Letter 2001: [Magnus Felix Ennodius (473/4-521) was a Gallo-Roman aristocrat who became Bishop of Pavia in 514.
Ennodius of Pavia→Armenius: A Consolation|c. 493 AD|Ennodius of Pavia
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Ennodius to Armenius: A Consolation.
[Magnus Felix Ennodius (473/4-521) was a Gallo-Roman aristocrat who became Bishop of Pavia in 514. Before his episcopacy, he was a deacon and rhetorician. His letters are ornate, allusive, and intensely literary -- products of the same aristocratic culture as Sidonius Apollinaris, transplanted into Ostrogothic Italy.]
My dearest brother, for a long time I held back from sending you a letter of consolation, even though I wanted to urgently. I was afraid that in composing words I might seem to be stealing tears from myself -- turning sobs into elegant phrases in the midst of lamentation, and scattering the grief I owed through rhetorical figures of speech. It would be a betrayal of the bonds of friendship and kinship if, when you have the chance to mourn a death doubly, you fail to do so -- that is, if you refuse to add the service of your voice to the ministry of your eyes. When the eyes weep, driven by the stings of grief, should the words of the mourner fall silent?
But I, most honest of men, who owe service to your sorrow in every way I can, wished to put my grief on record in writing -- I who share it with you as a companion -- so that the memory of tears shed in one generation would not be lost, and so that future generations would not think that what I paid to the death of your son was all I owed. In this I follow the example of revered bishops: our own Ambrose [of Milan] accompanied the death of his brother with a published testimony of his grief. When later generations read that work, they remember the writer well and join their own laments to his mourning for his brother Satyrus. By Ambrose's foresight, it came about that fresh sorrow is displayed whenever someone reads those pages, that the limbs of a man long dead are shown still breathing their last before the reader's eyes, and that the faithfulness of the account never allows the death to grow old, though the years have long since buried it.
With this in mind, hold back the tears from your eyes and, if you will, turn your attention to the words of a man who comes to console you while weeping himself. You have lost a son -- nearly your only one -- and of good character, which calls forth a father's love no less than nature. The wailing of the whole province shows what he meant: by joining their own laments to yours, the entire community testifies to what they felt about him. Yet in the midst of all this, you shut yourself away as though crushed by a private misfortune, not knowing that what is spread through the hearts of so many is something shared, and must therefore be tempered. Why do you consider your anguish uniquely your own, when so many others have made it theirs through their love for you? Even the Goths grieve alongside you -- to say nothing of your own countrymen -- and you still bow beneath your passions as though you suffered alone?
Let the examples of the ancient patriarchs instruct you, I beg, and recall you from your grief to wholeness. Abraham, that most loving father, offered his only son to death -- what is more, with a glad heart -- and prepared the blade with a merciful parent's hand. Will you then seek out a son taken by heavenly judgment as though you were destitute, and burden with weeping one whose removal was God's own call? Let the example of David come to mind here, who walked before his son's bier rejoicing and giving thanks to God, because the divine favor had summoned from the blessed prophet's seed one whom perhaps it wished to reward.
If you cannot burst into joy as David's imitator, at least temper your sorrow with some imitation of that example. You will perhaps say that such things can scarcely be urged on a grieving heart, that there is no room for advice in a heavy tribulation, that the bereaved cannot see anything that encourages them toward life, and that the desolate find their only relief in calling upon death itself. To this you might add that you lost a good son whose mature character surpassed his tender years, claiming that your young man closed his premature years with a glorious end and that, amid the shipwreck of youth, he found safe harbor for his soul.
To these arguments of your grief -- though I, too, am sorrowful -- let me reply: the fact that he was taken early means he sinned less. What he preserved in this life, he added to the life everlasting of a better age. The repentance you say he made, even if it found nothing in him to wash away, found something to adorn -- for whenever repentance is granted to the innocent, it wins a crown through the act of humility.
