and in Asia who were waiting impatiently for permission to return home,
and who did not all obtain it. Cicero’s letters do us the good office of
making us acquainted with some of them. They are people of all
conditions and fortunes, merchants and farmers of the taxes as well as
great nobles. By the side of a Marcellus, a Torquatus and a Domitius
there are entirely unknown persons like Trebianus and Toranius, which
shows that Caesar’s vengeance did not stop at the heads of the party. We
find also among them three writers, and it is worthy of notice that they
were perhaps the most hardly treated. One of them, T. Ampius, was a
fiery republican who did not show so much firmness in exile as one would
have expected. He was occupied in writing a history of illustrious men,
and it seems that he did not profit much by the good examples he found
there. We know the other two, who are not much alike, better: they were
the Etruscan Caecina, a merchant and a wit, and the scholar Nigidius
Figulus. Nigidius, who was compared with Varro for the extent of his
attainments, and who was, like him, at once philosopher, grammarian,
astronomer, physicist, rhetorician and lawyer, had particularly struck
his contemporaries by the extent of his theological researches. As he
was seen to be much occupied with the doctrines of the Chaldeans and the
followers of Orpheus, he passed for a great magician. It was believed
that he predicted the future, and he was suspected of raising the dead.
So many occupations, of such various kinds, did not prevent him taking
an interest in the affairs of his country. It was not thought, then,
that a scholar was excused from performing the duties of a citizen. He
solicited and obtained public offices: he was praetor in difficult
times, and was noticed for his energy. When Caesar entered Italy,
Nigidius, faithful to the maxim of his master Pythagoras, which commands
the sage to carry help to the law when it is menaced, hastened to leave
his books, and was one of the principal combatants at Pharsalia. Caecina
had appeared at first as firm as Nigidius, and like him was conspicuous
for his republican ardour. Not content with taking up arms against
Caesar, he had, besides, insulted him in a pamphlet at the beginning of
the war: but he was as weak as he was violent, he could not bear exile.
This frivolous and worldly man had need of the pleasures of Rome, and
was disconsolate at being deprived of them. To obtain his pardon, he
formed the idea of writing a new work destined to contradict the old
one, and to obliterate its bad effect. He had called it his _Querelae_,
and this title indicates well enough its character. In it he lavished
eulogies on Caesar without measure, and yet he was always afraid he had
not said enough. “I tremble in all my limbs,” said he to Cicero, “when I
ask myself if he will be satisfied.”[289] So much humiliation and
baseness succeeded in softening the victor, and while he relentlessly
left the energetic Nigidius, who could not flatter, to die in exile, he
allowed Caecina to approach Italy, and settle down in Sicily.
Cicero had become the consoler of all these exiles, and employed his
influence in ameliorating their condition. He served them all with the
same zeal, although there were some among them of whom he had reason to
complain; but he no longer remembered their offences when he saw their
misfortunes. In writing to them he showed a graceful tact in
accommodating his language to their situation and feelings, caring
little whether he was consistent with himself, provided he could console
them and be useful to them. He told those who lamented that they were
kept away from Rome, that they were wrong in wishing to return, and that
it was better simply to hear reports of the misfortunes of the republic
than to see them with their eyes; he wrote in the opposite strain to
those who supported exile too courageously, and would not beg for
recall, to the great despair of their families. When he met with a too
servile eagerness in anticipating and entreating Caesar’s kindness, he
did not hesitate to blame it, and with infinite tact recalled the
unfortunate to that self-respect which they had forgotten. If, on the
contrary, he saw some one disposed to commit a heroic imprudence and to
attempt a useless and dangerous move, he hastened to restrain this burst
of idle courage, and preached prudence and resignation. He did not spare
his pains during this time. He went to see the friends of the master, or
if necessary, he tried to see the master himself, although it was very
difficult to approach a man who had the affairs of the whole world on
his shoulders. He begged, he promised, he wearied with his supplications
and was almost always successful, for Caesar was anxious to draw him
more and more into his party by the favours he granted him. The favour
once obtained, he wished to be the first to announce it to the exile,
who impatiently awaited it; he heartily congratulated him and added to
his compliments a few of those counsels of moderation and silence which
he readily gave to others, but which he did not always follow himself.
