoped, by this voluntary exile, to regain full
possession of himself and break the ties that, against his will, still
bound him to the past. But, if he wished to withdraw himself from the
eyes of his fellow-citizens, he did not intend to be forgotten by
everybody. He meant to return; and did not wish to return as a stranger,
no longer recognized, and lose all the benefit of his early friendships.
Thus he did not choose for his retreat some distant estate, in an
unknown province, or one of those obscure towns on which the eyes of the
Roman people never fell. He retired to Athens, that is to say, to the
only city that had preserved a great renown, and which still held a
place in the admiration of the nations on a level with Rome. There, by a
few well-placed liberalities, he drew to himself the affection of
everybody. He distributed corn to the citizens, he lent money without
interest to that city of men of letters, the finances of which were
always embarrassed. He did more, he flattered the Athenians on their
most sensitive side. He was the first Roman who dared openly to declare
his taste for the letters and arts of Greece. Up to that time it had
been the fashion among his countrymen to esteem and cultivate the Greek
muses in private, and to laugh at them in public. Cicero himself, who on
so many occasions braved this stupid prejudice, dared not appear to know
off-hand the name of a great sculptor; but Cicero was a statesman for
whom it was proper to show, at least now and then, that haughty disdain
for other nations which partly constituted what is called the Roman
dignity. It was necessary to flatter this national weakness if one
wished to please the people. Atticus, who did not mean to ask anything
of them, was more free; so he openly laughed at these customs.
Immediately on his arrival he began to speak and write Greek, to openly
frequent the studios of sculptors and painters, to buy statues and
pictures, and to compose works on the fine arts. The Athenians were as
much delighted as surprised to see one of their conquerors partake in
their most cherished tastes, and thus protest against the unjust disdain
of the rest. Their gratitude, which was always very noisy, as we know,
overwhelmed Atticus with all sorts of flattery. Decrees in his honour
were multiplied, he was offered all the dignities of the city; they even
wished to raise statues to him. Atticus hastened to refuse everything;
but the effect was produced, and the report of such great popularity did
not fail to reach Rome, carried by those young men of high family who
had just finished their education in Greece. In this manner the
reputation of Atticus lost nothing by his absence; people of taste
talked of this enlightened connoisseur of the arts who had made himself
remarked even at Athens; and during this same time the politicians, no
longer seeing him, lost the habit of classing him with a political
party.
This was an important step. There remained a more important one to take.
Atticus had seen betimes that to be rich is the first condition of
independence. This general truth was even more evident at that time than
at any other. How many people were there whose conduct during the civil
wars can only be explained by the state of their fortunes! Curio had but
one motive for serving Caesar, whom he did not like, namely, the
pressure of his creditors; and Cicero himself puts among the chief
reasons that prevented him going to Pompey’s camp, whither all his
sympathies called him, the money that Caesar had lent him, and which he
could not repay. To escape embarrassments of this kind and gain entire
liberty, Atticus resolved to become rich, and became so. It is of
importance, I think, to give here a few details to show how people got
rich at Rome. His father had left him a rather moderate fortune, two
million sesterces (£16,000). When he left Rome he sold almost all the
family property, that he might leave nothing behind to tempt the
proscribers, and bought an estate in Epirus, in that country of large
herds, where the land brought in so much. It is probable he did not pay
much for it. Mithridates had just ravaged Greece, and, as there was no
money, everything went at a low price. This domain quickly prospered
under skilful management; new lands were bought every year out of the
surplus revenue, and Atticus became one of the great landed proprietors
of the country. But is it likely that his wealth came to him solely
through the good management of his land? He would have willingly had
this believed, in order to resemble somewhat in this manner Cato and the
Romans of the old school. Unluckily for him, his friend Cicero betrays
him. In reading this unreserved correspondence we are not long in
perceiving that Atticus had many other ways of enriching himself besides
the sale of his corn and herds. This skilful agriculturalist was at the
same time a clever trader, who carried on all businesses successfully.
He excelled in drawing a profit, not only from the follies of others,
which is common, but even from his own pleasures, and his talent
consisted in enriching himself where others ruin themselves. We know for
instance that he was fond of fine books; then, as now, this was a very
costly fancy, but he knew how to make it a source of handsome profits.
He collected in his house a large number of skilful copyists whom he
trained himself; after having made them work for him, when his passion
was satisfied he set them to work for others, and sold the books they
copied to the public very dear. He was thus a veritable publisher for
Cicero, and as his friend’s works sold well it happened that this
friendship, which was full of charm for his heart, was not without use
to his fortune.[144] This commerce might be avowed, and a friend to
letters was not forbidden to become a bookseller; but Atticus engaged as
well in many transactions that ought to have been more repugnant to him.
