To Himerius.
I could not read without tears the letter you wrote after your wife's death. The event itself calls for sorrow: a young and virtuous wife, the joy of her husband's heart, the mother of precious children, snatched away prematurely — like a torch that blazes brightly for a moment and then goes dark. But the fact that this sorrow has come to you makes it even more grievous. Our good Himerius, excellent orator that he is, and of all my friends the most beloved, deserved this least of all.
If I were writing to anyone else, I would fill my letter with the usual consolations — that death is the common lot, that we must submit, that excessive grief accomplishes nothing, and all the other platitudes considered appropriate for alleviating suffering. But since it would be demeaning to offer a man who instructs others the kind of arguments used to school the ignorant, I will skip all that.
Instead, let me tell you a story — a fable, or perhaps a true account — of a certain wise man. It may not be new to you, though it is probably unfamiliar to most people. Use it as a drug to relieve your pain, and you will find release from your sorrow as surely as from that cup the Spartan woman offered Telemachus when his need was as great as yours.
The story goes that when Darius was consumed by grief over the death of a beautiful wife, Democritus of Abdera could not console him with any argument. So he promised instead to bring her back to life — on one condition: that Darius inscribe on her tomb the names of three people who had never known grief. Darius could not find even one such person. And Democritus said: "Then why do you grieve without measure, as though you alone had suffered, when you cannot find a single person untouched by sorrow?"
[The letter continues with Julian urging Himerius to find consolation in philosophy and in the memory of his wife's virtues.]
To Himerius 5
I could not read without tears the letter which you wrote after your wife's death, in which you told me of your surpassing grief. For not only does the
event in itself call for sorrow, when a young and virtuous wife, the joy of her husband's heart,1 and moreover the mother of precious children, is prematurely snatched away like a torch that has been kindled and shines brightly, and in a little while its flame dies down, but over and above this, the fact that it is you to whom this sorrow has come seems to me to make it still more grievous. For least of all men did our good Himerius deserve to experience any affliction, excellent orator that he is, and of all my friends the best beloved. Moreover, if it were any other man to whom I had to write about this, I should certainly have had to use more words in dealing with it; for instance, I should have said that such an event is the common lot, that we must needs submit, that nothing is gained by excessive grief, and I should have uttered all the other commonplaces considered appropriate for the alleviation of suffering, that is if I were exhorting one who did not know them. But since I think it unbecoming to offer to a man who well knows how to instruct others the sort of argument by which one must school those who are too ignorant for self-control, see now, I will forbear all such phrases; but I will relate to you a fable, or it may be a true story, of a certain wise man, which perhaps is not new to you, though it is probably unfamiliar to most people; and if you will use this and this alone, as though it were a drug to relieve pain, you will find release from your sorrow, as surely as from that cup which the Spartan woman 2 is believed to have offered to Telemachus when his need was as
great as your own. Now the story is that when Darius was in great grief for the death of a beautiful wife, Democritus1 of Abdera could not by any argument succeed in consoling him; and so he promised him that he would bring back the departed to life, if Darius were willing to undertake to supply him with everything necessary for the purpose. Darius bade him spare no expense but take whatever he needed and make good his promise. After waiting a little, Democritus said that he was provided with everything else for carrying out his task, but still needed one thing only, which he himself did not know how to obtain; Darius, however, as King of all Asia, would perhaps find it without difficulty. And when the King asked him what it might be, this great thing which it was possible for only a king to know of, they say that Democritus in reply declared that if he would inscribe on his wife's tomb the names of three persons who had never mourned for anyone, she would straightway come to life again, since she could not disobey the authority of this mystic rite. Then Darius was in a dilemma, and could not find any man who had not had to bear some great sorrow, whereupon Democritus burst out laughing,2 as was his wont, and said: "Why, then, Ο most absurd of men, do you mourn without ceasing, as though you were the only man who had ever been involved in so great a grief, you who cannot discover a single person of all who have ever lived who was without his share of personal sorrow?" But though it was necessary to say these things to Darius, a barbarian and a man of no education, the slave
both of pleasure and of grief, you, on the other hand, are a Greek, and honour true learning, and you must find your remedy from within; for surely it would be a disgrace to the reasoning faculty if it had not the same potency as time.
5 Of Hertlein's "Amerius" we know nothing. See Introduction, under
Himerius.
1 An echo of Iliad 9. 336.
2 Helen, Odyssey 4. 220, a rhetorical commonplace; cf. Vol. 2,
Oration 8. 240b, p. 167, note.
1 The Atomistic philosopher, cf. Diels, Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker 2. 16. 41. This is a traditional anecdote, told of Herodes Atticus and Demonax by Lucian, Demonax 25, and only here of Darius and Democritus.
2 Democritus was known as "the laughing Philosopher" cf. Oration 6. 186c, Vol. 2, p. 20, Wright.
I could not read without tears the letter you wrote after your wife's death. The event itself calls for sorrow: a young and virtuous wife, the joy of her husband's heart, the mother of precious children, snatched away prematurely — like a torch that blazes brightly for a moment and then goes dark. But the fact that this sorrow has come to you makes it even more grievous. Our good Himerius, excellent orator that he is, and of all my friends the most beloved, deserved this least of all.
If I were writing to anyone else, I would fill my letter with the usual consolations — that death is the common lot, that we must submit, that excessive grief accomplishes nothing, and all the other platitudes considered appropriate for alleviating suffering. But since it would be demeaning to offer a man who instructs others the kind of arguments used to school the ignorant, I will skip all that.
Instead, let me tell you a story — a fable, or perhaps a true account — of a certain wise man. It may not be new to you, though it is probably unfamiliar to most people. Use it as a drug to relieve your pain, and you will find release from your sorrow as surely as from that cup the Spartan woman offered Telemachus when his need was as great as yours.
The story goes that when Darius was consumed by grief over the death of a beautiful wife, Democritus of Abdera could not console him with any argument. So he promised instead to bring her back to life — on one condition: that Darius inscribe on her tomb the names of three people who had never known grief. Darius could not find even one such person. And Democritus said: "Then why do you grieve without measure, as though you alone had suffered, when you cannot find a single person untouched by sorrow?"
[The letter continues with Julian urging Himerius to find consolation in philosophy and in the memory of his wife's virtues.]