(_Fam._, XXIV, 3)
I have read thy letters through to the end most eagerly--letters for
which I had diligently searched far and wide, and which I finally
came upon where I least expected. I have heard thee speak on many
subjects, give voice to many laments, and waver frequently in thy
opinions, O Marcus Tullius. Hitherto I knew what true counsel thou
gavest to others; now, at last, I have learned to what degree thou
didst prove mentor to thyself.[1]
Wherever thou mayest be, hearken in turn to this--I shall not call
it advice--but lament, a lament springing from sincere love and
uttered, not without tears, by one of thy descendants who most dearly
cherishes thy name. O thou ever restless and distressed spirit,
or, that thou mayest recognize thine own words, O thou rash and
unfortunate old man![2] Why such countless enmities and rivalries
bound to prove of absolutely no benefit to thee? Wherefore didst
thou forsake that peaceful ease so befitting a man of thy years, and
of thy vocation, and of thy station in life?[3] What false luster
of glory involved thee, although weighed down with years, in the
wrangles and frays proper to youths and, driving thee hither and
thither through all the vicissitudes of fortune, hurried thee to an
end unworthy of a philosopher? Alas, forgetful of the admonitions
of thy brother,[4] forgetful of thy own numerous and wholesome
precepts, like a traveler in the night didst thou bear the light in
the darkness, and didst enlighten for those following thee the path
on which thou thyself didst stumble most wretchedly.[5]
I forbear to speak of Dionysius; I shall make no mention of thy
brother, nor of thy nephew, and, if it pleases thee, I shall pass
over Dolabella too--men whom thou dost praise to the skies at one
moment, and the next dost rail at in sudden wrath. Such examples
of thy inconstancy may, perhaps, be excused.[6] I omit mention of
Julius Caesar, even, whose oft-tested mercy proved a haven of refuge
for those very persons who had assailed him. I shall say naught of
the great Pompey, with whom it seemed that thou couldst accomplish
anything thou didst set thy heart upon, such was the friendship
between you. But what madness arrayed thee against Antony? Love
for the Republic, I suppose thou wouldst answer. But (as thou
thyself didst assert) the Republic had already been destroyed root
and branch.[7] If, however, it was pure loyalty, if it was love of
liberty that impelled thee (and we are justified in thinking thus
of so great a man as thou), what meant such intimacy with Augustus?
Indeed, what possible answer canst thou give to thy Brutus? “If,”
says he, “thou dost embrace the cause of Octavius, the evident
conclusion will be, not that thou hast rid thyself of a master, but
rather that thou hast sought a kindlier lord.”[8]
There still remained this lamentable, finishing stroke, O Cicero,
that thou shouldst speak ill of that very man, notwithstanding thy
previous high praise. And on what grounds? Not because he was doing
thee any wrong, but merely because he did not oppose those who were.
I grieve at thy lot, my friend; I am ashamed of thy many, great
shortcomings, and take compassion on them. And so, even as did
Brutus, I attach no importance to that knowledge with which I know
that thou wert so thoroughly imbued.[9] Forsooth, what boots it
to instruct others, of what profit to discourse eternally on the
virtues, and that too in most eloquent terms, if, at the same time,
one turns a deaf ear to his own instructions? Ah, how much better had
it been for a man of declining years, and especially for one devoted
to studies, even as thou, to have lived his last days in the quiet of
the country, meditating (as thou thyself hast said somewhere) on that
everlasting life, and not on this fleeting one.[10] How much better
had it been never to have held office, never to have longed for
triumphs,[11] never to have vaunted of crushing such men as Catiline.
But ’tis vain indeed to talk thus. Farewell forever, my Cicero.
_Written in the land of the living, on the right bank of the river
Adige, in Verona, a city of Transpadane Italy, on the sixteenth day
before the Kalends of Quintilis (June 16), in the thirteen hundred
and forty-fifth year from the birth of that God whom thou never
knewest._