As he saw the success that everywhere attended gladiatorial fights, and
that no festival took place without one of these grand butcheries, he
thought of raising gladiators on his estates. He had them carefully
instructed in the art of dying gracefully, and hired them out at a high
rate to cities that wished to amuse themselves.[145] It must be
acknowledged that this is not a suitable trade for a scholar and a
philosopher; but the profits were large, and the philosophy of Atticus
was accommodating as soon as there was a good profit to make. Besides,
he was a banker when the opportunity offered, and lent at a high rate of
interest, as the greatest nobles of Rome did without scruple. Only, he
was more circumspect than others, and took care to appear as little as
possible in the affairs that he conducted, and he had, no doubt, in
Italy and Greece, clever agents who made the most of his capital. His
business relations extended throughout the world; we know of his debtors
in Macedonia, Epirus, Ephesus and Delos, almost everywhere. He lent to
private persons; he lent also to cities, but quite secretly, for this
business was then as little esteemed as it was lucrative, and persons
who took to it were not considered either honest or scrupulous. So
Atticus, who thought as much of his reputation as of his fortune, would
not let any one know that he conducted this sort of business. He
carefully concealed it even from his friend Cicero, and we should be
ignorant of it now if he had not experienced some untoward accidents in
this risky business. Although usually great profits were gained, some
dangers also were run. After having suffered the Roman domination for
two centuries, all the cities, allied and municipal, and especially
those of Asia, were completely ruined. They all had less revenue than
debts, and the proconsuls, combined with the farmers of the taxes,
carried off their resources so completely that there was nothing left
for the creditors to take, unless they exerted themselves. This is what
happened once to Atticus, notwithstanding his activity. We see that
Cicero rallies him in one of his letters about the siege he is going to
lay to Sicyon;[146] this siege was evidently that of some recalcitrant
debtors; Atticus never made any other campaigns; and, in truth, this one
succeeded badly. While he thus went to war against this unfortunate
indebted town, the senate took pity on it, and protected it by a decree
against its too exacting creditors, so that Atticus, who set out from
Epirus as a conqueror, with flying banners, was reduced, says Cicero,
when he had arrived under the walls, to extract from the Sicyonians a
few poor crowns (_nummulorum aliquid_) by means of prayers and
flatteries.[147] We must, however, suppose that Atticus was usually more
lucky in the investment of his funds, and by his well-known prudence we
are assured that he knew how to choose more solvent debtors. All this
business that he carried on would certainly soon have made him very
rich; but he had no need to take so much trouble, for while he was
working so skilfully to make his fortune it came to him ready made from
another quarter. He had an uncle, Q. Caecilius, who passed for the most
terrible usurer of Rome, where there were so many, and who only
consented to lend to his nearest relations, and as a special favour, at
the rate of one per cent. per month. He was a hard, inflexible man, who
had rendered himself so hateful to everybody that the people could not
be prevented from outraging his corpse on the day of his funeral.
Atticus was the only person who had been able to get on with him.
Caecilius adopted him by will, and left him the greater part of his
property, ten million sesterces, a little more than £80,000. Henceforth
his fortune was made, he was independent of everybody, and free to
follow his own inclinations.
But was it not to be feared, that when he was back in Rome, the
resolution that he took to shun all ties would have a bad look? He could
not decently pretend indifference or fear as a reason for keeping aloof
from parties; he had to find a more honourable motive and one that he
might proclaim; a school of philosophy furnished him with it. The
Epicureans, sacrificing everything to the conveniences of life, said
that it was good to abstain from public employments to avoid the worry
they brought. “Do not engage in politics,” was their favourite maxim.
