These last weeks, not my dream, but my waking state has been the contemplation of futility and the collapse of all belief. Oh, worse than that: my dead call to me in mockery from their grave clothes and generations still unborn cry out, asking to be spared the clownish parade of a mortal life. Yet even in my last bitterness I cannot disavow the memory of bliss.
Life, life has this mystery that we dare not say the last word about it, that it is good or bad, that it is senseless, or that it is ordered. That all these things have been said of it is evidence only that all these things are in us. This ‘life’ in which we move has no colour and it gives no sign. As you once said: the universe is not aware that we are here.
Let me then banish from my mind the childish thought that it is among my duties to find some last answer concerning the nature of life. Let me distrust all impulses within me to say at any moment that it is cruel or kind, for it is no less ignoble from a situation of misery to pronounce life evil than from one of happiness to call it good. Let me not be the dupe of well-being or content, but welcome all experience that reminds me of the myriad cries of execration and of delight that have been wrung from men in every time.
From whom better than from you could I have learnt this? Who ever so constantly invoked the extremest ranges of yea and nay – who, but Sophocles, known throughout his ninety years as the happiest man in Greece, and yet from whom no dark secrets were hid?
Life has no meaning save that which we may confer upon it. It neither supports man nor humiliates him. Agony of mind and uttermost joy we cannot escape, but those states have, of themselves, nothing to say to us; those heavens and hells await the sense we give to them, as all living things awaited, incult and abashed, the names that Deucalion and Pyrrha pronounced over them. With this thought I dare at last to gather about me those blessed shades of my past whom hitherto I had thought of as victims of life’s incoherence. I dare to ask that from my good Calpurnia a child may arise to say: On the Meaningless I choose to press a meaning and in the wastes of the Unknowable I choose to be known.
The Rome upon which I have built my life does not exist in itself save as an agglomeration of structures larger or less large than another, of citizens more or less industrious than those of another city. Flood or folly, fire or madness may destroy it at any time. I thought myself to be attached to it by inheritance and upbringing, but such attachments have no more meaning than the beard that I shave from my face. I was called to its defense by the Senate and the Consuls; so Vercingetorix defended Gaul. No, Rome became a city for me only when I chose, as did many before me, to give it a sense and for me Rome can exist only in so far as I have shaped it to my idea. I now see that for years I childishly believed that I loved Rome and that it was my duty to love Rome because I was a Roman – as though it were possible or worthy of respect to love accumulations of stones and throngs of men and women. We are not in relationship to anything until we have enwrapped it in a meaning, nor do we know for certainty what that meaning is until we have costingly labored to impress it upon the object.
1021. [On the rebuilding of Carthage and the construction of a mole in the Bay of Tunis.]
1022. I was told today that a woman was waiting to see me. She entered my offices entirely veiled and not until I had dismissed my secretaries was I permitted to know that this was Clodia Pulcher.
She came to warn me that there was a conspiracy afoot to take my life and to assure me that neither herself nor her brother had any part in it. She then began to give me the names of these agitators and to tell me the days that were being selected for their attempts.
By the immortal Gods, these conspirators failed to take into account that I am the darling of women. No day goes by without new aid from these fair informers.
I was on the point of telling my visitor that I knew all this already, but I held my tongue. I saw her as an old woman sitting by the fire and remembering that she had saved the State.
There was one new fact that she was able to impart to me: these men are meditating the assassination of Marc Antony also. If that is true, they are even more inept than I had thought.
From day to day I postpone measures to frighten these tyrannicides, nor can I make up my mind what should be done with them. It has been my practice hitherto to encourage all nuisance to come to a head; it is the deed itself and not the punishment that is instructive to the public. I know not what to do.
Our friends have chosen an ill-judged moment to raise their hands against me. The City is already filling up with my veterans [re-enlisting for the Parthian War]. They follow me about the streets with shouts. They cup their hands before their mouths and joyously call out the names of battles we won, as though they had been carefree foot races. I ordered them into every danger and I drove them mercilessly.
