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Preparing for the
Occupational Therapy
National Board Exam
45 DAYS AND COUNTING
Second Edition
Edited by:
Rosanne DiZazzo-Miller, PhD, DrOT, OTR/L, CDP
Department of Health Care Sciences
Wayne State University
Detroit, Michigan
11324-2
Production Credits
VP, Executive Publisher: David D. Cella
Publisher: Cathy L. Esperti
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Bacus
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Cover Image: ©© Mrs. Opossum/Shutterstock
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Cover Printing: Edwards Brothers Malloy
6048
Rosanne DiZazzo-Miller
Fredrick D. Pociask
BRIEF CONTENTS
SECTION 9 DOCUMENTATION,
MANAGEMENT, REIMBURSEMENT, AND
WORKING WITH A COTA DAYS 25–27
Chapter 36 Documentation of
Occupational Therapy Practice
Deborah Loftus
Chapter 37 Management and
Business Fundamentals in
Occupational Therapy
Denise Hoffman
Chapter 38 Reimbursement
Denise Hoffman
Chapter 39 Research
Rosanne DiZazzo-Miller and
Moh H. Malek
Chapter 40 The OT and OTA:
Working Together for Optimal
Client Outcomes
Susan Robosan-Burt
Foreword
Preface
Acknowledgments
Contributors
I
CICERO AND THE CAMP OF CAESAR IN GAUL
Cicero was not wrong when he said one day to Caesar: “After our
time, there will be great debates about you, as there have been
among ourselves.”[235] It is certain that he is that historical personage
whom men still discuss with most heat. None has excited more
sympathy or roused more animosity, and it must be admitted that
there seems to be something in him to justify both the one and the
other. He cannot be admired or blamed without some reservations,
and he always attracts on some side those whom he repels on
another. The very people who hate him the most, and who cannot
pardon him the political revolution that he accomplished, are forced
into a secret admiration for him when they think of his victories, or
read his writings.
The more complex and disputable his character, the more
necessary it is, in order to form a just idea of him, to interrogate
those who were in a position to know him. Although Cicero was
almost all his life separated from Caesar by grave disagreements,
twice he had occasion to maintain a close intercourse with him:
during the Gallic war he was his political ally and his assiduous
correspondent; after Pharsalia he became his friend again, and acted
as intermediary between the conqueror and those he had condemned
to exile. Let us inquire what he says of him at these two periods of his
life when he saw him most closely, and let us collect from his
correspondence, through which we become so well acquainted with
the eminent men of that time, the information it contains about him
who was the greatest of all.
I.
I must first recall the events which led Cicero to desert the
aristocratic party to which he had been attached since his consulship,
in order to serve the triumvirs, and how the courageous friend of
Hortensius and of Cato became so subservient to Pompey and
Caesar. It is not an honourable period in his life, and his most
convinced admirers say as little about it as possible. However, there
is some interest, perhaps even some profit, in pausing upon it for a
moment.
Cicero’s return from the exile to which he had been condemned
after his consulship by the efforts of Clodius, was a veritable
triumph. Brundusium, where he disembarked, celebrated his arrival
by public rejoicings. All the citizens of the free towns that bordered
the Appian Way, waited for him on the road, and the heads of
families with their wives and children came from all the
neighbouring farms to see him pass. At Rome, he was received by an
immense multitude crowded on the public squares, or ranged on the
steps of the temples. “It seemed,” said he, “that all the city was drawn
from its foundations to come and salute its liberator.”[236] At his
brother’s house, where he was going to live, he found the most
eminent members of the senate awaiting him, and at the same time
congratulatory addresses from all the popular societies of the city. It
is probable that some who had signed these, had voted with the same
eagerness the preceding year for the law that exiled him, and that
many clapped their hands on his return who had applauded his
departure; but the people have occasionally these strange and
generous impulses. It sometimes happens that they break away by a
sudden bound from the malice, distrust, and narrowness of party
spirit, and, at the very moment when passions seem most inflamed
and divisions most clearly marked, they unite all at once to render
homage to some great genius or to some great character, which, we
know not how, has compelled their recognition. Usually, this
gratitude and admiration last but a short time; but, should they
endure only a day, they do eternal honour to him who has been their
object, and the glory they leave behind is sufficient to illumine a
whole life. Therefore we must pardon Cicero for having spoken so
often and with so much effusiveness of this glorious day. A little
pride was here both legitimate and natural. How could a soul so
sensitive to popular applause have resisted the intoxication of a
triumphal return? “I do not feel as though I were simply returning
from exile,” said he, “I appear to myself to be mounting to
heaven.”[237]
But he was not long in descending again to earth. Whatever he
may have thought at first, he soon recognized that this city which
welcomed him with so much rejoicing was not changed, and that he
found it much the same as when he left it. Anarchy had reigned there
for three years, an anarchy such as we have difficulty in imagining,
notwithstanding all the examples that our own revolutions have
given us. Since the triumvirs had let loose the rabble in order to seize
upon the government of the republic, it had become entirely master.