You may answer: "Where shall I turn, brother, I who have nothing in this present light except tears?" I would add that a man who does not rejoice in the things of men can find nearness to God; that a clean conscience can take the place of a son, provided it finds God's saints as its heirs. If you are willing to hear me, I can show more than one path to a better life -- though your own perfection needs no advisor, nor does a man require a teacher whom his own reformed conduct has already made distinguished. Only weigh carefully the advice that is owed to your own good judgment and wisdom, and recall yourself to love of heavenly gifts -- the source from which we receive and cherish the very air we breathe, and whose author we worship and revere. These are the things I have woven together, great matters in a brief speech, while grieving -- sending you a testimony broken by sobs in place of eloquent abundance, as I exchange laments for conversation.
I. ENNODIVS ARMENIO CONSOLATORIAM.
Diu, frater carissime, festinante uoto consolatoriam ad te
paginam non emisi, ne putarer uel mihi subducere fletus, dum
uerba conpono, et in lamentationis dispendiis facere de gemitibus
decora sermonum et debitum planctum per loquelae
schemata dissipare, cum contra amicitiarum religionem et consanguinitatis
uincula secretum conscientiae patescat hostilis,
si, cum possis dupliciter defunctum flere, non facias, id est,
si oculorum ministerio nequaquam iungas oris officium. ubi,
dum lumina stimulis acta doloris inlacrimant, feriata sint
uerba plangentis? sed ego, hominum sincerissime, qui tristitiae
tuae obsequium in omni debeo parte qua ualeo, maerorem
meum, in quo tibi comes sum, uolui scriptione testari, ne in
una aetate effusarum interciperetur memoria lacrimarum uel
aestimaret posteritas me in filii tui morte hoc solum debuisse
quod solui, habens in hac uia uenerandorum exempla pontificum,
quorum imitatione nobilitantur quos in umbram merita
concluserunt. Ambrosius noster decedentem germanum teste
afflictionis suae libello prosecutus est. quem cum recenset
secuta proles, et scriptoris bene meminit et in Satyri fratris
I. 3 ff kae T rkm in ras . 4 misi b putaret T flemtas
Bx 6 loquellae B 7 scemata PT 8 uinc*la L u eras .
patiscat B 9 si-facias om. B\' add. corr . 8. I . deflere T
10 officicm V cm in um corr. m. 1 11 stimolis B, studijs P
sunt Sirm . 12 sincirissime B 13 qua B, quod LPTV (0 in
V in ras . tn. 1) merorem BLPTV 14 comis B scribtione
B, subscriptione T 16 fili B 17 habes T 18 nobilietantur
B 20 cum-bene om. B\' quem cum-bene meminit add.
corr. 8. I. et quem meminit exp . recensit B 21 saturi T
eius obitu lamenta coniungit, quia eius prouisione contigit
recentem dolorem ostentare, dum loquitur, et ante legentum
oculos semper exalantia spiritum iam diu defuncti membra
monstrare nec umquam pati ueterescere relationis fide funus,
quod anni potuerunt sepelire transacti. his ita se habentibus
oculorum oculorum refrena et animum, si placet, ad eius uerba
conuerte, qui tibi flens consolator occurrit. amisisse te filium
pene unicum et bonae indolis, quod patria non minus requirit
affectio, prouinciae ululatus ostendit, cum ad solacium gemitunm
tuorum suos iungens quid de eo senserit testatur uniuersitas.
