Marcus Tullius Cicero→Publius Nigidius Figulus|c. 45 BC|Cicero|From Rome|To Rome|Human translated
As I have long been searching for what I should best write to you, not only no definite subject, but not even a customary type of letter came to mind. For time had snatched away one kind and custom of those letters which we used to write in prosperous days, and fortune had brought it about that I could neither write nor even think of anything of that sort. There remained a certain sad and wretched type of letter suited to these times; but that too failed me, for it should have contained either some promise of help or some consolation for your grief. I had nothing to promise, for I myself, cast down by the same fortune, was sustaining my own misfortunes by the resources of others, and more often it came to mind to complain that I lived thus than to rejoice that I lived at all. For although no notable injury struck me personally, nor did anything come to mind at such a time for me to wish for that Caesar had not spontaneously offered me, nevertheless I am no less consumed by such anxieties that I consider it a fault that I remain alive at all. For I lack both many of my closest friends, whom either death has snatched from us or flight has separated, and all those friends whose goodwill toward us was won through the republic once defended by me with you as my partner, and I find myself amid their shipwrecks and the plundering of their goods. Nor do I only hear -- which itself would be wretched enough -- but I also see, than which nothing is more bitter, the fortunes of those men being scattered with whose help we once extinguished that conflagration. And in the city where I recently flourished in influence, authority, and glory, I now lack all of those things, retaining only Caesar's supreme kindness toward us, but that can do no more against the force and the transformation of all things and times. And so, bereft of all those things to which nature, inclination, and habit had accustomed me, I am displeasing, as it seems, to others and to myself. For a man born always to do something worthy of a man, I now have no means not only of acting but even of thinking, and I who formerly could help even obscure or even guilty men, now cannot even make a generous promise to Publius Nigidius, the most learned and most upright of all men, once of the greatest influence and certainly my dearest friend. So this type of letter has been taken from me. What remains is to console you and to offer arguments by which I might try to draw you away from your troubles. But that faculty of consoling yourself or another is supreme in you, if it ever was in anyone. And so I shall not touch upon that part which proceeds from some refined philosophical reasoning and learning; I leave it entirely to you. What is worthy of a brave and wise man, what your gravity demands, what your loftiness of spirit, what your past life, what your studies, what those arts in which you have excelled from boyhood -- you will see to these yourself. I, because I am at Rome and because I attend and pay attention, can affirm to you what I can understand and perceive: that you will not remain much longer in those troubles in which you now are, though in those in which we too find ourselves, you will perhaps remain forever. I seem to myself to perceive, first, that the mind of the man who has the most power is inclined toward your safety -- I do not write this thoughtlessly; the less intimate I am, the more curious I am to investigate. The more easily he can respond more harshly to those with whom he is more angry, the more slowly he has been in freeing you from trouble. But his intimates, and indeed those who are most dear to him, speak and feel wonderfully about you. To this is added the goodwill of the common people, or rather the consensus of all. Even the republic, which at present can do very little but must inevitably regain some power, will, with whatever strength it has, obtain your restoration from those very men who now hold it -- believe me, before long. I return therefore to offering you something that I at first omitted: for I shall cultivate his closest friends, who are quite fond of me and are much in my company, and I shall work my way into his own acquaintance, which my own diffidence has so far closed to me, and I shall certainly pursue every avenue by which I think we can reach what we want. In this whole business I shall do more than I dare write. As for the rest, which I am certain are readily offered to you by many, they are most fully at your disposal from me: there is nothing in my private property that I would rather be mine than yours. On this matter and this whole subject I write rather sparingly, because I prefer that you hope, as I myself am confident, that you will have use of your own. This is my final point: that I beg and implore you to be of the greatest courage, and to remember not only what you have received from other great men, but also what you yourself have produced by your own talent and study. If you gather these together, you will both hope for the best of everything and bear wisely whatever happens, of whatever kind it may be. But these things you know better, indeed best of all men. I shall most zealously and most diligently attend to everything that I understand pertains to you, and I shall preserve the memory of your services to me in my darkest hour.