A daring tribune, a deserter from the aristocracy, and one who bore
the most illustrious name in Rome, Clodius, had taken upon himself
to lead it, and as far as possible, to discipline it. He had displayed in
this difficult work many talents and much audacity, and had
succeeded well enough to deserve to become the terror of honest
people. When we speak of the Roman mob, we must not forget that it
was much more frightful than our own, and was recruited from more
formidable elements. Whatever just dismay the populace that
emerges all at once from the lowest quarters of our manufacturing
cities, on a day of riot, may cause us, let us remember that at Rome,
this inferior social stratum descended still lower. Below the
vagabond strangers and the starving workmen, the ordinary tools of
revolutions, there was all that crowd of freedmen demoralized by
slavery, to whom liberty had given but one more means for evil-
doing; there were those gladiators, trained to fight beast or man, who
made light of the death of others or themselves; there were, still
lower, those fugitive slaves, who were indeed the worst of all classes,
who, after having robbed or murdered at home, and lived by pillage
on the road, came from all Italy to take refuge and disappear in the
obscurity of the slums of Rome, an unclean and terrible multitude of
men without family, without country, who, outlawed by the general
sentiment of society, had nothing to respect as they had nothing to
lose. It was among these that Clodius recruited his bands.
Enlistments were made in open day, in one of the most frequented
spots in Rome, near the Aurelian steps. The new soldiers were then
organized in decuries and centuries, under energetic leaders. They
assembled by districts in secret societies, where they went to receive
the password, and had their centre and arsenal at the temple of
Castor. When the day arrived, and a popular manifestation was
wanted, the tribunes ordered the shops to be closed; then, the
artisans were thrown on the public streets, and all the army of the
secret societies marched together towards the Forum. There they
met, not the honest folks, who, feeling themselves the weaker party,
stayed at home, but the gladiators and herdsmen whom the senate
had fetched to defend them from the wilds of Picenum or Gaul, and
then the battle commenced. “Imagine London,” says M. Mommsen,
“with the slave population of New Orleans, the police of
Constantinople, and the industrial condition of modern Rome, and
think of the political state of Paris in 1848: you will have some idea of
republican Rome in its last days.”
No law was any longer respected, no citizen, no magistrate was
secure from violence. One day the fasces of a consul were broken, the
next a tribune was left for dead. The senate itself, led away by these
examples, had at last lost that quality which Romans lost the last, its
dignity. In that assembly of kings, as a Greek had called it, they
debated with revolting coarseness. Cicero surprised no one when he
gave his adversaries the names of swine, filth, rotten flesh.
Sometimes the discussions became so heated that the noise reached
that excited crowd that filled the porticoes near the curia, which then
took part in them, with so much violence that the terrified senators
hastened to fly.[238] We can easily understand that it was much worse
in the Forum. Cicero relates that, when they were tired of insulting,
they spat in each other’s faces.[239] When a man wished to address the
people, he had to take the rostrum by storm, and he risked his life in
trying to keep his place there. The tribunes had found a new way of
obtaining unanimity of votes for the laws that they proposed:
namely, to beat and drive away all who took it into their heads not to
agree with them. But contests were nowhere more violent than on
the Campus Martius on election days. Men were driven to regret the
time when they trafficked publicly in the votes of the electors. Now,
they did not even take the trouble to buy public offices; they found it
more convenient to seize them by force. Each party went before
daylight to the Campus Martius. Collisions took place on the roads
leading to it. Each party hastened to arrive before its adversaries, or,
if these were already established there, attacked them in order to
dislodge them: naturally the appointments belonged to those who
remained masters of the place. In the midst of all these armed bands
there was no security for any one. Men were obliged to fortify
themselves in their houses for fear of being surprised. They could
only go out with a train of gladiators and slaves. To go from one
quarter of the city to another, they took as many precautions as if
they had to traverse a desert country, and they met at the turning of a
street with the same fear they would have had at the corner of a
wood. In the midst of Rome there were real battles and regular
sieges. It was an ordinary manœuvre to set fire to the houses of their
enemies at the risk of burning down a whole quarter, and, towards
the end, no election or popular assembly took place without
bloodshed. “The Tiber,” says Cicero, speaking of one of these
combats, “was full of the corpses of the citizens, the public sewers
were choked with them, and they were obliged to mop up with
sponges the blood that streamed from the Forum.”[240]
Such were the obscure convulsions in which the Roman republic
perished, and the shameful disorders that sapped its remaining
strength. Cicero well knew that bloody anarchy and the dangers he
was about to run, and had therefore resolved, before re-entering