tu tamen inter ista quasi specialis mali pressus nece
concluderis, nesciens temperandum quod per multorum dispersum
corda commune est. quare ergo propriam aestimes anxietatem
quam suam per affectum tuum fecere quam plurimi? tecum,
ut de cognata gente taceam, Gothus adfligitur, et tu adhuc
quasi solus propriis aestibus subiacens inclinaris ? instruant te,
quaeso, ueterum ornamenta maiorum et a maeroris ad bonam
ualitudinem intentione restituant. Abraham unicum filium
morti quasi pius pater, quod maius est, laetus exhibuit et ad
necem filii mucronem genitor misericors praeparauit. tu translatum
caelesti iudicio quasi orbatus inquiris et quem non
obtulisse sacrilegium fuit hunc oneras fletibus euocatum. in
qua causa Dauidicum tibi occurrat exemplum, qui feretrum
filii ouans et deo referens gratias antecessit, quod dignatio
superna de uenerandi prophetae semine quem forte
1 opitulalmenta B coniunget B 2 recentem contigit T
legentium P et Sirm . 4 unquam T ueteriscere B funiis
T\' 7 qui] quia B amissiase V 8 indoles B non
non nimis
minus Sinn., non nimis BIT, nominis L, nominis P (is corr.) b
requiret B 9 prouintiae V 10 senserit B, censent b, censeret
LPTV nece] onere fort . 12 corda dispersum T 13 aestimis
B 14 facere B 15 gotus BLPTV affligitur LPV, afficitur
T .16 aestibus] hostibus T instruante (te om.) BlL
17 maiorum susp. uidetur meroris PT, moeroris LV(?) 19 quasi]
quamuis fort . exibuit BL V 21 inquires B 22 obtullisse
Bx euocat T τ̃ in ras . 23 dauiticum BLPTV 24 fili B
de*o L e fort. eras . quid B\' 25 profetae L, profete B
muneraretur acciuerat. tu si eius aemulator non prorumpis in gaudium,
certe tempera sub aliqua praedicti imitatione maestitiam. replicabis
forsitan uix ista aegris animo posse suaderi et in graui
tribulatione locum non habere consilia, orbatum non respicere
quicquid hortatur ad uitam, unicum desolatos habere in euocanda
morte subsidium. his addas, quod frugi sobolem et quae
teneram aetatem uinceret morum modestia perdidisti, allegans
iuuenem tuum inmaturos annos, qui peccatis amici sunt,
glorioso fine clausisse et in aetatis naufragio ab eo de portu
animae fuisse tractatum. quibus ego dolorum tuorum fomentis
licet maestus opponam: minus peccauit, quod inmaturus abruptus
est: iunxit ad uitam perpetuam melioris saeculi quod
in ista seruauit: paenitentia, quam eum egisse loqueris, etsi
in ipso non inuenisset quod dilueret, inuenerat quod ornaret,
quae quotiens innocentibus datur, coronam pro humilitatis
affectione conciliat. ad haec respondeas: quo me uertam, frater,
qui praeter lacrimas in praesenti luce nil habeo ? adiciam, dei
proximitatem inuenire posse hominem, qui de hominum non
laetatur: in loco filii succedere posse conscientiam, quae sanctos
eius heredes inueniat. non unam ergo uiam, si audire digneris,
uitae melioris ostendam, licet tua non egeat monitore perfectio
nec magistro opus sit ei, quem fecerunt actuum suorum emendationes
et honestamenta conspicuum, nisi tantum ut adhortationis,
quam consilio tuo et prudentiae debes, fidem diligenter
expendas et ad caelestium munerum affectum te reuoces, unde
uitales auras et accipimus et amamus et gratum nobis fit
beneficium, cuius colimus et ueneramur auctorem. ista sunt,
1 acciaerat T in ras . m. 2 2 tpa T in ras. m. 2 replicaei
is B 4 consilium Bx 5 quidquid B in] et in
r
T 6 quae BLPTV, qua b 7 alligans B 10 tractum L
13 penitentia PlT et si] si Pb, etiam si Sirm . 16 conciliet
BT 17 nihil b, om. L 18 de homine Pb 20 ergo unam
T 21 aegeat B 22 magistrorum T act∗um L 24 debis
B 25 mune celestium T mune ce w ras . te inclusit
Schot . reuocis B 26 uitalia B fit BLV, sit PT b
27 colemus B actorem T et sic saepe ita L
quae breui sermone dolens magna contexui, ruptam singultibus
contestationem pro stili ubertate dirigens, dum muto lamenta
conloquiis.
◆
Ennodius to Armenius: A Consolation.
[Magnus Felix Ennodius (473/4-521) was a Gallo-Roman aristocrat who became Bishop of Pavia in 514. Before his episcopacy, he was a deacon and rhetorician. His letters are ornate, allusive, and intensely literary -- products of the same aristocratic culture as Sidonius Apollinaris, transplanted into Ostrogothic Italy.]