There was no more important personage among these exiles than the former
consul Marcellus; neither was there any whom Caesar had so much reason
to hate. By a sort of cruel bravado, Marcellus had had an inhabitant of
Como beaten with rods, in order to show what value he set upon the
rights that Caesar had granted to that city. After Pharsalia, he had
retired to Mitylene and did not think of returning, when his relatives
and Cicero took it into their heads to obtain his pardon. While taking
the first steps they met with an unexpected obstacle: they thought they
only had to entreat Caesar, and they had to begin by appeasing
Marcellus. He was an energetic man whom the ill success of his cause had
not dispirited, a veritable philosopher, who had reconciled himself to
exile, an obstinate republican, who would not return to Rome to see her
a slave. Quite a long negotiation was necessary before he would consent
to allow them to crave anything for him from the conqueror, and even
then he allowed it with a very bad grace. When we read the letters that
Cicero wrote to him on this occasion, we greatly admire his skill, but
have some difficulty in understanding the motives of his persistence. We
ask with surprise why he took more interest in the return of Marcellus
than did Marcellus himself. They had never been very closely connected;
Cicero did not stand upon ceremony in blaming his obstinacy, and we know
that those stiff and self-willed characters did not suit him. He must
have had then some stronger motive than affection to be so anxious for
Marcellus’ return to Rome. This motive, which he does not mention, but
which we can guess, was the fear he had of public opinion. He well knew
that he was reproached with not having done enough for his cause, and at
times he accused himself of having abandoned it too quickly. When, in
the midst of Rome, where he passed his time so gaily at those sumptuous
dinners that Hirtius and Dolabella gave him, and to which he went, he
said, to enliven his slavery a little; when he came to think of those
brave men who had been killed in Africa and Spain, or who were living in
exile in some dull and unknown town in Greece, he was angry with himself
for not being with them, and the thought of their sufferings often
troubled his pleasures. That is the reason why he worked with so much
ardour for their return. It was of importance to him to diminish the
number of those whose miseries formed a disagreeable contrast to the
happiness that he enjoyed, or who appeared to condemn his submission by
their haughty attitude. Every time that an exile returned to Rome, it
seemed to Cicero as though he got rid of some remorse and escaped the
reproaches of the ill-natured. Therefore, when he had obtained, contrary
to his expectation, the pardon of Marcellus, his joy knew no bounds. It
went so far as to make him forget that resolution he had taken to keep
silence to which he had been faithful during two years. He spoke in the
senate to thank Caesar, and delivered the celebrated speech which
remains to us.[290]
The reputation of this speech has had very diverse fortunes. It was long
unreservedly admired, and, in the last century, the worthy Rollin
regarded it as the model and perfection of eloquence; but this
enthusiasm has much diminished since we have become less appreciative of
the art of praising princes with delicacy, and value free and open
speech more highly than the most ingenious flattery. We should certainly
sometimes wish for a little more dignity in this speech, and we are
especially shocked at the manner in which embarrassing recollections of
the civil war are treated in it. He should have said nothing of them, or
have spoken out more boldly. Ought he, for example, to hide the motives
that the republicans had for taking up arms and reduce the whole
struggle to a conflict between two eminent men? Was it the time, after
the defeat of Pompey, to sacrifice him to Caesar, and to assert with so
much assurance that he would have used the victory less well? That we
may be able to judge less severely the concessions that Cicero thought
himself obliged to make to the victorious party, we must recall the
circumstances in which this speech was delivered. It was the first time
he had spoken in public since Pharsalia. In that senate, purged by
Caesar and filled with his creatures, free speech had not yet been
heard. The friends and admirers of the master alone spoke, and whatever
excess we may find in the praises that Cicero gives him, we may rest
assured that all these flatteries must have seemed lukewarm compared
with those heard every day. Let us add that, as no one had yet dared to
make a trial of Caesar’s forbearance, its limits were not exactly known.