Rome, to be prudent, so as not to run the risk of having to leave it
again. His was not one of those minds that misfortune strengthens,
and that feel a kind of pleasure in struggling against ill-fortune. Exile
had discouraged him. During the long weariness of his sojourn in
Thessaly, he had made a sad review of the past. He had reproached
himself for his occasional courage and independence, for his
boldness in combating the powerful, and for the mistake he had
made in joining himself too closely to the party which he had judged
the best, but which was evidently the weakest, as though to act thus
had been a crime. He came back thoroughly resolved to entangle
himself as little as possible with any one, to disarm his enemies by
concession, and to keep on good terms with everybody. This was the
course he followed on his arrival, and his first speeches are
masterpieces of policy. It is plain that he still leans towards the
aristocracy which had taken an active part in his restoration, and to
praise it he has noble expressions of patriotism and gratitude; but
already he commences to flatter Caesar, and he calls Pompey “the
most virtuous, the wisest, the greatest of the men of his age or of any
age.”[241] At the same time, he tells us himself, he took good heed not
to appear in the senate when irritating questions were to be
discussed, and was very careful to escape from the Forum as soon as
the debate became too heated. “No more violent remedies,” he
replied to those who tried to urge him to some brilliant action; “I
must put myself on diet.”[242]
However, he soon perceived that this adroit reserve was not
sufficient to ward off all danger. While he was rebuilding his house
on the Palatine, which had been destroyed after his departure, the
bands of Clodius threw themselves on the workmen and dispersed
them, and, emboldened by this success, set fire to the house of his
brother Quintus, which was close by. A few days later, as he was
walking on the Via Sacra, he heard all at once a great noise, and on
turning round saw sticks raised and naked swords. It was the same
men who came to attack him. He had great difficulty in escaping into
the vestibule of a friendly house while his slaves fought bravely
before the door to give him time to escape. Cato would not have been
moved by this violence; Cicero must have been very much
frightened; above all it taught him that his system of prudent reserve
did not sufficiently assure his safety. It was, in fact, probable that no
party would expose itself to defend him as long as he had only
compliments to give it, and as he could not stand alone and without
support in the midst of all these armed factions, it was really
necessary that, in order to find the support he needed, he should
consent to attach himself more closely to one of them.
But which should he choose? This was a grave question in which
his interests were at variance with his sympathies. All his
inclinations were evidently for the aristocracy. He had closely
attached himself to it about the time of his consulship, and since that
time he had professed to serve it, and it was for it that he had just
braved the anger of the people and exposed himself to exile. But this
very exile had taught him how the most honourable course was also
the least safe. At the last moment, the senate had not found better
means of saving him than to make useless decrees, to put on
mourning, and go and throw themselves at the feet of the consuls.
Cicero thought that this was not enough. Seeing himself so ill-
defended, he had suspected that people who did not take his
interests in hand more resolutely were not very sorry for his
misfortunes; and perhaps he was not wrong. The Roman aristocracy,
whatever he had done for it, could not forget he was a “new” man.
The Claudii, the Cornelii, the Manlii, always looked with a certain
displeasure on this insignificant townsman of Arpinum, whom the
popular vote had made their equal. Still they might have pardoned
his good fortune if he had borne it with more modesty; but we know
his vanity; though it was only ridiculous, the aristocracy, whom it
offended, thought it criminal. They could not tolerate the legitimate
pride with which he constantly recalled that he was only a parvenu.
They thought it strange that, when attacked by insolence, he dared to
reply by raillery; and quite recently they had shown themselves
scandalized that he had forgotten himself so far as to buy the villa of
Catulus at Tusculum, and to go and live on the Palatine in the house
of Crassus. Cicero, with his usual shrewdness, very clearly discerned
all these sentiments of the aristocracy, and even exaggerated them.
Since his return from exile he had yet other grievances against them.
They had taken much trouble to get him recalled; but had not
foreseen the splendour of his return, and it did not seem that they
were very well pleased with it. “Those who have clipped my wings,”
said Cicero, “are sorry to see them grow again.”[243] From this
moment his good friends in the senate would do nothing more for
him. He had found his finances much embarrassed, his house on the
Palatine burnt, his villas at Tusculum and Formiae plundered and
destroyed, and they decided with reluctance to indemnify him for
these losses. What irritated him still more, was that he saw clearly
that they did not share in his anger against Clodius. They showed
themselves cool or remained silent during his violent fits of anger. A
few even, the most adroit, affected to speak only with esteem of this
factious tribune, and did not blush to give him their hand in public.