CDLXXXI (Fam. IV, 13) TO P. NIGIDIUS FIGULUS (IN EXILE) ROME (? SEPTEMBER) Though I have for some time past been on the look-out as to what I had best write to you, not only does no definite subject occur to me, but even the usual style of letter seems impossible. For of one department and habitual element in those letters, which we used to write in the days of our prosperity, the state of the times has violently deprived us, and fortune has ordained that I should be unable to write or so much as to think of anything of the sort. There only remained a certain gloomy and wretched style of letter, and one suited to the state of the times: that, too, fails me. In it there is bound to be either a promise of some assistance, or some consolation for your sorrow. I had no such promise to give: for, cast down by a similar blow of fortune, I am myself supporting my disasters by the aid of others, and it more frequently occurs to my mind to complain that I am living as I do, than to rejoice that I am alive. For although no signal injury has been inflicted upon me personally apart from others, and although it has never occurred to my mind to wish for anything in such circumstances which Caesar has not spontaneously offered me, yet nevertheless I am being so worn out with anxieties, that I regard myself as doing wrong in the mere fact of remaining alive. For I have lost not only many very intimate associates whom either death has snatched from me, or exile torn away, but also all the friends whose affection my former successful defence of the Republic, accomplished with your aid, had gained for me. I am in the very midst of their shipwrecked fortunes and the confiscation of their property; and I not only hear — which in itself would have been bad enough — but I have before my very eyes the sharpest of all pangs, the actual sight of the ruin of those men by whose aid in old times I quenched that conflagration. And in the city in which I once enjoyed such popularity, influence, and glory, I am now entirely deprived of all these. I retain, indeed, Caesar 's supreme kind-ness: but that cannot make up for violence and a complete upset of the established order of things. Therefore, being shorn of all to which nature and taste and habit had accustomed me, I present no pleasant object either to others, as it seems to me, or to myself. For, being inclined by nature to be always actively employed in some task worthy of a man, I have now no scope, not merely for action, but even for thought. And I, who in old times was able to help men, who were either obscure or even guilty, am now unable to make even a kind promise to Publius Nigidius — the most eminent man of the day for learning and purity of character, who formerly enjoyed the highest popularity, and at any rate was a most affectionate friend to me. Therefore from that kind of letter I am forcibly debarred. The only thing left is to console you and to put before you some considerations by which I may endeavour to distract your thoughts from your afflictions. But, if anyone ever had, you have the gift in the highest degree of consoling either yourself or another. Therefore upon that part of the subject which proceeds from profound reason and philosophy I will not touch: I will leave it entirely to you. What is becoming to a brave and wise man, what solidity of character, what a lofty mind, what a past such as yours, what studies and accomplishments, in which you have been eminent from boyhood, demand of you — that you will see for yourself. I only undertake to assure you of what I am able to gather and perceive, from being at Rome and watching affairs anxiously and with attention: it is that you will not be long in the distressing circumstances in which you are at present; but that in those, nevertheless, which I share with you, you will perhaps be permanently. I think I perceive, to begin with, that the mind of him who is now all-powerful is inclined to grant your restoration. I am not writing at random. The less familiar I am with him, the more minute am I in my inquiries. It is in order that he may feel less difficulty in returning a sterner answer to those with whom he is still more angry, that he is as yet slower than he otherwise would have been in releasing you from your distressing position. His close friends, indeed, and those who are most liked by him, both speak and think of you with surprising kindness. Then there is in your favour the wish of the common people, or I should rather say a consensus of all classes. Even that which for the present, indeed, is most powerless of all, but which hereafter must necessarily be powerful, I mean the Republic itself, will with all the strength it may possess enforce your claim before long, believe me, upon those very men by whom it is now held in bondage. I come round, then, to the point of even making you a promise, which in the first instance I refrained from doing. For I will both open my arms to his most familiar friends, who are very fond of me and are much in my society, and will worm my way into his intimacy, which up to this time my scruples have closed to me, and I will at least follow up all the paths by which I shall think it possible to arrive at the object of our wishes. In all this department I will do more than I venture to write. And other things, which I know for certain to be at your service at the hands of many, are in the highest state of preparation on my side. There is no one article of property belonging to me which I would choose to have my own rather than yours. On this point, and indeed on the whole subject, I write the less liberally, because I prefer your hoping, what I feel sure will be the case, that you will be in the enjoyment of your own again. It remains for me to beg and beseech you to keep up your spirits to the highest pitch, and not to remember those maxims only which you have learnt from other great men, but those also which you have yourself produced by your genius and industry. If you review these, you will at once hope for the best, and endure philosophically what happens, of whatsoever kind it may be. But you know this better than I, or rather than anyone. For my part, whatever I understand to be to your interests I will attend to with the greatest zeal and activity, and will preserve the memory of what you did for me at the saddest period of my life.