These conspirators I have only overwhelmed with kindness. The majority of them I have already pardoned once. They crept back to me from the skirts of Pompey and kissed my hand in gratitude for their lives. Gratitude sours in the belly of a small man and he must puke it up. By the rivers of hell, I know not what to do with them, and I do not care. They gaze piously at the images of Harmodius and Aristogiton [the ‘classic’ tyrannicides of Greek history] – but I am wasting your time.
LXVIII
Inscriptions in Public Places.
[Cards bearing the following words were found attached to the statue of Junius Brutus, the Elder.]
Oh, that thou wert with us now, Brutus!
Oh, that Brutus were alive!
[The following were found propped against the chair reserved for Brutus as Praetor of the City.]
Brutus! Are you sleeping?
You are no Brutus!
LXVIII-A
The Commonplace Book of Cornelius Nepos.
[From December forward Nepos entered all matters, even those dealing with early Roman history, in cypher.]
Fr. An agitated visit. He says that he has been approached by Longshanks [Trebonius? Decimus Brutus?]. It was impossible to discuss the basic madness of the project. I limited myself to giving him a sound drubbing and to turning the conspiracy to ridicule. I pointed out to him that there was not a name among the agitators that was not known to my wife and to her friends; that any conspiracy which sought his adherence was bound to fail, for he was known to be a man who could not hold his tongue; that his visit to me was evidence that he had not sufficient conviction in the aims of such an uprising to have any part in it; that he had nothing to contribute to it but his wealth and that a conspiracy that required wealth was a failure in advance, for money has never yet bought secrecy, courage, nor fidelity; that should this conspiracy succeed his fortune would be wiped out in five days; that there was little doubt that Caesar was in possession of the most detailed particulars and that we may expect to hear momently that the hotheads will be dragged from their homes and locked up in the caves under the Aventine Hill; and that the great man whom they are attempting to remove will probably not deign to execute them, but will send them to the shores of the Black Sea, where they can lie awake nights remembering the tumult of high noon on the Appian Way and the smell of roasting chestnuts on the steps of the Capitol. Yes, and the look on the face of the man they thought they could replace, as he mounts the steps to the platform and turns to address the guardians of Rome.
The City held its breath. The seventeenth [of February] has passed without event.
Every public event is now read in one light. The people are again paying the closest attention to the daily omens. Cicero is back in the City. He was seen to speak rudely to Longshanks and to pass the Blacksmith without greeting.
Since Caesar’s remarriage the Queen of Egypt is suddenly very popular. Odes to her are displayed in public places. Her departure has been announced, but deputations of the citizens present themselves at her door, urging her to prolong her visit.
The tide of rumours has abated. A new chief and a stricter discipline? The influx of veterans?
LXIX
Caesar’
s Journal – Letter to Lucius Mamilius Turrinus on the Island of Capri.
1023. By the immortal Gods, I am angry and I shall take pleasure in my anger.
The charge that I am the enemy of liberty was never brought against me while I commanded the armies of Rome, though, by Hercules, I so limited their movements that they could not walk a mile from their tents. They rose in the morning when I told them to and they lay down to sleep at my direction; and no one protested. The word freedom is in everyone’s mouth, though in the sense that it is being used no one has ever been free or ever will be free.
In the eyes of my enemies I sit clothed in the liberties which I have stolen from others. I am a tyrant and they liken me to the potentates and satraps of the East. They cannot say that I have robbed any man of money, of land, or of occupation. I have robbed them of liberty. I have not robbed them of their voice and their opinion. I am not oriental and have not kept the people in ignorance of what they should know, nor have I lied to them. The wits of Rome declare that the people are weary of the information with which I flood the country. Cicero calls me the Schoolmaster, but he has not charged me with distorting my lessons. They are not in the slavery of ignorance nor under the tyranny of deception. I have robbed them of their liberty.