Whence came their regard for a man who had so little for them? It
was that they hoped to make use of him, and that they secretly
nourished the thought of calling in the mob to the help of the
endangered aristocracy. This alliance, although less usual than that
of the mob with despotism, was not impossible, and the bands of
Clodius, if they could be enlisted, would have permitted the senate to
hold the triumvirs in check. Cicero, who perceived this policy, feared
to become its victim; he bitterly regretted then the services he had
tried to render to the senate, and which had cost him so dear. In
recalling the dangers to which he had exposed himself in order to
defend it, the obstinate and unsuccessful struggles that he had
maintained for four years, the ruin of his political position and the
disasters of his private fortune, he said with sorrow: “I see clearly
now that I have been only a fool (scio me asinum germanum
fuisse”).[244]
It only remained for him then to turn to the triumvirs. This was
the advice given to him by his friend the prudent Atticus, and his
brother Quintus, whom the burning of his house had rendered
cautious contrary to his habit; this was the resolution he was himself
tempted to take every time he ran some fresh danger. Nevertheless,
he had some trouble in making up his mind. The triumvirs had been
heretofore his most cruel enemies. Without speaking of Crassus, in
whom he detected an accomplice of Catiline, he well knew that it was
Caesar who had let Clodius loose against him, and he could not
forget that Pompey, who had sworn to defend him, had lately
abandoned him to the vengeance of his two friends; but he had no
choice of alliances, and since he dared no longer trust the aristocratic
party, he was forced to put himself under the protection of others. He
had then to resign himself to his fate. He authorized his brother to
pledge him to Caesar and Pompey, and prepared himself to serve
their ambition. His first act, after his return, had been to demand for
Pompey one of those extraordinary powers of which he was so
greedy: by his exertions Pompey had been entrusted for six years
with the victualling of Rome, and on this occasion he had been
invested with an almost unlimited authority. A short time after,
although the public treasury was exhausted, he had a sum of money
granted to Caesar for the payment of his legions, and permission to
have ten lieutenants under his orders. When the aristocracy, who
understood with what design Caesar was carrying out the conquest of
Gaul, wished to prevent him continuing it, it was again Cicero who
demanded and obtained for him permission to finish his work. It was
thus that the old enemy of the triumvirs became their usual defender
before the senate. The support that he consented to give was not
useless to them. His great name and his eloquence drew towards him
the moderate men of all parties, those whose opinion was wavering
and their convictions undecided; those, above all, who, wearied with
a too tempestuous liberty, sought everywhere a firm hand that might
give them repose; and these, joined to the personal friends of Caesar
and Pompey, to the tools that the rich Crassus had made by bribery,
and to the ambitious men of all sorts who foresaw the advent of the
monarchy and wished to be the first to salute it, formed in the senate
a majority of which Cicero was the head and the orator, and which
rendered to the triumvirs the important service of giving a legal
sanction to that power which they had gained by violence and
exercised illegally.
Cicero had at length obtained repose. His enemies feared him,
Clodius dared no longer risk attacking him, his familiarity with the
new masters was envied, and yet this skilful conduct, which gained
for him the thanks of the triumvirs and the congratulations of
Atticus, did not fail at times to disturb him. It was in vain for him to
say to himself that “his life had regained its splendour,” he did not
feel less remorse in serving men whose ambition he knew, and whom
he knew to be dangerous to the liberty of his country. In the midst of
the efforts that he made to satisfy them, he had sudden awakenings
of patriotism which made him blush. His private correspondence
bears everywhere the trace of the alternations of mood through
which he passed. One day he wrote to Atticus in a light and resolute
tone: “Let us give up honour, justice, and fine sentiments.... Since
those who can do nothing will not love me, let us try to make
ourselves loved by those who can do everything.”[245] But shame
seized him the next day, and he could not avoid saying to his friend:
“Is anything sadder than our life, mine above all? If I speak
according to my convictions I pass for a madman; if I listen to my
interests, I am accused of being a slave; if I am silent, they say I am
afraid.”[246] Even in his public speeches, notwithstanding the
restraint he puts on himself, we can feel his secret dissatisfaction. It
seems to me that we discover it above all in that extraordinary tone
of bitterness and violence which was then habitual to him. Never,
perhaps, did he pronounce more passionate invectives. Now this
excess of violence towards others often comes from a mind ill at ease.
