Letter 3024: ---

Ennodius of PaviaMascator|c. 512 AD|Ennodius of Pavia
barbarian invasioneducation booksfriendshipmonasticism

---

**From:** Ennodius, deacon of Pavia
**To:** Mascator [identity uncertain; a well-placed correspondent who has pressed Ennodius to write]
**Date:** ~507–513 AD
**Context:** Mascator has asked Ennodius to write; Ennodius responds with an elaborate performance of mock self-deprecation — claiming his eloquence has been ruined by ascetic life and ecclesiastical humility, while demonstrating by the very length and artfulness of the letter that it remains entirely intact.

---

The diligence of your heart, charged with a new kind of inspiration, has done me honor. I make use here of the testimony of a style drawn out under pressure — I, who with my garrulousness displease the learned well beyond the measure of mere ignorance. A speech compelled by necessity steals whatever worth it possesses, since that worth does not in any case flow from eloquence itself. The affront a man displays only because he was commanded to do so was never worthy of punishment: no one justly condemns the man who obeys. Whoever provokes an untrained man must blame himself for the blows he receives from that man's rough and unpolished speech. It is arrogance not to obey one's superiors — and a greater arrogance still to despise what you know has come down from a willing hand. To refuse to love what you demand of another is taken as the mark of a corrupt and shameful desire. He who suspends all critical judgment over the one who simply complies is in effect endorsing his own assessment. That strictness is a wrongheaded severity which looks for merit in the one who merely does as he is told. He has not abandoned his post of modesty who says only what authority obliges him to say. And so with me: what is squalid in my eloquence is redeemed by my compliance. You shall see for yourself the quality of what you commanded me to offer; for my part, I reckon that you have gotten what you wished to receive — and at no cost to my honor.

I pass over in silence — though these are matters that should rightly have been placed first in any account — how ecclesiastical humility has renounced whatever might win applause; how one who loves fine speech has nonetheless not pursued the grand pomp of rhetorical display; how, out of regard for the demands of my calling, I flee even those things that lead toward glory — as if to shun as a moral failing whatever exalts me, to regard as sin whatever raises and elevates the spirit, to forfeit the deserved reward of honest praise by surrendering to the appetite for popular favor.

I will not hold up before you an excuse prettily touched up with the paintbrush of truth, while I go on to confess this: that I have already abandoned whatever the careful cultivation of the liberal arts once gave me — that my eloquence now trickles out like a barely-dripping drop from the parched bed of what was once a full and rushing river. I pass over too the fact that a different habit has dulled the tongue that practice had once made nimble; that silence has come to stand in place of eloquence for me; that I have learned to cherish lowliness rather than the tragic buskin [the high boot worn by actors in classical tragedy — a symbol of lofty literary ambition].

But I return to my point. Since I was not permitted to take shelter in the modest sanctuary of silence, nor to conceal the weakness of my talent beneath the garment of reticence, I shall count what I have set forth above as my complete defense. Yet goaded by affection, I have overrun the proper bounds of a letter with heedless wordiness.

Farewell, my lord. In paying you the honor of a greeting, I shall learn what you make of this letter of mine — whether from your silence or from a copious reply in kind.

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

Related Letters