XIII. Scr. Romae a.u.c. 708. M. CICERO S. D. P. FIGULO.
Quaerenti mihi iamdiu, quid ad te potissimum scriberem, non modo certa res nulla, sed ne genus quidem litterarum usitatem veniebat in mentem; unam enim partem et consuetudinem earum epistularum, quibus secundis rebus uti solebamus, tempus eripuerat perfeceratque fortuna, ne quid tale scribere possem aut omnino cogitare: relinquebatur triste quoddam et miserum et his temporibus consentaneum genus litterarum; id quoque deficiebat me, in quo debebat esse aut promissio auxilii alicuis aut consolatio doloris tui. Quod pollicerer, non erat; ipse enim pari fortuna abiectus aliorum opibus casus meos sustentabam saepiusque mihi veniebat in mentem queri, quod ita viverem, quam gaudere, quod viverem; quamquam enim nulla me ipsum privatim pepulit insignis iniuria nec mihi quidquam tali tempore in mentem venit optare, quod non ultro mihi Caesar detulerit, tamen nihilo minus eis conficior curis, ut ipsum, quod maneam in vita, peccare me existimem; careo enim cum familiarissimis multis, quos aut mors eripuit nobis aut distraxit fuga, tum omnibus amicis, quorum benevolentiam nobis conciliarat per me quondam te socio defensa res publica, versorque in eorum naufragiis et bonorum direptionibus, nec audio solum, quod ipsum esset miserum, sed etiam video, quo nihil est acerbius, eorum fortunas dissipari, quibus nos olim adiutoribus illud incendium exstinximus, et, in qua urbe modo gratia, auctoritate, gloria floruimus, in ea nunc iis quidem omnibus caremus, obtinemus ipsius Caesaris summam erga nos humanitatem, sed ea plus non potest quam vis et mutatio omnium rerum atque temporum. Itaque orbus iis rebus omnibus, quibus et natura me et voluntas et consuetudo assuefecerat, cum ceteris, ut quidem videor, tum mihi ipse displiceo; natus enim ad agendum semper aliquid dignum viro nunc non modo agendi rationem nullam habeo, sed ne cogitandi quidem, et, qui antea aut obscuris hominibus aut etiam sontibus opitulari poteram, nunc P. Nigidio, uni omnium doctissimo et sanctissimo et maxima quondam gratia et mihi certe amicissimo, ne benigne quidem polliceri possum. Ergo hoc ereptum est litterarum genus: reliquum est, ut consoler et afferam rationes, quibus te a molestiis coner abducere. At ea quidem facultas vel tui vel alterius consolandi in te summa est, si umquam in ullo fuit; itaque eam partem, quae ab exquisita quadam ratione et doctrina proficiscitur, non attingam, tibi totam relinquam: quid sit forti et sapienti homine dignum, quid gravitas, quid altitudo animi, quid acta tua vita, quid studia, quid artes, quibus a pueritia floruisti, a te flagitent, tu videbis; ego, quod intelligere et sentire, quia sum Romae et quia curo attendoque, possum, id tibi affirmo, te in istis molestiis, in quibus es hoc tempore, non diutius futurum, in iis autem, in quibus etiam nos sumus, fortasse semper fore. Videor mihi perspicere primum ipsius animum, qui plurimum potest, propensum ad salutem tuam—non scribo hoc temere: quo minus familiaris sum, hoc sum ad investigandum curiosior—: quo facilius, quibus est iratior, respondere tristius possit, hoc est adhuc tardior ad te molestia liberandum; familiares vero eius, et ii quidem, qui illi iucundissimi sunt, mirabiliter de te et loquuntur et sentiunt; accedit eodem vulgi voluntas vel potius consensus omnium; etiam illa, quae minimum nunc quidem potest, sed possit necesse est, res publica, quascumque vires habebit, ab iis ipsis, a quibus tenetur, de te propediem, mihi crede, impetrabit. Redeo igitur ad id, ut iam tibi etiam pollicear aliquid, quod primo omiseram: nam et complectar eius familiarissimos, qui me admodum diligunt multumque mecum sunt, et in ipsius me consuetudinem, quam adhuc meus pudor mihi clausit, insinuabo et certe omnes vias persequar, quibus putabo ad id, quod volumus, pervenire posse; in hoc toto genere plura faciam, quam scribere audeo. Ceteraque, quae tibi a multis prompta esse certo scio, a me sunt paratissima: nihil in re familiari mea est, quod ego meum malim esse quam tuum; hac de re et de hoc genere toto hoc scribo parcius, quod te id, quod ipse confido, sperare malo, te esse usurum tuis. Extremum illud est, ut te orem et obsecrem, animo ut maximo sis nec ea solum memineris, quae ab aliis magnis viris accepisti, sed illa etiam, quae ipse ingenio studioque peperisti; quae si colliges, et sperabis omnia optime et, quae accident, qualiacumque erunt, sapienter feres. Sed haec tu melius vel optime omnium: ego, quae pertinere ad te intelligam, studiosissime omnia diligentissimeque curabo tuorumque tristissimo meo tempore meritorum erga me memoriam conservabo.
