Letter 13

UnknownAgapitus|c. 503 AD|ennodius pavia
illnessimperial politics

Ennodius to Agapitus.

My heart is troubled since your Greatness, so careful in observing fairness and so tenacious in friendship, has turned to this carelessness of forgetting me — so that, heedless of devotion, the blessings of a better age that have come through the advancement of your honors have been announced by rumor rather than by a welcome letter. Where are those holy recesses of your conscience, so venerable in their manner of life? When could a heart anxious about a friend's joy have found things more worthy of report? But I wonder whether some malicious person has let a south wind loose upon the flowers, or a destructive animal into the rose garden. For a friend's good fortune is never concealed without offense: it comes from ill will to keep silent to those far away about what brings you joy. Let the foulness of malice be far from your character.

I think I have earned the right to know your blessings, since the frequency of my correspondence will be weighed against such silence. No cultivation of affection can console a friend who retreats from the desires of love. However you may paint these things, my lord, with the noble images of your learned words — rarely are misdeeds cured by conversations, and grief that descends from a real cause cannot be healed by talk; it will be hard to erase by writing what you despised to write.

But I return to my purpose, from which — if God has mercy — one must never depart. I owe it to God that, despite your silence, I was the first in Liguria to learn of your good fortune. You have lost the fruit of your studious taciturnity: the prosperity of good men is celebrated by the tongue of the world; what has come to the highest cannot remain unknown. In honors, the things that are rendered back are more to be embraced: he who is raised to the fasces is poorly served if his mind does not recognize the evidence of its own light among its titles.

A venerable, time-honored dignity has come to you — late, but owed. Your tongue summoned it, which it follows; your innocence demanded it, which once had age for its companion. But now I return to the grace of friendly address, even after your offense. Farewell, my lord, and what you have neglected to your damage of our pledged bond, restore by an abundance of speech.

Modern English rendering for readability. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek for scholarly use.

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