Caesar

motives of a man as complicated as Cicero. On the one hand his relations with Caesar were friendly. They dined together, and Cicero rejoiced in the evident delight which Caesar took in his conversation, which, if you discounted the strain of persistent egotism (itself indeed at times almost endearing) was witty, agreeably malicious and superbly wide-ranging. It would indeed have been a dull man who resisted the charm of his historical and philosophical speculations. Of course there were many such dull men, who agreed with Mark Antony that the old man was a prosy bore; but Caesar was not one of them, and neither was I.

Moreover Caesar carried hi s admiration further. When Quin tus Ligarius was prosecuted for bearing arms against Caesar (this prosecution being a notable exception to Caesar's rule of general clemency), he invited Cicero to defend him. 'Invited' is too weak an expression; he implored him to do so in terms that could not fail to flatter a man with half Cicero's allotment of vanity. Nevertheless Cicero hesitated, being, as I supposed, fearful of how Caesar would view his intervention. Caesar, however, remarked: 'Why may we not give ourselves a pleasure we have not enjoyed for such a long time: of hearing Cicero plead a cause? Especially since I have already determined what I think of Ligarius, who is clearly a bad man as well as my enemy.' When these sentiments were relayed to Cicero, he felt it was safe to accept the brief. He spoke with all his old eloquence. Young men who had not previously had the opportunity to hear him in action were amazed. Some were even moved to tears, such was the pathos he evoked. The charm of his delivery, the fertility of his argument, the copiousness of his illustrative examples, combined to render him irresistible. Men reared in camps, who had spent ten years in grim warfare, felt perhaps for the first time the power of oratory. No doubt in the great days of the Republic, they said, such experiences were common; but they came as a revelation in the new world of the dictatorship.

All eyes turned to Caesar as he sat in judgment. It was seen that he grew pale. He could not sit still. It was evident that his mind was torn with conflicting passions. At last, when Cicero summoned up the terrible memory of the battle at Pharsalus, describing it in terms worthy of Homer, representing Caesar as Achilles and Pompey as Hector (a dangerous comparison, in my opinion, since we Romans are the heirs of Troy) Caesar was seen to tremble — I wondered if he was on the brink of one of those epileptic fits of which he was so ashamed — he let the documents in the case slip to the floor, raised his right hand, and cried:

'Enough. Caesar conquered Pompey, but Cicero has conquered Caesar by his eloquence. I order that the prosecution be abandoned.'

Then he signalled to me to help him from the court. His whole frame trembled as he leaned on my arm.

Perhaps it was on account of this triumph that Cicero felt bold enough to publish his Cato. That was itself an extraordinary performance. Of course he had reason to feel gratitude to the dead man, because it was Cato who, many years before, when a tribune, had proposed that Cicero be accorded the honorific title of 'Father of his Country'. At the same time, while Cicero's respect for Cato's obstinate adherence to the old, unreformed Republic was certainly genuine, he was far too intelligent and civilised to have ta ken any pleasure in Cato's boor ishness, xenophobia, and contempt for intellectuals. The eulogy was therefore an act of will; it was also — it could not fail to be — the most coherent and persuasive criticism of Caesar's dictatorship. The language was of course coded; Cicero was far too cautious and timid to offer overt criticism of Caesar. But he was a master of all the rhetorical skills, and no one could read his Cato without feeling the force of his implicit thesis: that government by a single person was contrary to both the traditions and interests of Rome. The Republic, he insinuated, had served Rome well, and secured our liberties. Republican institutions had been sufficiently flexible to endure for centuries and to enable Rome to withstand a succession and variety of crises. Was it right to cast our inheritance aside either to gratify the ambition of a single person, however noble and virtuous, or to resolve a temporary difficulty?

'The science of constructing a commonwealth,' I had heard Cicero declare, 'or renovating it, or reforming it, is like any experimental science, not to be taught a priori. Nor is it a short experience — the experience, let us say, of a single generation — that can instruct us in that practical science, because the consequences of moral causes are rarely immediate; and that which now appears desirable, even speciously necessary, may be prejudicial in its remoter operations.'