◆
As I have long been searching for what I should best write to you, not only no definite subject, but not even a customary type of letter came to mind. For time had snatched away one kind and custom of those letters which we used to write in prosperous days, and fortune had brought it about that I could neither write nor even think of anything of that sort. There remained a certain sad and wretched type of letter suited to these times; but that too failed me, for it should have contained either some promise of help or some consolation for your grief. I had nothing to promise, for I myself, cast down by the same fortune, was sustaining my own misfortunes by the resources of others, and more often it came to mind to complain that I lived thus than to rejoice that I lived at all. For although no notable injury struck me personally, nor did anything come to mind at such a time for me to wish for that Caesar had not spontaneously offered me, nevertheless I am no less consumed by such anxieties that I consider it a fault that I remain alive at all. For I lack both many of my closest friends, whom either death has snatched from us or flight has separated, and all those friends whose goodwill toward us was won through the republic once defended by me with you as my partner, and I find myself amid their shipwrecks and the plundering of their goods. Nor do I only hear -- which itself would be wretched enough -- but I also see, than which nothing is more bitter, the fortunes of those men being scattered with whose help we once extinguished that conflagration. And in the city where I recently flourished in influence, authority, and glory, I now lack all of those things, retaining only Caesar's supreme kindness toward us, but that can do no more against the force and the transformation of all things and times. And so, bereft of all those things to which nature, inclination, and habit had accustomed me, I am displeasing, as it seems, to others and to myself. For a man born always to do something worthy of a man, I now have no means not only of acting but even of thinking, and I who formerly could help even obscure or even guilty men, now cannot even make a generous promise to Publius Nigidius, the most learned and most upright of all men, once of the greatest influence and certainly my dearest friend. So this type of letter has been taken from me. What remains is to console you and to offer arguments by which I might try to draw you away from your troubles. But that faculty of consoling yourself or another is supreme in you, if it ever was in anyone. And so I shall not touch upon that part which proceeds from some refined philosophical reasoning and learning; I leave it entirely to you. What is worthy of a brave and wise man, what your gravity demands, what your loftiness of spirit, what your past life, what your studies, what those arts in which you have excelled from boyhood -- you will see to these yourself. I, because I am at Rome and because I attend and pay attention, can affirm to you what I can understand and perceive: that you will not remain much longer in those troubles in which you now are, though in those in which we too find ourselves, you will perhaps remain forever. I seem to myself to perceive, first, that the mind of the man who has the most power is inclined toward your safety -- I do not write this thoughtlessly; the less intimate I am, the more curious I am to investigate. The more easily he can respond more harshly to those with whom he is more angry, the more slowly he has been in freeing you from trouble. But his intimates, and indeed those who are most dear to him, speak and feel wonderfully about you. To this is added the goodwill of the common people, or rather the consensus of all. Even the republic, which at present can do very little but must inevitably regain some power, will, with whatever strength it has, obtain your restoration from those very men who now hold it -- believe me, before long. I return therefore to offering you something that I at first omitted: for I shall cultivate his closest friends, who are quite fond of me and are much in my company, and I shall work my way into his own acquaintance, which my own diffidence has so far closed to me, and I shall certainly pursue every avenue by which I think we can reach what we want. In this whole business I shall do more than I dare write. As for the rest, which I am certain are readily offered to you by many, they are most fully at your disposal from me: there is nothing in my private property that I would rather be mine than yours. On this matter and this whole subject I write rather sparingly, because I prefer that you hope, as I myself am confident, that you will have use of your own. This is my final point: that I beg and implore you to be of the greatest courage, and to remember not only what you have received from other great men, but also what you yourself have produced by your own talent and study. If you gather these together, you will both hope for the best of everything and bear wisely whatever happens, of whatever kind it may be. But these things you know better, indeed best of all men. I shall most zealously and most diligently attend to everything that I understand pertains to you, and I shall preserve the memory of your services to me in my darkest hour.
