Of Gods and Men

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by Daisy Dunn


  There are two charges (one relating to gold, the other to poison) urged against the same person. It is said that gold was borrowed of Clodia, and a poison prepared to despatch her. Every thing else urged is not criminal, but scandalous, and more properly the subject of a scolding, than a public trial. To call adulterer, whoremaster, pimp, is to rail, not to accuse. For such charges there is not so much as a foundation where you can fix them; they are opprobrious terms, rashly poured out, without any grounds, by a passionate accuser.

  I have the source, I have the author, I have the precise principle and rise of all these calumnies in my eye. There was a necessity for gold; he borrowed it of Clodia; he borrowed it without any evidence, and he had it as long as he pleased. Here I can perceive a strong presumption of a certain prodigious intimacy. He had a mind to kill the same lady; he looked out for poison; he applied to all he could; he prepared it; he fixed on the place; he brought it. Here again I can discern the most inveterate hatred, with a most cruel quarrel broken out. In this whole affair, my lords, we have to do with Clodia, a woman not only noble, but notorious; of whom I shall say nothing, but so far as I am obliged for the vindication of my client.

  But, Cneius Domitius, your distinguished penetration informs you, that our business lies with her only: if she denies that she lent gold to Caelius, if she does not affirm that he prepared poison for her, we are guilty of slander, by our mentioning the mother of a family, in a manner that is inconsistent with the decency which the sanctity of matrons requires. But since, were that lady out of the question, there neither would be a crime of which my client could be convicted, nor any money to carry on the prosecution, what ought we, are his advocates, to do, but to repel those who attack us? This, indeed, I would do with great keenness, did there not subsist animosities betwixt me and that lady’s husband—I mean her brother—I still fall into that mistake. Now I will act coolly, nor advance a step farther than my duty, and the interest of my client, oblige me; for I have always thought it unbecoming me to harbour any resentment against a woman; especially a lady who has the character of extending her good nature to all the world, rather than of showing her spite to any particular male.

  But let me ask herself, whether she chooses that I should treat her in a serious, solemn, old-fashioned, or in a gentle, complaisant, gallant manner? If she chooses the sour manner and fashion, then must I raise some of the bearded gentlemen from the shades, and not such a smock-faced gentleman as she is fond of; one of those bristle-beards which we see in old images and statues; one who will bang my lady, and speak for me, if she should scold me into silence. Let some such in her own family start up; there is the blind old gentleman, the most proper that can be; for his not being capable to see her, will save him a great deal of grief. Supposing now he was to start up, such would be his behaviour, and such his language: “Woman! what hast thou to do with Caelius? What with a stripling? What with a stranger? Why was you so intimate with him as to lend him money? Or why such a foe as to dread his poison? Hast thou not seen thy father? Hast thou not heard that thy uncle, thy grandfather, thy great grandfather, and his father, were consuls? Art thou insensible that thou wast married to Quintus Metellus, a brave nobleman, and a worthy patriot? Who no sooner left the threshold of his own house, than he rose superior to almost all his countrymen in merit, in glory, and dignity. When thou thyself, of noble descent, wast by him married into an illustrious family, why was Caelius so much thy intimate? Was he thy cousin, thy relation, or the bosom-friend of thy husband? He was none of these. What could be the reason, but lust, hood-winked lust? If thou art unmoved at seeing the manly images of our family, ought not my descendant, ought not the example of that Quinta Clodia, to have invited thee into a competition for the female glory of domestic virtue? Ought not Clodia, too, that vestal virgin, who, embracing her triumphant father, prevented his being torn from his car by a spiteful tribune of the people? Why art thou more affected with the vices of a brother, than with the virtues of a father and a grandfather, which have developed from me upon the females, as well as the males, of my family? Did I divert my country from the thoughts of a peace with Pyrrhus, and shalt thou daily enter into intrigues of obscene amours? Did I bring in the water that supplies this city, that thou mightest use it to thy incestuous purposes? Did I lay a road, that it might serve as a parade for thee and thy train of gallants?”

  What am I doing, my lords! I have introduced so grave a character, that I am afraid the same Appius may suddenly turn to the other side, and, with his censorial severity, begin to school Caelius. But I shall speak of that presently, and in such a manner, my lords, that I hope to vindicate the morals of Marcus Caelius to the severest inquisitors. But you, madam, for now I speak to you not in a borrowed, but my own character, if you dream of proving your actions, your words, your forgeries, your machinations, your arguments, there is a necessity of your accounting for, and laying forth, all this excessive intimacy, this excessive friendship, this excessive familiarity. While our accusers talk so freely of intrigues, amours, adulteries, the Baiae, the banquets, collations, songs, concerts, and pleasure-boats, they at the same time own, that they have their instructions from you. But since you were so blindly, so wilfully, so unaccountably obstinate, as to be brought into the forum, and before this court, you must either disown and disprove all they have advanced, or confess there is no credit to be given either to your accusation, or to your evidence.