Holding court at his dinner-table, reclining on his couch, with his eagle head quivering, his scraggy neck extended (as if inviting the sword), he spoke with a lucidity inspired by his passionate commitment to what he saw as truth. (That was how it impressed me at the time; in retrospect I wondered if this was not yet another extraordinary piece of advocacy. How do you gauge the sincerity of a master of language?)

'Man's nature is intricate, and the objects of society are of the greatest conceivable complexity. It follows therefore that no simple disposition of power within a State can be suitable either to man's nature or to the quality of his affairs. The government of a single person is simplicity indeed, better suited to barbarian tribes than to Roman citizens. When I hear men like Antony boast of the simplicity of contrivance aimed at, and achieved, in any reformed Constitution, then I stand amazed by such a display of ignorance of the complexities of political science. Simple governments are fundamentally defective. When ancient opinions and rules of life inherited from our illustrious forefathers are taken away, the loss cannot be estimated.

'Men talk,' he said, 'of the necessity of the moment. That is easy talk, superficially cogent. A man like Antony' — and when he said Antony, did he use the name, I wondered even then, as a code for Caesar? — 'men like Antony, incapable of reflection, devoid of the impulse of veneration, an impulse which should defend us against rash speculation, talk of the need for innovation. Well, it is true, I admit, that a state without the means of reform is without the means of its own preservation. But, my friends, but — and it is a great and powerful but — we should remember this: a spirit of innovation is generally the result of a selfish temper and confined views. Men will not look forward intelligently to posterity, who never look backward, with admiration and affection, to their ancestors. I have talked to you before of the dangers of what I term individualism. Why? Because, my friends, I am afraid — we should all be afraid — to put men to live and trade each on his own private stock of reason; for that stock can only be petty and narrow in its foundation. We would do better to avail ourselves of the general bank and capital of wisdom and experience which we have inherited from the generations that made Rome what it is.

'I am told,' he continued, 'that the times are out of joint. It may be so. Indeed it is only too evident that in certain respects they are so. But seek the reason, my friends. Do not be satisfied with easy answers. Is it not apparent that men like Antony' — and, as his lip curled and his voice trembled, I could have no doubt that, if he had dared, he would have substituted the name of Caesar — 'such men have no respect for the wisdom of others, no respect for tradition, no respect for our inheritance? But they pay it off by a very full confidence in their own wisdom. I would be more comfortable if I could find myself in agreement with them; more comfortable and more foolish

…

'So the times are out of joint? Very well. Be it so. Our age is unhappy, riven by civil war, disputes, selfish ambition. But even that is not the sum of our misfortunes. It is the true misfortune of our time, of this decadent age, that everything we have inherited has become the topic of debate, that the Constitution of Rome, constructed with care, intelligence and patriotic fervour across the centuries, has become a subject for altercation rather than enjoyment. If we continue to follow this course, we shall have no fundamental law, no strict convention, no respected custom, to restrain absolute power. Instead of finding ourselves obliged, and comfortably and properly obliged, to conform to a fixed constitution, we shall find ourselves subject to a few men of power — dynasts, to use the Greek term — who will make for themselves a new Constitution that will conform only to their own designs and selfish ambitions.'

He dared not speak so openly in his Cato as he did to guests at his dinner-table, but such were the arguments — what the Greeks call 'the sub-text' — which underlay the biography. Cato had become less a man than a symbol. Well, that was fair enough. He was a better and more effective symbol than he had been a man, throughout his blundering and stupid life.

Caesar was disturbed by the Cato. I think he was angry also, partly because his admiration of Cicero was genuine (as far as any such emotion in Caesar could be called genuine), partly because he hoped that Cicero would reciprocate the feeling. And of course in a sense Cicero did; he admired Caesar even while he condemned his course. He liked Caesar too. He sometimes suggested that Caesar was the only man with whom he could talk on terms that approached equality.

But Caesar's disturbance went deeper, unsettled him in a way in which he had thought he could no longer be unsettled. Cicero challenged his understanding of himself. For a moment he opened Caesar's mind to the suspicion that his own star-ordained course might be misguided. Naturally he thrust that suspicion behind him.

'The trouble with Cicero,' he said, 'is that he clings to certainties that the winds of the world have swept away.'