I have nothing to write. There is no news that I have heard, and all your letters I answered yesterday. But as a sick heart not only robs me of sleep, but will not allow me even to keep awake without the greatest pain, I have begun to write to you something or other without any definite subject, that I may have a sort of talk with you, the only thing that gives me relief.
I seem to myself to have been mad from the very beginning, and the one thing that tortures me is that I did not follow Pompey like a private soldier, when he was slipping or rather rushing to ruin. I saw he was terrified on the 17th of January: on that day I felt what he would do. Since then I have never approved his course, and he has never ceased to commit one blunder after another. Meantime not a letter to me, nothing but thoughts of flight. Well! Just as in love affairs men are repelled by untidiness, stupidity and indelicacy, so the ugliness of
avertit ab amore. Nihil enim dignum faciebat, quare eius fugae comitem me adiungerem. Nunc emergit amor, nunc desiderium ferre non possum, nunc mihi nihil libri, nihil litterae, nihil doctrina prodest. Ita dies et noctes tamquam avis illa mare prospecto, evolare cupio. Do, do poenas temeritatis meae. Etsi quae fuit illa temeritas? quid feci non consideratissime? Si enim nihil praeter fugam quaereretur, fugissem libentissime, sed genus belli crudelissimi et maximi, quod nondum vident homines quale futurum sit, perhorrui. Quae minae municipiis, quae nominatim viris bonis, quae denique omnibus, qui remansissent! quam crebro illud "Sulla potuit, ego non potero?"! Mihi autem haeserunt illa. Male Tarquinius, qui Porsenam, qui Octavium Mamilium contra patriam, impie Coriolanus, qui auxilium petiit a Volscis, recte Themistocles, qui mori maluit, nefarius Hippias, Pisistrati filius, qui in Marathonia pugna cecidit arma contra patriam ferens. At Sulla, at Marius, at Cinna recte, immo iure fortasse; sed quid eorum victoria crudelius, quid funestius? Huius belli genus fugi, et eo magis, quod crudeliora etiam cogitari et parari videbam. Me, quem non nulli conservatorem istius urbis, quem parentem esse dixerunt, Getarum et Armeniorum et Colchorum copias ad eam adducere? me meis civibus famem, vastitatem inferre Italiae? Hunc primum mortalem esse, deinde etiam
his flight and his carelessness have estranged my love. For he has done nothing of a kind to induce me to share his flight. But now my old love breaks forth: now I miss him intolerably: now books, letters, philosophy, do not help me one whit. Day and night, like that bird,[96] I gaze at the sea, and long to take flight. Sorely am I punished for my rashness. Yet what rashness was there? I acted with all deliberation. For, if flight were his only object, I would have fled gladly enough. But I was aghast at warfare so cruel and desperate, the upshot of which is still unknown. What threats against the country towns, against the loyalists by name, in fact against all who should stay behind! How frequently has he remarked "Sulla could do it, and shall not I?" I could not get rid of thoughts like these. It was base in Tarquin to egg on Porsena and Octavius Mamilius against his country; it was wicked in Coriolanus, to seek help from the Volscians. Themistocles was right who preferred to die. What a dastard was Hippias, the son of Pisistratus, who fell at the battle of Marathon, bearing arms against his country! Yes, but Sulla and Marius and Cinna acted rightly, perhaps one should say within their rights; but then victory brought cruelty and death. I shrank from a war of that kind, and also because I saw cruelty even greater was being planned and prepared. Was it for me, whom some called the saviour and father of Rome, to bring against her hordes of Getae, Armenians and Colchians? Was it for me to bring famine on my fellow-townsmen and devastation on Italy? In the first place I reflected that Caesar was
[96] Cf. Plato, Ep. vii, 348A, καθάπερ ὄρνις ποθῶν ποθὲν ἀναπτᾶσθαι "Like a bird longing to fly somewhither."
multis modis posse exstingui cogitabam, urbem autem et populum nostrum servandum ad immortalitatem, quantum in nobis esset, putabam, et tamen spes quaedam me oblectabat fore ut aliquid conveniret, potius quam aut hic tantum sceleris aut ille tantum flagitii admitteret.
Alia res nunc tota est, alia mens mea. Sol, ut est in tua quadam epistula, excidisse mihi e mundo videtur. Ut aegroto, dum anima est, spes esse dicitur, sic ego, quoad Pompeius in Italia fuit, sperare non destiti. Haec, haec me fefellerunt, et, ut verum loquar, aetas iam a diuturnis laboribus devexa ad otium domesticarum me rerum delectatione mollivit. Nunc, si vel periculose experiundum erit, experiar certe, ut hinc avolem. Ante oportuit fortasse; sed ea, quae scripsisti, me tardarunt, et auctoritas maxime tua. Nam, cum ad hunc locum venissem, evolvi volumen epistularum tuarum, quod ego sub signo habeo servoque diligentissime. Erat igitur in ea, quam X K. Febr. dederas, hoc modo: "Sed videamus, et Gnaeus quid agat, et illius rationes quorsum fluant. Quodsi iste Italiam relinquet, faciet omnino male, et, ut ego existimo, ἀλογίστως, sed tum demum consilia nostra commutanda erunt." Hoc scribis post diem quartum, quam ab urbe discessimus. Deinde VIII K. Febr.: "Tantum modo Gnaeus noster ne, ut urbem ἀλογίστως reliquit, sic Italiam relinquat." Eodem die das alteras litteras, quibus mihi consulenti planissime respondes. Est enim sic: "Sed venio ad consultationem tuam. Si Gnaeus Italia cedit, in urbem redeundum puto; quae enim finis peregrinationis?" Hoc mihi