CDXLVIII (F XV, 21)
TO GAIUS TREBONIUS (IN SPAIN)
ROME (DECEMBER?)
I found pleasure in reading your letter, and a
very great one in reading your book: yet in the
midst of that pleasure I experienced this sorrow,
that, after having inflamed my desire of
increasing the closeness of our
intercourse—for as far as affection goes
no addition was possible-you at once quit us, and
inspire me with such deep regret, as to leave me
but one consolation, namely, that our mutual
regret for each other's absence may be softened by
long and frequent letters. 1 This I can guarantee not only
from myself to you, but also from you to me. For
you left no doubt in my mind as to how much you
were attached to me. I will pass over what you did
in the sight of the whole state, when you took
upon you a share of my quarrels, when you defended me in your public speeches, when
as quaestor you stood by the consuls in what was
at once my cause and that of the constitution,
when as quaestor again you refused to submit to
the tribune, 2 and
that though your colleague was for obeying him.
Yet, to forget your recent services (which I shall
always remember), what anxiety for me did you shew
during the war, what joy at my return, what
anxiety, what pain, when my anxieties and sorrows
were reported to you! Lastly, the fact that you
had meant to come to Brundisium to see me had you
not been suddenly sent to Spain—to omit,
I say, all this, which in my eyes must be as
precious as my own life and safety, what a strong
profession of affection does the book which you
have sent me convey I First, because you think any
utterance of mine to be witty, though others
perhaps do not: and, secondly, because those mots,
whether witty or the reverse, become
extraordinarily attractive as you tell them. In
fact, even before they come to me, your readers
have all but exhausted their power of laughter.
But if in making this compilation there was no
more compliment than the inevitable fact of your
having thought for so long a time exclusively
about me, I should be hard-hearted indeed if I did
not love you. Seeing, however, that what you have
taken the trouble to write you could never have
planned without a very strong affection, I cannot
deem that anyone is dearer to himself than I am to
you: to which affection would that I could respond
in other ways! I will at least do so in affection
on my part: with which, after all, I feel certain
you will be fully satisfied. Now I come to your letter, which,
though written in full and gratifying terms, there
is no reason why I should answer at great length.
For, in the first place, I did not send that
letter to Calvus, 3 any more than the
one you are now reading, with an idea of its
getting abroad. For I write in one
style what I expect that the persons addressed
only, in another what I expect that many, will
read. In the next place, I praised his genius in
higher terms than you think could have been done
with sincerity. To begin with, it was because that
was my real opinion. He had a subtle and active
mind: he adhered to a certain definite style, in
which, though his judgment was at fault-generally
his strong point—he yet attained his
aim. He had great and uncommon learning: force he
had not. It was in that direction, therefore, that
I tried to rouse his energies. Now, in stimulating
and whetting a man's intellect nothing is more
efficacious than to mingle praise with
exhortation. That is my judgment on Calvus, and
the motive of my letter: motive, in that I praised
in order to stimulate him; judgment, in that I
thought very highly of his ability. It only remains to follow your
journey with affectionate interest, to look
forward to your return with hope, to cherish you
while absent in memory, and to alleviate our
regret by an interchange of letters. I should wish
you often to recall your kindnesses and good
services to me; for while you may, and I may not,
forget them without positive crime, you will have
reason, not only to think me an honest man, but
also to believe that you are deeply loved by me.
ROME (DECEMBER?)