What made his eloquence so bitter at this time was that uneasy
feeling which a man has who is in the wrong path and has not the
courage to leave it. He did not forgive his old friends their raillery
and his new ones their demands; he reproached himself secretly for
his base concessions; he had a spite against others and against
himself, and Vatinius or Piso suffered for all the rest. In this
condition of mind he could not be a safe friend for anybody. It
happened sometimes that he suddenly turned on his new friends,
and gave blows so much the more disagreeable that they were not
expected. Sometimes he diverted himself by attacking their best
friends, to show others and prove to himself that he had not entirely
lost his liberty. People had been very much surprised to hear him, in
a speech in which he defended Caesar’s interests, praise to excess
Bibulus, whom Caesar detested. One day even he seemed quite ready
to return to those whom he had called honest men before he
abandoned them. It seemed to him a good opportunity to break with
his new party in a formal manner. The friendship of the triumvirs
had become very cool. Pompey was not pleased with the success of
that Gallic war which threatened to make his own victories forgotten.
Cicero, who heard him speak without restraint against his rival,
thought he might without danger give some satisfaction to his
irritated conscience, and wished by a brilliant stroke to deserve the
pardon of his old friends. Taking advantage of some difficulty that
was raised in regard to the carrying out of Caesar’s agrarian law, he
formally announced that on the Ides of May he would speak on the
sale of the Campanian lands which by this law were distributed
among the people. The effect of his declaration was very great. The
allies of the triumvirs were as much offended as they were surprised,
and the aristocratic party hastened to welcome with transports of joy
the return of the eloquent deserter, but in a few days everything
turned against him. At the very moment when he decided on this
brilliant stroke, the alliance between the triumvirs that was thought
to be broken, was renewed at Lucca, and, amid a concourse of their
flatterers, they once more divided the world between them. Cicero,
then, was about to find himself again alone and without support in
the presence of an angry and all-powerful enemy who threatened to
deliver him up again to the vengeance of Clodius. Atticus scolded;
Quintus, who had pledged himself for his brother, complained
roughly that his promises were being broken. Pompey, although he
had secretly encouraged the defection, affected to be more angry
than anybody. The unhappy Cicero, attacked on all sides, and
trembling at the passions which he had raised, hastened to submit,
and promised everything that was required. Thus this attempt at
independence only made his slavery heavier.
From this moment he seems to have resolutely accepted his new
position, from a feeling that he could not change it. He resigned
himself to heap more and more exaggerated praises on the vain
Pompey, who never had enough. He consented to become the agent
of Caesar with Oppius and Balbus, and to supervise the public
buildings he was constructing. He went further, and was willing at
the request of his powerful protectors to give his hand to men whom
he regarded as his greatest enemies. This was not a small sacrifice for
a man who had such strong aversions; but from the time that he
joined their party so decidedly, he was obliged to accept their
friendship as he defended their plans. They began to take steps to
reconcile him to Crassus. This was a great matter which was not done
in a day, for when it was thought that their old enmity was appeased,
it broke out all at once in a discussion in the senate, and Cicero
abused his new ally with a violence that surprised himself. “I thought
my hatred exhausted,” said he naïvely, “and did not imagine any
remained in my heart.”[247] He was then asked to undertake the
defence of Vatinius; he consented with a pretty good grace, although
he had pronounced a furious invective against him the year before.
The advocates in Rome were accustomed to these sudden changes,
and Cicero had done the same thing more than once. When Gabinius
returned from Egypt, after having restored King Ptolemy against the
formal command of the senate, Cicero, who could not abide him,
thinking it a good opportunity to ruin him, prepared to attack him;
but Pompey came to beg him urgently to defend him. He dared not
refuse, changed his part, and submitted to speak in favour of a man
whom he detested and a cause which he considered bad. He had at
least the consolation of losing his case, and although he was always
anxious for success, it is probable that this failure did not give him
much pain.
