DLIV (F IV, 5)
SERVIUS SULPICIUS TO CICERO (AT
ASTURA)
ATHENS (MARCH)
WHEN I received the news of your daughter
Tullia's death, I was indeed as much grieved and
distressed as I was bound to be, and looked upon
it as a calamity in which I shared. For, if I had
been at home, I should not have failed to be at
your side, and should have made my sorrow plain to
you face to face. That kind of consolation
involves much distress and pain, because the
relations and friends, whose part it is to offer
it, are themselves overcome by an equal sorrow.
They cannot attempt it without many tears, so that
they seem to require consolation themselves rather
than to be able to afford it to others. Still I
have decided to set down briefly for your benefit
such thoughts as have occurred to my mind, not
because I suppose them to be unknown to you, but
because your sorrow may perhaps hinder you from
being so keenly alive to them. Why is it that a private grief should
agitate you so deeply? Think how fortune has
hitherto dealt with us. Reflect that W&
have had snatched from us what ought to be no less
dear to human beings than their children-country,
honour, rank, every political distinction. What
additional wound to your feelings could be
inflicted by this particular loss? Or where is the
heart that should not by this time have lost all
sensibility and learn to regard everything else as
of minor importance? Is it on her account, pray,
that you sorrow? How many times have you recurred
to the thought—and I have often been
struck with the same idea—that in times
like these theirs is far from being the worst fate
to whom it has been granted to exchange life for a
painless death? Now what was there at such an
epoch that could greatly tempt her to live? What
scope, what hope, what heart's Solace? That she
might spend her life with some young and
distinguished husband? How impossible for a man of
your rank to select from the present
generation of young men a son-in-law, to whose
honour you might think yourself safe in trusting
your child! Was it that she might bear children to
cheer her with the sight of their vigorous youth?
who might by their own character maintain the
position handed down to them by their parent,
might be expected to stand for the offices in
their order, might exercise their freedom in
supporting their friends? What single one of these
prospects has not been taken away before it was
given? But, it will be said, after all it is an
evil to lose one's children. Yes, it is: only it
is a worse one to endure and submit to the present
state of things. I wish to
mention to you a circumstance which gave me no
common consolation, on the chance of its also
proving capable of diminishing your sorrow. On my
voyage from Asia, as I was sailing from Aegina
towards Megara, I began to survey the localities
that were on every side of me. Behind me was
Aegina, in front Megara, on my right Piraeus, on
my left Corinth: towns which at one time were most
flourishing, but now lay before my eyes m ruin and
decay. I began to reflect to myself thus: "Hah! do
we mannikins feel rebellious if one of us perishes
or is killed—we whose life ought to be
still shorter—when the corpses of so
many towns lie in helpless ruin? Will you please,
Servius, restrain yourself and recollect that you
are born a mortal man?" Believe me, I was no
little strengthened by that reflexion. Now take
the trouble, if you agree with me, to put this
thought before your eyes. Not long ago all those
most illustrious men perished at one blow: the
empire of the Roman people suffered that huge
loss: all the provinces were shaken to their
foundations. If you have become the poorer by the
frail spirit of one poor girl, are you agitated
thus violently? If she had not died now, she would
yet have had to die a few years hence, for she was
mortal born. You, too, withdraw soul and thought
from such things, and rather remember those which
become the part you have played in life: that she
lived as long as life had anything to give her;
that her life outlasted that of the Republic; that
she lived to see you—her own
father-praetor, consul, and augur; that she
married young men of the highest rank; that she
had enjoyed nearly, every possible blessing; that,
when the Republic fell, she departed
from life. What fault have you or she to find with
fortune on this score? In fine, do not forget that
you are Cicero, and a man accustomed to instruct
and advise others; and do not imitate bad
physicians, who in the diseases of others profess
to understand the art of healing, but are unable
to prescribe for themselves. Rather suggest to
yourself and bring home to your own mind the very
maxims which you are accustomed to impress upon
others. There is no sorrow beyond the power of
time at length to diminish and soften: it is a
reflexion on you that you should wait for this
period, and not rather anticipate that result by
the aid of your wisdom. But if there is any
consciousness still existing in the world below,
such was her love for you and her dutiful
affection for all her family, that she certainly
does not wish you to act as you are acting. Grant
this to her-your lost one! Grant it to your
friends and comrades who mourn with you in your
sorrow! Grant it to your country, that if the need
arises she may have the use of your services and
advice. Finally—since we are reduced by
fortune to the necessity of taking precautions on
this point also—do not allow anyone to
think that you are not mourning so much for your
daughter as for the state of public affairs and
the victory of others. I am ashamed to say any
more to you on this subject, lest I should appear
to distrust your wisdom. Therefore I will only
make one suggestion before bringing my letter to
an end. We have seen you on many occasions bear
good fortune with a noble dignity which greatly
enhanced your fame: now is the time for you to
convince us that you are able to bear bad fortune
equally well, and that it does not appear to you
to be a heavier burden than you ought to think it.
I would not have this be the only one of all the
virtues that you do not possess. As far as I am concerned, when I
learn that your mind is more composed, I will
write you an account of what is going on here, and
of the condition of the province. Good-bye.
ATHENS (MARCH)