  But if you would have me accost you in a more polite manner, I will treat you thus; I will remove that grim, that almost savage old fellow; I will pitch upon one of these gentlemen present; your younger brother rather than any, who is quite a master in this kind of politeness; who has a mighty liking for you, and, from a strange natural fearfulness, and haunted, I suppose, by some phantoms in the dark, lay every night with you, like a little master, as he is, with his elder sister. Suppose then that he thus accosts you; “Why, my sister, in this flurry? Why in this distraction of mind? Why shriek out, and make so much ado about a trifle? You have gazed upon your handsome young neighbour; his delicate complexion, his graceful shape, his face and eyes have smitten you. You wish to see him often; sometimes a woman of quality appears in the same gardens; all your riches cannot fix in your arms the young gentleman, though not yet emancipated from an old griping father. He spurns, he rejects, he undervalues your presents. Go somewhere else. You have gardens near the Tiber; and have taken care to fit up an apartment near to where all our young gentlemen bathe; from thence you may read their proposals. Why do you teaze one who loathes you?”

  Let me now, Caelius, address you in your turn, and here will I personate the authority and gravity of a father. But in what character of a father am I to act? In that of the passionate unrelenting sire in Caecilius:

  ——Now all my soul is in a blaze,

  And my heart labours with its swelling passion.

  Or, shall I assume that other character?

  O wretch! O reprobate!

  But these fathers have souls of flint.

  What can I say, or what can I propose,

  When thy foul deeds defeat my best intentions?

  The reproaches of such a father would be almost intolerable.

  Why did’st thou court the neighbourhood of whores?

  From the gross baits why didst thou not retire?

  Why clasp a lewd adulteress to thy bosom?

  Here squander, dissipate; you may for me.

  If griping want shall seize thee, thou must mourn.

  I have a competency that will serve

  To prop the stooping remnant of my years.

  To this disspirited, decrepit old man, Caelius might answer, that he had been enticed from the right path by no lust of the eye. But how can you prove that?—No extravagance of expense; no diminution of fortune; no running into debt. But the thing was talked of.—But who can help being talked of in a city so full of scandal? Is it surprising that a neighbour of this lady should be scandalized, when her own brother could not escape the sla
nders of the malicious? But to a gentle, indulgent parent, who should talk at this rate: has he broke open doors? They shall be repaired. Has he torn a garment? It shall be mended. The boy has a ready apology; for in such circumstances, how easy is it for one to be vindicated? I speak nothing of this lady; but if there is one of a character different from hers, who has been a common prostitute; who has always lived in avowed lewdness with some one or other; who orders her gardens, houses, and bagnios, to be thrown open to a promiscuous traffic in every impurity; who even maintains young men, whose purse makes amends for the sparing allowances of close-fisted fathers; if she is wanton in widowhood, insolent in airs, profuse in wealth, and if her lusts should lead her into a keeping-expense, can I think a man an adulterer who shall make some free addresses to such a lady?

  I may be told, “Is it thus you train up young gentlemen? Did his father recommend him, when a boy, and deliver him to you, that you might initiate his youth in lewdness and pleasures? Wilt thou be an advocate for such a course of life and studies?” My lords, if there is a man endued with such fortitude of soul, with such dispositions to virtue and chastity, as to reject all pleasures, as to finish his career of life with the toils of the body, and the pursuits of the mind; a man who has no taste for repose, none for relaxation, none for the pleasures of his equals, none for diversions, none for banquets; who is persuaded that in life there ought to be no end proposed, that does not unite the great with the graceful; I shall freely own, that he is furnished, that he is embellished with certain supernatural qualifications: such, I take it, were the Camilli, the Fabricii, the Curii, and all those heroes, who, from a narrow foundation, reared this empire to such glory and greatness.

  But virtues such as theirs, are not now to be found in the lives, nay, scarce in the writings, of mankind. Even the very scrolls which contain this severity of former ages, are antiquated, not only with us, who have professed such an institution, and such a method of living, more by our actions than our words, but even with the Greeks, those very learned philosophers, who, when they could no longer practise what was honest and great in life, were still at liberty to recommend it in their speeches and writings. Another system of morality has prevailed since new customs were introduced into Greece.

  For this reason some of their sages maintained, that pleasure is the ultimate end of the actions of the wise; nor have even men of learning been averse to that shameful tenet. Others have thought, that dignity ought to be united with pleasure, that they might have an opportunity to talk things, which, in their own natures, had a direct repugnancy to one another, into union. They who maintained, that the only way to glory was through toil, are now left almost solitary within their schools; for many are the blandishments that nature herself has implanted within us, and which the lethargy of virtue indulges; many slippery paths does she point out to youth, in which they can scarce either stand or tread, without a misfortune or a fall; and great is the pleasing variety she affords, with which mankind, not only in their bloom, but even in their maturity, are apt to be enchanted. Therefore, if, by chance, you find a man whose eye despises the beauty of order, who indulges no sensation of smell, touch, or taste, and whose ears shut out all harmony, I, and a few others, perhaps, may think that the gods have blessed such a person; but many more will think that they have cursed him.