But he well understood that so much deference and submission, all
these notorious self-contradictions to which he was forced, would
end by rousing public opinion against him. Therefore, about this
time, he decided to write an important letter to his friend Lentulus,
one of the chiefs of the aristocracy, which he probably intended to be
circulated, and in which he explains his conduct.[248] In this letter,
after having related the facts in his own way and sufficiently abused
those whom he had abandoned, a convenient and common mode of
anticipating their complaints and making them responsible for the
mischief he was about to do them, he ventures to present, with
singular candour, a sort of apology for his political instability. The
reasons he gives to justify it are not always very good; but we must
believe that better cannot be found, since they have not ceased to be
used. Under the pretence that Plato has somewhere said, “one must
not do violence to one’s country any more than to one’s father,”
Cicero lays it down as a principle, that a politician ought not to
persist in wishing for what his fellow-citizens do not wish, nor lose
his pains in attempting useless opposition. Circumstances change,
one must change with them, and suit oneself to the wind that blows,
so as not to go to pieces on the rocks. Besides, is that really to
change? Cannot one in the main wish for the same thing and serve
one’s country under different banners? A man is not fickle for
defending, according to circumstances, opinions that seem
contradictory if by opposite routes he marches to the same goal, and
do we not know “that we must often shift the sails when we wish to
arrive in port”? These are only the general maxims which an
inventive politician can make up to hide his weaknesses, and there is
no need to discuss them. The best way to defend Cicero is to
remember in what a time he lived, and how little fitted he was for
that time. This elegant literary man, this skilful artist, this friend of
the arts of peace, had been placed, by a caprice of fate, in one of the
most stormy and troubled periods of history. What could a man of
leisure and study do among those deadly struggles where force was
master, a man who had no arms but his words, and who always
dreamed of the pleasures of peaceful times and the pacific laurels of
eloquence? A more manly soul than his would have been needed to
make head against these assaults. Events stronger than himself
confounded his designs every instant and played with his hesitating
will. On his entry into public life he had taken for his motto, leisure
and honour, otium cum dignitate; but these two things are not easy
to unite in revolutionary times, and almost always one of the two is
lost when we are too anxious to preserve the other. Resolute
characters, who know this well, make their choice between them at
once, and, according as one is a Cato or an Atticus, one decides from
the very first day either for leisure or for honour. The undecided, like
Cicero, pass from one to the other, according to circumstances, and
thus jeopardize both. We have arrived at one of those painful
moments in his life when he sacrifices honour to leisure; let us not be
too severe upon him, and let us remember that, later, he sacrificed
not only his leisure, but even his life, to save his honour.
II.
One of the results of the new policy of Cicero was to give him an
opportunity of becoming well acquainted with Caesar. Not that they
had been hitherto strangers to one another. The taste of both for
letters and the similar nature of their studies, had united them in
their youth, and from these early relations, which men never forget,
there had remained some natural sympathy and good-will. But as in
later life they had attached themselves to opposite parties,
circumstances had separated them. In the Forum, and in the senate,
they had acquired the habit of always being of opposite opinions, and
naturally their friendship had suffered from the vivacity of their
dissensions. Yet Cicero tells us that, even when they were most
excited against each other, Caesar could never hate him.[249]
Politics had separated them, politics reunited them. When Cicero
turned towards the party of the triumvirs their intimate relations
recommenced; but this time their position was different, and their
connection could no longer have the same character. The old school-
fellow of Cicero had become his protector. It was no longer a mutual
inclination or common studies, it was interest and necessity that
united them, and their new ties were formed by a sort of reciprocal
agreement in which one of the two gave his talents and a little of his
honour, that the other might guarantee him repose. These are not
very favourable circumstances, it must be admitted, to produce a
sincere friendship. However, when we read Cicero’s private
correspondence, in which he speaks unreservedly, we cannot doubt
but that he found many charms in these relations with Caesar which
seemed to him at first to be so difficult. Probably this was because he
compared them with those which he had at the same time to keep up
with Pompey. Caesar at least was affable and polite. Although he had
the gravest affairs on his hands, he found time to think of his friends
and to joke with them. Victorious as he was, he allowed them to write
to him “familiarly and without subserviency.”[250] He answered with
amiable letters, “full of politeness, kind attentions and charm,”[251]
which delighted Cicero. Pompey, on the contrary, seemed to take a
pleasure in wounding him by his lofty airs. This pompous and vain
man, whom the adoration of the Orientals had spoilt, and who could
not avoid assuming the deportment of a conqueror merely in going
from his house at Alba to Rome, affected an imperious and haughty
tone which alienated everybody. His dissimulation was still more
displeasing than his insolence. He had a sort of dislike of
communicating his projects to others; he hid them even from his
most devoted friends, who wished to know them in order to support
them. Cicero complains more than once that he could never discover
what he wanted; it even happened that he was completely deceived
as to his real intentions and made him angry, thinking he was doing
him a service. This obstinate dissimulation passed, no doubt, for
profound policy in the eyes of the multitude; but the more skilful had
no difficulty in discerning its motive. If he did not express his
opinion to anybody, it was because most frequently he had no
opinion, and, as it very commonly happens, silence with him only
served to cover the fact. He went at random, without fixed principles
or settled system, and never looked beyond present circumstances.
Events always took him by surprise, and he showed clearly that he
was no more capable of directing them than of foreseeing them. His
ambition itself, which was his dominant passion, had no precise
views or decided aims. Whatever dignities were offered to satisfy it, it
was plainly seen that he always desired something else; this was
perceived without his saying it, for he tried very awkwardly to hide it.