Atticus professed to be an Epicurean; henceforth his abstention had a
plausible pretext, fidelity to the opinions of his sect, and if he was
blamed, the blame fell upon the whole school, which always makes the
share of each individual very light. Was Atticus in reality a veritable
and complete Epicurean? This is a question that the learned discuss, and
that the character of this personage easily permits us to solve. To
suppose that in anything whatever he attached himself scrupulously to a
school, and pledged himself to be a faithful disciple of it, would be to
know him ill. He had studied them all for the pleasure that this study
gave to his inquisitive mind, but he was determined not to be a slave to
their systems. He had found a principle in the Epicurean morals that
suited him, and seized it in order to justify his political conduct. As
to Epicurus himself and his doctrine, he cared very little about them,
and was ready to abandon them on the first pretext. Cicero shows this
very pleasantly in a passage of the _De Legibus_. He represents himself
in this work chatting with Atticus on the banks of the Fibrenus, under
the delightful shades of Arpinum. As he wishes to trace back the origin
of laws to the gods, it is necessary for him first to lay down that the
gods concern themselves with men, which the Epicureans denied. He turns
then to his friend, and says: “Do you admit, Pomponius, that the power
of the immortal gods, their reason, their wisdom, or, if you like it
better, their providence, rule the universe? If you do not admit it I
must begin by demonstrating it.—Well then, replies Atticus, I admit it,
if you like, for thanks to these birds that are singing, and to the
murmuring of these brooks, I have no fear that any of my
fellow-disciples may hear me.”[148] Here is a very accommodating
philosopher, and the school will not get very much good from an adept
who abandons it as soon as he is sure that it will not be known. The
character of Atticus is here well seen. To embrace an opinion resolutely
is to pledge oneself to defend it, and to expose oneself to the
necessity of fighting for it. Now, philosophical quarrels, although they
be not bloody, are no less desperate than others; this is war all the
same, and Atticus wishes for peace in all things, at least for himself.
It is amusing to examine the part that Cicero gives him in the
philosophical dialogues into which he introduces him. In general he does
not discuss, he incites to discussion. Inquisitive and insatiable, he
asks, he interrogates continually; he compels a reply, he raises
objections, he animates the combatants, and during this time he quietly
enjoys the fight without ever taking part in it. We shall see, by and
by, that this was exactly the part he took in politics.
Atticus remained twenty-three years away from Rome, only visiting it at
long intervals and usually remaining but a very short time. When he
thought that, by his long absence, he was quite free from the ties that
attached him to the political parties, when he had gained independence
with wealth, when he had secured himself against all the reproaches that
might be made him on his conduct by giving his prudence the appearance
of a philosophical conviction, he thought of returning definitively to
Rome and there resuming his interrupted course of life. He chose a
moment for returning when all was calm, and, as if to break entirely
with his past, he came back with a new surname, by which people soon
learnt to call him. This name of Atticus, which he brought back from
Athens, seemed to indicate clearly that he would only live henceforth
for the study of letters and the enjoyment of the arts.
From this moment he divided his time between residence in Rome and in
his country houses. He quietly wound up his banking affairs, some of
which were still standing over, and took measures to hide from the
public the sources of his wealth. He kept only his estates in Epirus and
his houses in Rome, which brought him in a good deal, and the profits of
which he could acknowledge. His property continued to increase, thanks
to the way in which he managed it. Besides, he had none of those
weaknesses which might have endangered it; he did not care about buying
or building, he did not possess any of those splendid villas at the
gates of Rome or at the sea-side, the keeping up of which ruined Cicero.
He still sometimes lent money, but, as it appears, rather to oblige than
to enrich himself. He was careful, besides, to choose safe persons, and
showed himself without pity when debts fell due. This he did, he said,
in the interest of his debtors, for, in tolerating their negligence he
would encourage them to ruin themselves. But he did not stand upon
ceremony in dismissing those with whom his money would have run some
risk, even if they were his nearest relations. Cicero, relating to him
one day that their common nephew, the young Quintus, had come to him and
tried to move him by the picture of his poverty, added: “I took then
something of your eloquence; I answered nothing.” It was a good
contrivance, and Atticus must have employed it more than once with
regard to his brother-in-law and his nephew, who were always without
money. He had learnt how to make for himself a high social position at
small cost. He lived in his house on the Quirinal—which was more
spacious and commodious within than handsome without, and which he
repaired as little as possible—among the works of art that he had
selected in Greece, and the lettered slaves whom he had carefully
trained himself, and whom everybody envied him. He often assembled the
cultivated people of Rome at feasts where there was a great display of
learning. His hospitality did not cost much, if it is true, as Cornelius
Nepos, who had seen his accounts, asserts, that he only spent 3000 asses
(£6) a month on his table.[149] Cicero, always indiscreet, relates that
Atticus often served to his guests very common vegetables on very costly
dishes;[150] but what did it matter? every one considered himself
fortunate in taking part in these select parties, where they heard
Atticus talk and Cicero’s finest works read before they were published,
and it may be said that all the most distinguished persons of that great
period held it an honour to frequent that house on the Quirinal.
II.