My dearest brother, for a long time I held back from sending you a letter of consolation, even though I wanted to urgently. I was afraid that in composing words I might seem to be stealing tears from myself -- turning sobs into elegant phrases in the midst of lamentation, and scattering the grief I owed through rhetorical figures of speech. It would be a betrayal of the bonds of friendship and kinship if, when you have the chance to mourn a death doubly, you fail to do so -- that is, if you refuse to add the service of your voice to the ministry of your eyes. When the eyes weep, driven by the stings of grief, should the words of the mourner fall silent?
But I, most honest of men, who owe service to your sorrow in every way I can, wished to put my grief on record in writing -- I who share it with you as a companion -- so that the memory of tears shed in one generation would not be lost, and so that future generations would not think that what I paid to the death of your son was all I owed. In this I follow the example of revered bishops: our own Ambrose [of Milan] accompanied the death of his brother with a published testimony of his grief. When later generations read that work, they remember the writer well and join their own laments to his mourning for his brother Satyrus. By Ambrose's foresight, it came about that fresh sorrow is displayed whenever someone reads those pages, that the limbs of a man long dead are shown still breathing their last before the reader's eyes, and that the faithfulness of the account never allows the death to grow old, though the years have long since buried it.
With this in mind, hold back the tears from your eyes and, if you will, turn your attention to the words of a man who comes to console you while weeping himself. You have lost a son -- nearly your only one -- and of good character, which calls forth a father's love no less than nature. The wailing of the whole province shows what he meant: by joining their own laments to yours, the entire community testifies to what they felt about him. Yet in the midst of all this, you shut yourself away as though crushed by a private misfortune, not knowing that what is spread through the hearts of so many is something shared, and must therefore be tempered. Why do you consider your anguish uniquely your own, when so many others have made it theirs through their love for you? Even the Goths grieve alongside you -- to say nothing of your own countrymen -- and you still bow beneath your passions as though you suffered alone?
Let the examples of the ancient patriarchs instruct you, I beg, and recall you from your grief to wholeness. Abraham, that most loving father, offered his only son to death -- what is more, with a glad heart -- and prepared the blade with a merciful parent's hand. Will you then seek out a son taken by heavenly judgment as though you were destitute, and burden with weeping one whose removal was God's own call? Let the example of David come to mind here, who walked before his son's bier rejoicing and giving thanks to God, because the divine favor had summoned from the blessed prophet's seed one whom perhaps it wished to reward.
If you cannot burst into joy as David's imitator, at least temper your sorrow with some imitation of that example. You will perhaps say that such things can scarcely be urged on a grieving heart, that there is no room for advice in a heavy tribulation, that the bereaved cannot see anything that encourages them toward life, and that the desolate find their only relief in calling upon death itself. To this you might add that you lost a good son whose mature character surpassed his tender years, claiming that your young man closed his premature years with a glorious end and that, amid the shipwreck of youth, he found safe harbor for his soul.
To these arguments of your grief -- though I, too, am sorrowful -- let me reply: the fact that he was taken early means he sinned less. What he preserved in this life, he added to the life everlasting of a better age. The repentance you say he made, even if it found nothing in him to wash away, found something to adorn -- for whenever repentance is granted to the innocent, it wins a crown through the act of humility.
You may answer: "Where shall I turn, brother, I who have nothing in this present light except tears?" I would add that a man who does not rejoice in the things of men can find nearness to God; that a clean conscience can take the place of a son, provided it finds God's saints as its heirs. If you are willing to hear me, I can show more than one path to a better life -- though your own perfection needs no advisor, nor does a man require a teacher whom his own reformed conduct has already made distinguished. Only weigh carefully the advice that is owed to your own good judgment and wisdom, and recall yourself to love of heavenly gifts -- the source from which we receive and cherish the very air we breathe, and whose author we worship and revere. These are the things I have woven together, great matters in a brief speech, while grieving -- sending you a testimony broken by sobs in place of eloquent abundance, as I exchange laments for conversation.
Modern English rendering for readability. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek for scholarly use.