His ordinary stratagem was to pretend indifference, and he wished to
be forced to accept what he most ardently desired. We can well
understand that this pretence when too often repeated deceived
nobody. Upon the whole, as he had successively attacked and
defended all parties, and after having often appeared to desire an
almost royal authority, had not endeavoured to destroy the republic
when he had the power to do so, it is impossible for us to discover
now what plan he had conceived, or even if he had conceived any
distinct plan at all.
It is not so with Caesar. He knew the object of his ambition, and
saw distinctly what he wished to do. His plans were settled even
before he entered public life;[252] in his youth he had formed the
design to become master. The spectacle of the revolutions on which
he had looked had given rise to the thought; the confidence that he
had in his own capacity, and in the inferiority of his enemies, gave
him strength to undertake it, and a sort of superstitious belief in his
destiny, not uncommon in men who attempt these great adventures,
assured him in advance of success. Therefore he marched resolutely
towards his end, without showing undue haste to attain it, but
without ever losing sight of it. To know exactly what one wants is not
a common quality, above all in those troubled times in which good
and evil are mingled, and yet success only comes to those who
possess it. What, above all, gave Caesar his superiority was, that in
the midst of those irresolute politicians who had only uncertain
projects, hesitating convictions, and occasional ambitions, he alone
had a deliberate ambition and a settled design. One could not
approach him without coming under the influence of that tranquil
and powerful will, which had a clear idea of its projects, the
consciousness of its own strength, and the confidence of victory.
Cicero felt it like the rest, notwithstanding his prejudices. In
presence of such consistency and firmness he could not avoid
making unfavourable comparisons with the perturbation and
inconsistency of his old friend. “I am of your opinion about Pompey,
he hinted to his brother, or rather you are of mine, for I have sung
the praises of Caesar for a long time.”[253] In fact, it was sufficient to
approach a man of real genius to recognize the emptiness of this
semblance of a great man, whose easy successes and air of inflated
majesty had imposed so long upon the admiration of fools.
We must not, however, suppose that Caesar was one of those
stubborn men who will not give way to circumstances, and never
consent to alter anything in the plans they have once conceived. No
one, on the contrary, knew how to bend to necessity better than he.
His aim remained the same, but he did not hesitate to take the most
diverse means to attain it, when it was necessary. One of these
important modifications took place in his policy, precisely at the
period with which we are occupied. What distinguishes Caesar from
the men with whom he is usually compared, Alexander and
Napoleon, has been well stated by M. Mommsen, namely, that
originally he was a statesman rather than a general. He did not, like
them, come from the camp, and he had as yet merely passed through
it when, by force of circumstances and almost in spite of himself, he
became a conqueror. All his youth was passed in Rome in the turmoil
of public life, and he only set out for Gaul at an age at which
Alexander was dead and Napoleon vanquished. He had evidently
formed the plan of making himself master without employing arms;
he reckoned upon destroying the republic by a slow and internal
revolution, and by preserving as much as possible, in so illegal an
attempt, the outward form of legality. He saw that the popular party
had more taste for social reforms than for political liberties, and he
thought, with reason, that a democratic monarchy would not be
repugnant to it. By multiplying dissensions, by becoming the secret
accomplice of Catiline and Clodius, he wearied timid republicans of a
too troubled liberty and prepared them to sacrifice it willingly to
repose. He hoped in this way that the republic, shaken by these daily
attacks, which exhausted and tired out its most intrepid defenders,
would at last fall without violence and without noise. But, to our
great surprise, at the moment when this skilfully-planned design
seemed on the point of succeeding, we see Caesar suddenly give it up.
After that consulship in which he had governed alone, reducing his
colleague to inaction and the senate to silence, he withdraws from
Rome for ten years, and goes to attempt the conquest of an unknown
country. What reasons decided him to this unexpected change? We
should like to believe that he felt some disgust for that life of base
intrigues that he led at Rome, and wished to invigorate himself in
labours more worthy of him; but it is much more likely that, after
having seen clearly that the republic would fall of itself, he
understood that he would require an army and military renown to
gain the mastery over Pompey. It was, then, without enthusiasm,
without passion, designedly and on calculation, that he decided to set
out for Gaul. When he took this important resolution, which has
contributed so much to his greatness, he was forty-four.[254] Pascal
thinks it was very late to begin, and that he was too old to interest
himself in the conquest of the world. It is, on the contrary, as it
seems, one of the most admirable efforts of that energetic will that, at
an age when habits are irrevocably fixed, and when a man has
definitely entered on the road he must follow to the end, Caesar
suddenly commenced a new life, and, leaving in a moment the
business of popular agitator that he had followed for twenty-five
years, set himself to govern provinces and lead armies. This
spectacle, indeed, is more surprising now than it was then. It is no
longer the custom to turn oneself into an administrator or a general
at fifty, and these things seem to us to demand a special vocation and
a long apprenticeship; history shows us that it was otherwise at
Rome. Had they not just seen the voluptuous Lucullus, on his way to
command the army of Asia, learn the art of war during the voyage,
and conquer Mithridates on his arrival? As to administration, a rich
Roman learnt it in his own home. Those vast domains, those legions
of slaves that he possessed, the management of an immense fortune
which often surpassed the wealth of several kingdoms of our days,
familiarized him early with the art of government. It was thus that
Caesar, who had as yet only had occasion to practise himself in the
government of provinces and the command of armies during the year
of his praetorship in Spain, had no need of further study to be able to
conquer the Helvetii and to organize the conquered countries, and
that he found himself at the very first attempt an admirable general
and an administrator of genius.