But there is no liberty save in responsibility. That I cannot rob them of because they have not got it. I have never ceased from placing before them the opportunity to assume it, but as my predecessors learned before me, they know not where to grasp it. I rejoice at the extent to which the outposts of Gaul have shouldered the burdensome freedom which I have accorded them. It is Rome which has been corrupted. The Romans have become skilled in the subtle resources for avoiding the commitment and the price of political freedom. They have become parasites upon that freedom which I gladly exercise – my willingness to arrive at a decision and to sustain it – and which I am willing to share with every man who will assume its burden. I have been watching my Praetors [Cassius and Brutus]. They fulfill their duties with clerklike diligence; they mutter ‘freedom, freedom,’ but not once have they raised their eyes and voices toward a greater Rome. On the contrary, they have laid before me sheaves of suggestions that would at the same time reinforce their little dignity and diminish Her greatness. Cassius wishes me to silence the enthusiasts who day by day in public places rail against me and our edicts. Brutus wishes to safeguard the purity of our Roman blood by limiting the right to citizenship. By the immersions of Castor and Pollux, his African doorman knows better than that. That is the refusal of freedom, for it is by taking a leap into the unknown that we know we are free. The unmistakable sign of those who have refused their freedom is envy; it is the jaundice of the eye that cannot rest until it has ascribed base motives to those who do not receive but who make their freedom.
But I have reminded myself that the mind is free and my anger has passed. The mind is easily wearied and easily frightened; but there is no limit to the pictures it makes; and toward those pictures we stumble. I have often remarked that whereas men say there is a limit beyond which a man may not run or swim, may not raise a tower or dig a pit, I have never heard it said that there is a limit to wisdom. The way is open to better poets than Homer and to better rulers than Caesar. No bounds have been conceived for crime and folly. In this also I rejoice and I call it a mystery. This also prevents me from reaching any summary conclusion concerning our human condition. Where there is an unknowable there is a promise.
LXX
Caesar to Brutus: Memorandum.
[March 7.]
[In a secretary’s hand.]
The following dates are now established:
I shall leave on the seventeenth [for the Parthian War].
I shall return to Rome for three days on the twenty-second, should it appear advisable, to address the Senate on the electoral reform.
Billeting: the numbers [of recruits and veterans joining up] are exceeding my expectations. The eight temples [assigned to them for lodging, in addition to the facilities afforded by the barracks] may not be sufficient. Tomorrow we are moving from the Public House to the Palatine. The Public House should contain at least two hundred.
[Caesar continues in his own hand.]
Calpurnia and I hope that you and Porcia will dine with us, on the Hill, on the afternoon of the fifteenth, for my leave-taking. We are asking Cicero, the two Marcuses [Antony and Lepidus], Cassius, Decimus, Trebonius, and their wives, that have them. The Queen of Egypt will be with us after dinner.
So great is the pleasure that I take in your company, and in that of Porcia, that I could wish that you alone were our guests at that time. Since there will be others present, let me avail myself of this opportunity to lay upon you an injunction justified by our long friendship and by the kind offers of service which you have frequently made to me.
The separation from my dear wife will be hard for me; it will be hard for her. I shall rejoin her for a short time next autumn in Dalmatia or – without public notice – at Capri. In the meantime, I could know no greater consolation than to be assured that you and Porcia were holding her in your loves. To Porcia she has been bound by a close friendship since childhood; to you she bears the esteem which your character and your loyalty to me deserve. There is no second home that she could frequent with more profit and none to which my thoughts would more frequently have preceded her.
LXX-A
Brutus to Caesar.
[March 8.]
[The following is the unfinished draft of a letter which was not sent.]
I have taken note of the arrangements you have reported to me.
It is with regret that I must say that I shall not be able to be among your guests on the fifteenth. It has more and more become my practice to devote to study the few hours remaining to me at the close of the day.