Now it is natural, that he who does not exactly know where rashness
begins has a little dread of becoming rash. When one does not know the
bounds of the liberty that is permitted, the fear of overstepping them
sometimes prevents their being reached at all. Besides, this orator who
spoke for an exile was himself one of the vanquished. He knew the whole
extent of the rights that victory then conferred, and he did not try to
hide it. “We have been defeated,” he said to Caesar, “you might
legitimately put us all to death.”[291] At the present time things are
quite different. Humanity has lessened these pitiless rights, and the
conquered, who knows it, does not give way so completely; from the
moment that he does not run the same risks it is easy for him to have
more courage; but when he found himself before a master who had absolute
power over him, when he knew that he only held liberty and life by a
favour always revocable, he could not speak with the same boldness, and
it would not be just to call the reserve imposed by such a perilous
position, timidity. There is yet one other way, simpler and probably
truer than the others, of explaining these rather too exaggerated
praises with which Cicero has been reproached, namely, to acknowledge
that they were sincere. The greater the rights of the conqueror, the
more becoming it was in him to renounce them, and the merit was still
greater when they were renounced in favour of a man whom there were
legitimate reasons for hating. Accordingly, the excitement was very
great among the senators when they saw Caesar pardon his personal enemy,
and Cicero shared it. What proves that all these effusions of joy and
thankfulness, with which his speech is filled, were not simply
oratorical embellishments, is that we find them in a letter which he
addressed to Sulpicius, and which was not written for the public. “That
day seemed to me so grand,” said he, relating that memorable sitting of
the senate, “that I thought I saw the republic rise again.”[292] This
was going very far, and indeed nothing less resembled the revival of the
republic than this arbitrary act of a despot in pardoning men who were
only guilty of having served their country. This violent hyperbole is
none the less a proof of the deep and sincere emotion that Caesar’s
clemency caused Cicero. We know how open that sensitive nature was to
the impressions of the moment. He usually allows himself to be seized so
forcibly by admiration or hatred, that he seldom keeps within bounds in
expressing them. Hence came, in the speech for Marcellus, some
hyperbolical eulogies and an excess of complimentary phrases which it is
easy to account for, although one would rather not have found them
there.
These reservations being made, nothing remains but to admire. Cicero’s
speech does not contain only flatteries, as is asserted, and those who
read it carefully and without prejudice will find something else. After
thanking Caesar for his clemency, he takes the liberty of telling him a
few truths and giving him some advice. This second part, which is
somewhat hidden now under the splendour of the other, is much more
curious, although less striking, and must have produced more effect in
its time. Although he revised his work before publishing it, as was
usual with him, he must have preserved the movement of improvisation. If
he had not at first found those grand periods, the most sonorous and
pompous of the Latin tongue, it is at least probable that he has not
changed very much the order of the ideas and the coherency of the
speech. We feel that he becomes excited and warmed by degrees, and in
proportion as he advances he becomes more daring. The success of his
eloquence, of which they had been deprived so long, the applause of his
friends, the admiration and surprise of the new senators who had not yet
heard him, that sort of transport a man feels in speaking when he
perceives he is listened to; in sum, the place itself where he was
speaking, those walls of the senate house to which he alluded in his
discourse, and which guarded the memory of so many eloquent and free
voices,—all this put him in heart again. He forgot the timid precautions
of the commencement, and boldness came with success. Was it not
attacking absolute power indirectly when he said: “I am grieved to think
that the destiny of the republic, which ought to be immortal, depends
entirely on the life of one man who must some time die.”[293] And what
can we think of that other saying, still sharper, almost cruel? “You
have done much to gain the admiration of men; you have not done enough
to deserve their praises.”[294] What must Caesar do in order that the
future may praise him as much as it admires him? He must change that
which exists: “The republic cannot remain as it is.” He does not explain
himself, but we guess what he wants. He wants liberty, not that entire
liberty that they had enjoyed up to Pharsalia, but a moderate and
regulated liberty, compatible with a strong and victorious government,
the sole liberty that Rome could support. It is plain that at this
moment Cicero did not think it impossible to make a compromise between
Caesar and liberty. Could not a man who so ostentatiously renounced one
of the least disputed rights of victory be tempted to renounce the
others later? And when he was seen to be so clement and generous towards
private individuals, was it forbidden to think that he might one day
show the same liberality to his country? However weak this hope might
be, as there was then no other, an honest man and a good citizen would
not let it be lost, and it was his duty to encourage Caesar by all
possible means to realize it. They were not then to blame in praising
him without restraint for what he had done, in order to urge him to do
still more, and it seems to me that the praises Cicero heaps on him,
when we think of the intention he had in giving them, lose a little of
that look of slavishness with which they have been reproached.
