Letter 115: The fact that you have the power to sway anything with the force of your words, and yet in the courtroom you never...
Libanius→Gaianus, a lawyer|c. 324 AD|Libanius|AI-assisted
education books
The fact that you have the power to sway anything with the force of your words, and yet in the courtroom you never slander anyone for any amount of gold -- and then you did this to me, and for no fee at that -- what am I to make of it?
Let me show you that you misread my remark. A brief backstory: you came to help a Phoenician man who was governing Phoenicia -- a man of good sense who knew exactly which stream of eloquence he needed. I wanted to see you and was glad when I did. After a brief conversation -- you were heading to lunch with someone -- I let you go.
The next day the courtroom had you and the school had me. I cut short my lecture as much as I could and ran to your courtroom barriers, thirsting for the sound of your voice and pushing through the crowd. But I couldn't hear you -- you'd already finished. All I heard was the abundant praise from other orators for a fellow orator. You left no room for envy, since you won by too wide a margin.
The day after that I came again at dawn, but the judge wasn't active yet. My students were calling for me. You spoke again, and again I heard secondhand how you'd performed, and I was pained by the obligation that kept me away...
**To Gaianus** (357)
That you, who have the power to carry everything by the force of your eloquence, should bring false charges against no one in court for any amount of gold, yet should do precisely this against me — and without even being paid for it — what is one to make of that?
But let me show you that you seized upon my remark unfairly. Let me begin a little further back. You came to assist a Phoenician who was governing Phoenicia — a man of intelligence who knew well what streams he needed. I had been longing to see you, and was delighted when I did. But after a brief conversation — for you had to go to lunch — I let you go.
The next day the court claimed you, and the lecture hall claimed me. I cut the length of my session as short as I could and ran to the barristers' bar, thirsting to hear you, pushing through the crowd with a commotion. But it was no longer possible to hear you, for you had finished. About you, however, I heard much that was fine — orators praising an orator. You left no room for envy, so far did you surpass them all.
On the day after that I came again at dawn, but the governor was not yet in session, and my students were calling for me. You were pleading your case, and once more I heard afterward how you had spoken, and I grieved and cursed the necessity that kept me away.
What need to say more? You won your verdict before I won my desire. Nevertheless, among those who had been present I counted myself — like those who travel to Elis but fail to see the statue of Zeus, yet are too ashamed to admit it and claim they saw it.
This was exactly my own predicament. When a good number of us were sitting around Eubulus — you and I among them — and people began singing your praises and looking toward me to see whether I agreed and whether I had actually heard the orator, I concealed my misfortune and told *them* I was one of those who had heard you. But to *you* I whispered the truth — that I had not heard you — meaning to show that you owed me a performance.
At the time you took no offense at this — or at least you did not show it. But once you left, you called it an insult — you did not escape my notice. Yet what is insulting about it, if neither praising a man is an insult nor confessing one's own bad luck?
"But we did not spend as much time together as we should have" — this too you reproach me with. The loss, at any rate, was shared. But surely it would be better for you to blame my busy schedule, and for me to blame yours, rather than for us to blame each other.
Come now, my excellent and good descendant of Demosthenes, do not judge friendships by such things, but by the love itself. Many men drink together every day who would gladly drink each other's blood.
As for you — let others play the Abydene. Keep to your own character, and as proof that you have not changed, do not make this man Boethus beg at length. He is a kinsman of the great Zenobius, a friend of mine, and an old man, as you can see — and he is being wronged.
The fact that you have the power to sway anything with the force of your words, and yet in the courtroom you never slander anyone for any amount of gold -- and then you did this to me, and for no fee at that -- what am I to make of it?
Let me show you that you misread my remark. A brief backstory: you came to help a Phoenician man who was governing Phoenicia -- a man of good sense who knew exactly which stream of eloquence he needed. I wanted to see you and was glad when I did. After a brief conversation -- you were heading to lunch with someone -- I let you go.
The next day the courtroom had you and the school had me. I cut short my lecture as much as I could and ran to your courtroom barriers, thirsting for the sound of your voice and pushing through the crowd. But I couldn't hear you -- you'd already finished. All I heard was the abundant praise from other orators for a fellow orator. You left no room for envy, since you won by too wide a margin.
The day after that I came again at dawn, but the judge wasn't active yet. My students were calling for me. You spoke again, and again I heard secondhand how you'd performed, and I was pained by the obligation that kept me away...
AI-assisted translation — This translation was produced with AI assistance and has not been peer-reviewed. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek below for scholarly use.