Human translation - ToposText / Shuckburgh
Latin / Greek Original
XIII. Scr. Romae a.u.c. 708. M. CICERO S. D. P. FIGULO.
Quaerenti mihi iamdiu, quid ad te potissimum scriberem, non modo certa res nulla, sed ne genus quidem litterarum usitatem veniebat in mentem; unam enim partem et consuetudinem earum epistularum, quibus secundis rebus uti solebamus, tempus eripuerat perfeceratque fortuna, ne quid tale scribere possem aut omnino cogitare: relinquebatur triste quoddam et miserum et his temporibus consentaneum genus litterarum; id quoque deficiebat me, in quo debebat esse aut promissio auxilii alicuis aut consolatio doloris tui. Quod pollicerer, non erat; ipse enim pari fortuna abiectus aliorum opibus casus meos sustentabam saepiusque mihi veniebat in mentem queri, quod ita viverem, quam gaudere, quod viverem; quamquam enim nulla me ipsum privatim pepulit insignis iniuria nec mihi quidquam tali tempore in mentem venit optare, quod non ultro mihi Caesar detulerit, tamen nihilo minus eis conficior curis, ut ipsum, quod maneam in vita, peccare me existimem; careo enim cum familiarissimis multis, quos aut mors eripuit nobis aut distraxit fuga, tum omnibus amicis, quorum benevolentiam nobis conciliarat per me quondam te socio defensa res publica, versorque in eorum naufragiis et bonorum direptionibus, nec audio solum, quod ipsum esset miserum, sed etiam video, quo nihil est acerbius, eorum fortunas dissipari, quibus nos olim adiutoribus illud incendium exstinximus, et, in qua urbe modo gratia, auctoritate, gloria floruimus, in ea nunc iis quidem omnibus caremus, obtinemus ipsius Caesaris summam erga nos humanitatem, sed ea plus non potest quam vis et mutatio omnium rerum atque temporum. Itaque orbus iis rebus omnibus, quibus et natura me et voluntas et consuetudo assuefecerat, cum ceteris, ut quidem videor, tum mihi ipse displiceo; natus enim ad agendum semper aliquid dignum viro nunc non modo agendi rationem nullam habeo, sed ne cogitandi quidem, et, qui antea aut obscuris hominibus aut etiam sontibus opitulari poteram, nunc P. Nigidio, uni omnium doctissimo et sanctissimo et maxima quondam gratia et mihi certe amicissimo, ne benigne quidem polliceri possum. Ergo hoc ereptum est litterarum genus: reliquum est, ut consoler et afferam rationes, quibus te a molestiis coner abducere. At ea quidem facultas vel tui vel alterius consolandi in te summa est, si umquam in ullo fuit; itaque eam partem, quae ab exquisita quadam ratione et doctrina proficiscitur, non attingam, tibi totam relinquam: quid sit forti et sapienti homine dignum, quid gravitas, quid altitudo animi, quid acta tua vita, quid studia, quid artes, quibus a pueritia floruisti, a te flagitent, tu videbis; ego, quod intelligere et sentire, quia sum Romae et quia curo attendoque, possum, id tibi affirmo, te in istis molestiis, in quibus es hoc tempore, non diutius futurum, in iis autem, in quibus etiam nos sumus, fortasse semper fore. Videor mihi perspicere primum ipsius animum, qui plurimum potest, propensum ad salutem tuam—non scribo hoc temere: quo minus familiaris sum, hoc sum ad investigandum curiosior—: quo facilius, quibus est iratior, respondere tristius possit, hoc est adhuc tardior ad te molestia liberandum; familiares vero eius, et ii quidem, qui illi iucundissimi sunt, mirabiliter de te et loquuntur et sentiunt; accedit eodem vulgi voluntas vel potius consensus omnium; etiam illa, quae minimum nunc quidem potest, sed possit necesse est, res publica, quascumque vires habebit, ab iis ipsis, a quibus tenetur, de te propediem, mihi crede, impetrabit. Redeo igitur ad id, ut iam tibi etiam pollicear aliquid, quod primo omiseram: nam et complectar eius familiarissimos, qui me admodum diligunt multumque mecum sunt, et in ipsius me consuetudinem, quam adhuc meus pudor mihi clausit, insinuabo et certe omnes vias persequar, quibus putabo ad id, quod volumus, pervenire posse; in hoc toto genere plura faciam, quam scribere audeo. Ceteraque, quae tibi a multis prompta esse certo scio, a me sunt paratissima: nihil in re familiari mea est, quod ego meum malim esse quam tuum; hac de re et de hoc genere toto hoc scribo parcius, quod te id, quod ipse confido, sperare malo, te esse usurum tuis. Extremum illud est, ut te orem et obsecrem, animo ut maximo sis nec ea solum memineris, quae ab aliis magnis viris accepisti, sed illa etiam, quae ipse ingenio studioque peperisti; quae si colliges, et sperabis omnia optime et, quae accident, qualiacumque erunt, sapienter feres. Sed haec tu melius vel optime omnium: ego, quae pertinere ad te intelligam, studiosissime omnia diligentissimeque curabo tuorumque tristissimo meo tempore meritorum erga me memoriam conservabo.