Caesar listened to the compliments with pleasure and to the advice
without anger. He was too pleased that Cicero had at last broken silence
to think of being angry at what he had said. It was important to him
that this statesman, on whom all eyes were fixed, should re-enter public
life in some way or other. While that powerful voice persisted in
remaining mute it seemed to protest against the new government. By not
even attempting to contradict him, it let it be thought it had not the
liberty to do so, and made the slavery appear heavier. He was then so
content to hear Cicero’s voice again that he let him say what he liked.
Cicero quickly perceived it and took advantage of it. From this moment,
when he speaks in public, we feel that he is more at his ease. His tone
becomes firmer, and he concerns himself less about compliments and
eulogies. With the speech for Marcellus, he had tried what liberties he
could take. Having once felt his ground, he was more sure of his steps
and walked with confidence.
Such was the position of Cicero during Caesar’s dictatorship; we see
clearly that it was not so humble as has been asserted, and that, in a
time of despotism, he was able to render some services to liberty. These
services have been generally ill appreciated, and I am not surprised at
it. It is with men something as it is with works of art: when we see
them at a distance we are only struck with the bold situations and
well-drawn attitudes; the details and finer shades escape us. We can
well understand those who give themselves up entirely to the conqueror
like Curio or Antony, or those who constantly resist him like Labienus
and Cato. As to those ingenious and flexible minds who fly from all
extremes, who live adroitly between submission and revolt, who turn
difficulties rather than force them, who do not refuse to pay with a few
flatteries for the right of telling a few truths, we are always tempted
to be severe towards them. As we cannot clearly distinguish their
attitude at the distance from which we regard them, their smallest
subserviencies appear to be cowardice, and they seem to be prostrating
themselves when they are only bowing. It is only by drawing near them,
that is to say by studying the facts closer, that we succeed in
rendering them justice. I think that this minute study is not
unfavourable to Cicero, and that he was not mistaken when he said later,
speaking of this period of his life, that his slavery had not been
without some honour: _quievi cum aliqua dignitate_.[295]
II.
In giving an account of the relations of Cicero and Caesar after
Pharsalia, I have purposely omitted to speak of the courteous contest
they had about Cato. It was such a curious incident that it seems to me
to be worth the trouble of being studied apart, and in order to
understand better the sentiments that each of the two brought into this
contest, perhaps it will not be amiss to begin by making the
acquaintance of the person who was the subject of the dispute.