I shall indeed, during your absence, seek to be useful to Calpurnia Piso in every way that I can. I think it well, however, that you consign her to the particular attention of others than myself, more active in the social life and less preoccupied by public business.
Your letter speaks, great Caesar, of my loyalty to you. I am glad you have done so, for it makes clear to me that you accord to loyalty the same meaning that I do. You will not have forgotten that I took up arms against you and received your pardon and that you have permitted me on many occasions to express opinions contrary to your own. From this I assume that you accept the loyalty of those who are first loyal to themselves and that you recognise that such loyalties may often come into conflict.
Your letter speaks, great Caesar, of my loyalty to you. That you have done so is——
It is with regret that I must reply to you that my wife’s ill-health will prevent our——
. . . before your departure, to express a measure of the gratitude I bear to you. That indebtedness I cannot repay. Since earliest childhood I have received——
I have taken note of the arrangements you have reported to me.
INGRATITUDE BASEST OF ALL THOUGHTS AND AC
[The following phrases are in early Latin. They appear to be an oath used in courts of law.]
‘Oh, Jupiter, unseen and all-seeing, who readest the hearts of men, witness now that what I declare is true, and if there be any fault in it, may . . .’
Three yards of wool, medium weight, finished in the manner of Corinth; one stylus, trimmed fine; three broad lamp wicks.
My wife and I shall, indeed, with pleasure, that so great an oak, not forgetting him on whom shall rest the last glance of those great eyes, not without surprise and never to be forgotten so.
LXX-B
Brutus to Caesar.
[As sent.]
I have taken note of the arrangements you have reported to me.
Porcia and I shall come to you with pleasure on the fifteenth.
Rest assured, great Caesar, that for her own sake and for yours, we love Calpurnia no less than ourselves and that we shall not be happy until she looks upon our home as her own.
LXXI
Caesar’s Journal – Letter to Lucius Mamilius Turrinus on the Island of Capri.
1023. I have been remiss in writing to you. The days have been filled with preparations for my departure.
I am impatient to be off. My absence will constitute no inconsiderable gift to the City which is as harassed as I am by the continual rumours of sedition. It is ironical, is it not, that in my absence these men are powerless to alter the government and that when I have passed the Caspian Sea they have no choice but to return to their proper duties.
Their number appears to include some fifty members of the Senate, many of them holding the highest positions in the City.
I have given that fact the grave consideration it deserves and I remain unshaken.
The Athenians passed a vote of censure on Pericles. Aristides and Themistocles were driven by them into exile.
In the meantime, I guard myself, within reason, and I continue my occupations.
My son [i.e., his nephew Octavius, formally adopted in his will which was written in September but not yet made public] returns to Rome soon after my departure. He is an excellent young man. I particularly rejoice that he has written me of his high regard for Calpurnia. I have told her that he will afford her the companionship of an older brother, nay, of an uncle. Octavius traversed his youth in a year and is now well advanced into his middle age. His letters are not less sententious than those in The Correspondence of Telemachus [a ‘model letter writer’ widely used in schools].
The great Queen of Egypt is returning to her country, having learned more about us than many who have spent a lifetime here. To what uses she will put that knowledge, to what uses she will put her ever-astonishing self it would be hard to say. There is a gulf between men and animals; I have always thought it to be narrower than many suppose. She possesses the rarest endowments of the animal and the rarest endowments of the human being; but of that quality that separates us from the swiftest horse, the proudest lion, and the shrewdest serpent she has no inkling: she knows not what to do with what she has. Too wise to be gratified by vanity; too strong to be content with ruling; too large for wife. With one greatness she is in perfect harmony and on that score I did her a great injustice. I should have permitted her to bring her children here. She does not know it yet to the full; she is that figure which all countries have elevated to the highest honour and awe: she is the mother as goddess. Hence those wonderful traits that I was so long in explaining to myself – her lack of malice, and her lack of that fretful unease to which we are so wearisomely accustomed in beautiful women.