  Let us, therefore, abandon this path, which is now desert, uncouth, and choked with weeds and briars: let some allowances be made to youth; let it enjoy more liberty; let not pleasure be debarred in every instance; let not reason, uninfluenced and unbiassed by passion, always take place. To passion and pleasure, let reason sometimes give way, provided, when that is the case, they are regulated by decency and moderation. Let the young man be tender of his own chastity; let him not injure that of another; let him not dissipate his fortune; let him not be eaten up by mortgages; let him not invade another man’s house, nor his reputation: let him not aim slander at the chaste, defilement at the uncorrupted, nor infamy at the worthy; let him terrify none by violence, nor over-reach them by treachery; let him be free from premeditated guilt. Lastly, when he shall obey the calls of pleasure, when he shall allot some part of his time to the diversions of his age, and these trifling pursuits of youth, let him sometimes recall his thoughts to the concerns of his family, the concerns of the forum, the concerns of his country, that he may seem to have discarded through satiety, and despised from experience, those objects which he had not before viewed with the cool eye of reason.

  And, indeed, my lords, there have been many great men, and illustrious citizens, in our days, in the days of our fathers and forefathers, in whom, when the ebullitions of youthful desire have subsided, the most excellent virtues have in more advanced life sprung up. I need not descend to particulars; you yourselves may recollect them; for I am unwilling, while I speak of any brave and honourable man, to join the mention of his smallest failing to the praise of his greatest perfection. Did I think myself at liberty to do this, I might produce instances of many great and accomplished persons, and yet touch on the youthful licentiousness of some, on the extravagant luxury, the enormous debt, and expensive pleasures, of others: vices, which afterwards being effaced by many virtues, might be excused by the craving appetite of youth.

  CICERO: FOR HIS DAUGHTER

  Letters to Atticus

  Cicero

  Translated by Evelyn S. Shuckburgh, 1900

  Cicero was enormously fond of his daughter, Tullia, who apparently took after him. Her premature death in 45 BC, just a month after giving birth to her second son, left him utterly bereft. He wrote to many friends of his grief. His letters to Atticus, of which a number are extracted here, reveal his difficulty in securing a suburban plot upon which to establish a memorial to Tullia as he came to terms with his bereavement.

  You wish me some relaxation of my mourning: you are kind, as usual, but you can bear me witness that I have not been wanting to myself. For not a word has been written by anyone on the subject of abating grief which I did not read at your house. But my sorrow is too much for any consolation. Nay, I have done what certainly no one ever did before me—tried to console myself by writing a book, which I will send to you as soon as my amanuenses have made copies of it. I assure you that there is no more efficacious consolation. I write all day long, not that I do any good, but for a while I experience a kind of check, or, if not quite that—for the violence of my grief is overpowering—yet I get some relaxation, and I try with all my might to recover composure, not of heart, yet, if possible, of countenance. When doing that I sometimes feel myself to be doing wrong, sometimes that I shall be doing wrong if I don’t. Solitude does me some good, but it would have done me more good, if you after all had been here: and that is my only reason for quitting this place, for it does very well in such miserable circumstances. And even this suggests another cause of sorrow. For you will not be able to be to me now what you once were: everything you used to like about me is gone.

  *

  In this lonely place I have no one with whom to converse, and plunging into a dense and wild wood early in the day I don’t leave it till evening. Next to you, I have no greater friend than solitude. In it my one and only conversation is with books. Even that is interrupted by tears, which I fight against as long as I can.

  *

  To fly from recollections, which make my soul smart as though it were stung, I take refuge in recalling my plans to your memory. Pray pardon me, whatever you think of this one. The fact is that I find that some of the authors, whom I am now continually reading, suggest as a proper thing to do just what I have often discussed with you, and for which I desire your approval. I mean about the shrine—pray think of it as earnestly as your affection for me should suggest.1 About the design I do not feel any doubt, for I like that of Cluatius, nor about the building of it at all—for to that I have made up my mind: but about the site I do sometimes hesitate. Pray therefore think over it. To the fullest capacity of such an enlightened age, I am quite resolved to cons
ecrate her memory by every kind of memorial borrowed from the genius of every kind of artist, Greek or Latin. This may perhaps serve to irritate my wound: but I look upon myself as now bound by a kind of vow and promise. And the infinite time during which I shall be non-existent has more influence on me than this brief life, which yet to me seems only too long. For though I have tried every expedient, I find nothing to give me peace of mind. For even when I was composing that essay, of which I wrote to you before, I was in a way nursing my sorrow. Now I reject every consolation, and find nothing more endurable than solitude, which Philippus did not, as I feared, disturb. For after calling on me yesterday, he started at once for Rome.

  *

  [Astura] This is certainly a lovely spot, right in the sea, and within sight of Antium and Cerceii: but in view of the whole succession of owners—who in the endless generations to come may be beyond counting, supposing the present empire to remain—I must think of some means to secure it being made permanent by consecration.2 For my part, I don’t want large revenues at all, and can put up with a little. I think sometimes of purchasing some pleasure-grounds across the Tiber, and principally for the reason that I don’t think that there is any other position so much frequented. But what particular pleasure-grounds I shall purchase we will consider when we are together; but it must be on condition that the temple is finished this summer.

 

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