It was at this epoch that his intimate relations with Cicero
recommenced, and they lasted as long as the Gallic war. Cicero often
had occasion to write to him to recommend people who wished to
serve under his command. The ambition of the young men at that
time was to set out for Caesar’s camp. Besides the desire of taking
part in great deeds under such a general, they had also the secret
hope of enriching themselves in those distant countries. We know
with what charms the unknown is usually adorned, and how easy it is
to lend it all the attractions we wish. Gaul was for the imagination of
that time what America was to the sixteenth century. It was supposed
that in those countries that no one had visited there lay immense
treasures, and all who had their fortune to make hastened to Caesar
to have their share of the booty. This eagerness was not displeasing
to him; it bore witness to the fascination his conquests exercised, and
helped his designs, and accordingly he readily invited men to come
to him. He wrote gaily to Cicero, who had begged a commission for
some unknown Roman: “You have recommended M. Offius to me; if
you like I will make him King of Gaul, unless he prefers to be
lieutenant of Lepta. Send me whom you will that I may make him
rich.”[255] Cicero had with him at that moment two persons whom he
loved very much and who had great need of being enriched, the
lawyer Trebatius Testa and his own brother Quintus. It was a good
opportunity, and he sent them both to Caesar.
Trebatius was a young man of much talent and great zeal for study,
who had attached himself to Cicero and did not leave him. He had
early left his poor little town of Ulubrae, situated in the midst of the
Pontine marshes, for Rome,—Ulubrae the deserted, vacuae Ulubrae,
whose inhabitants were called Ulubran frogs. He had studied law,
and, as he had become very learned in it, no doubt he rendered many
services to Cicero, who does not appear ever to have known much of
law, and who found it more convenient to laugh at it than to learn it.
Unfortunately, consultations being gratuitous, lawyers did not make
their fortune at Rome. Accordingly Trebatius was poor, in spite of his
knowledge. Cicero, who liked him unselfishly, consented to deprive
himself of the pleasure and use that he found in his society, and sent
him to Caesar with one of those charming letters of recommendation
that he knew so well how to write, and in which he displayed so
much grace and wit. “I do not ask of you,” he says, “the command of
a legion, or a government for him. I ask for nothing definite. Give
him your friendship, and if afterwards you care to do something for
his fortune and his glory I shall not be displeased. In fact, I abandon
him to you entirely; I give him to you from hand to hand as they say,
and I hope he will find himself well off in those faithful and
victorious hands.”[256] Caesar thanked Cicero for the present that he
had made him, which could not fail to be very valuable to him, “for,”
he wittily remarked, “among the multitude of men who surround me,
there is not one who knows how to prepare a suit.”[257]
Trebatius left Rome reluctantly; Cicero said that he had to turn
him out of doors.[258] The first sight of Gaul, which resembled very
little the France of to-day, was not cheering. He passed wild
countries, among half-subdued and threatening people, and in the
midst of these barbarian surroundings which oppressed his heart, he
always thought of the pleasures of that cultivated city that he had just
left. The letters that he wrote were so disconsolate, that Cicero,
forgetting that he had felt the same regrets during his own exile,
reproached him gently for what he called his foolishness. When he
arrived at the camp his ill-humour was redoubled. Trebatius was not
a warrior, and it is very likely that the Nervii and the Atrebates
frightened him very much. He arrived just at the moment when
Caesar was setting out on the expedition to Britain, and refused, one
knows not on what pretext, to accompany him: perhaps he alleged,
like Dumnorix, that he feared the sea; but, even in remaining in Gaul
there was no want of danger and tedium. Their winter quarters were
not comfortable; they suffered from cold and rain under that
inclement sky. In summer they had to take the field, and his terror
recommenced. Trebatius was always complaining. What added to his
discontent was that he had not found all at once the advantages he