A sufficiently correct idea is generally formed of Cato by us, and those
who attack him as well as those who admire him are very nearly agreed
upon the principal features of his character. He was not one of those
elusive and many-sided natures like Cicero, that it is so difficult to
seize. On the contrary, no one was ever more outspoken, more uniform,
than he, and there is no figure in history whose good and bad qualities
are so clearly marked. The only danger for those who study him is to be
tempted to exaggerate still more this bold relief. With a little
intention it is easy to make an obstinate block of this obstinate man, a
boor and brute of this frank and sincere man; that is to say, to draw
the caricature and not the portrait of Cato. To avoid falling into this
extreme, it will be proper, before speaking of him, to read again a
short letter that he addressed to Cicero when proconsul of Cilicia.[296]
This note is all that remains to us of Cato, and I should be surprised
if it did not very much astonish those who have a preconceived notion of
him. There is neither rudeness nor brutality in it, but on the contrary
much refinement and wit. The occasion of the letter was a very difficult
one: it was a question of refusing Cicero a favour that he very much
wished to obtain. He had had in his old age the aspiration to become a
conqueror, and he asked the senate to vote a thanksgiving to the gods
for the success of the campaign he had just made. The senate in general
showed deference to this caprice, Cato almost alone resisted; but he did
not wish to fall out with Cicero, and the letter he wrote to justify his
refusal is a masterpiece of dexterity. He shows him that in opposing his
demand, he understands the interests of his glory, better than he does
himself. If he will not thank the gods for the successes Cicero has
obtained, it is because he thinks that Cicero owes them to himself
alone. Is it not better to give him all the honour than to attribute it
to chance, or the protection of heaven? This is certainly a very amiable
way of refusing, and one that did not leave Cicero an excuse for getting
angry, discontented though he was. Cato, then, was a man of wit at odd
moments, although at first sight we might have some difficulty in
supposing so. His character had become supple by the study of Greek
literature; he lived in the midst of an elegant society, and he had
unconsciously taken something from it. This is what that witty letter
makes us suspect, and we must remember it, and take care to read it
again every time we are tempted to fancy him an ill-bred rustic.
We must, however, admit that usually he was stiff and stubborn, hard to
himself, and severe on others. That was the turn of his humour; he added
to it by his self-will. Nature is not alone to blame for those
self-willed and absolute characters that we meet with; a certain pursuit
of quaint originality and a little self-complacency, very often make us
aid nature and bring it out more vigorously. Cato was led into this
defect by the very name he bore. The example of his illustrious
grandfather was always before his eyes, and his single study was to
resemble him, without taking into account the difference of times and
men. In imitating we exaggerate. There is always a little effort and
excess in the virtues we try to reproduce. We take only the most salient
points of the model, and neglect the others which tone them down. This
happened with Cato, and Cicero justly blames him for imitating only the
rough and hard sides of his grandfather. “If you let the austerity of
your behaviour take a few tints of his gay and easy manners, your good
qualities would be more pleasing.”[297] It is certain that there was in
the old Cato a dash of piquant animation, of rustic gaiety, of bantering
good-nature, that his grandson did not have. He only shared with him his
roughness and obstinacy, which he pushed to extremes.
Of all excesses the most dangerous perhaps is the excess of good; it is
at least that of which it is most difficult to correct oneself, for the
culprit applauds himself, and no one dares to blame him. Cato’s great
defect was that he never knew moderation. By dint of wishing to be firm
in his opinion, he became deaf to the advice of his friends and the
lessons of experience. The practical conduct of life, that imperious
mistress, to speak like Bossuet, had no hold upon him. His energy often
went to the length of obstinacy, and his sense of honour was sometimes
in fault by being too scrupulous. This extreme delicacy prevented him
succeeding when he canvassed for public offices. The people were very
exacting towards those who asked for their votes. During the rest of the
year they allowed themselves to be driven and ill-used, but on election
day they knew they were masters and took pleasure in showing it. They
could only be gained by flattering all their caprices. Cicero often
laughed at those unfortunate and deferential candidates (_natio
officiosissima candidatorum_), who go in the morning knocking at every
door, who pass their time in paying visits and compliments, who make it
a duty to accompany the generals when they enter or leave Rome, who form
the retinue of all the influential orators, and who are forced to have
infinite consideration and respect for everybody. Among the common
people, upon whom after all the election depended, the more honest
wished to be flattered, the rest required to be bought. Cato was not the
man to do either the one or the other. He would neither flatter nor lie;
still less would he consent to pay. When he was pressed to offer those
repasts and those presents that for so long candidates had not dared to
refuse, he answered bluntly: “Are you bargaining for pleasures with
debauched young men, or asking the government of the world of the Roman
people?” And he did not cease repeating this maxim, “that it is only a
man’s merits which must solicit.”[298] A hard saying! said Cicero, and
one they were not accustomed to hear at a time when all offices were for
sale. It displeased the people, who profited by this venality, and Cato,
who persisted in only soliciting on his merits, was almost always
vanquished by those who solicited with their money.