To Hierocles. (355)
If doing less than one's ability permits while willing counts as laziness, then I am far from that charge. I have written less than the occasion demanded, but illness prevented me from writing more.
Know, however, that your quarrel with this man has been a great misfortune for us. To see those who should above all be in harmony locked in strife, to grieve at what is happening yet be powerless to stop it — how could this not be a misfortune for me, for your brothers, and for all who bear you goodwill?
But what is more terrible still: Chromatius is gone — O Zeus and gods! — and again I will say it, Chromatius, who graced Palestine by being born there and graced Athens by receiving its gifts so well. He was glory to his family and a harbor to his friends. Alone among all whom I know, he was most admired and least envied. His words astounded, his character charmed — he was at once a formidable orator and a good man.
What shall I think of first, and for what shall I grieve first? That we shared a house at Athens? That we shared one table? That we delighted in the same things? That we thought about the same things? That we sharpened one another, each serving as the other's judge?
Or when he returned on his first visit, whom did he not surpass in acclaim and in all those things that seem to be the stock-in-trade of sophists? And indeed, he urged me to return again, and when I arrived he was worth as much as many men.
He did all this knowing it would displease someone, yet being the best of men toward me. The prospect of some blame from a certain person did not deter him from his courageous support of us; rather, he freely did what he thought right and brushed aside those who expected him to favor them at our expense, as people not entirely sound of mind.
While helping us in this way he fell ill, and though pressed by so great a malady he endured it in silence. Then, rising from his sickbed, he set out for Cilicia — and set out for Hades. And that place to which he departed, previously thought the most pleasant — how, do you suppose, it is now judged harsh?
As for me, when I first heard the news I was speechless for a long while. When at last I could break my silence, my first words were these: that the finest thing on earth has departed — a man more temperate than Peleus [the father of Achilles], no less beloved by the gods than Sophocles, powerful in speech, even better in judgment, a true friend, in no way inferior to those famous Syracusans whose devotion was demonstrated under the tyranny of Dionysius.
All this I recounted, Hierocles, through tears. Then from the very things I wept over, a thought came to me: that one should not weep. For to have lived so nobly is itself a consolation at death. What he suffered is the common lot; but the things for which he is praised — those are not common.
And so you should rather rejoice that you possessed such a nephew and son-in-law than be stricken by what has happened. Consider that all things are done by the will of the gods, and the gods would not do anything bad to a man of such virtue. They are just, and would not punish one whom they ought to honor.
He did not die, then, because he had suffered anything terrible, but for something better. For it seems to me that the gods, judging the man too good to spend his time on earth and fit for their own company, carried him hence to heaven. This is how you yourself must think, and how you must persuade your daughter to think — and believe that it is worthy of his education that you know how to bear this.
If doing less than one's ability permits while willing counts as laziness, then I am far from that charge. I have written less than the occasion demanded, but illness prevented me from writing more.
Know, however, that your quarrel with this man has been a great misfortune for us. To see those who should above all be in harmony locked in strife, to grieve at what is happening yet be powerless to stop it — how could this not be a misfortune for me, for your brothers, and for all who bear you goodwill?
But what is more terrible still: Chromatius is gone — O Zeus and gods! — and again I will say it, Chromatius, who graced Palestine by being born there and graced Athens by receiving its gifts so well. He was glory to his family and a harbor to his friends. Alone among all whom I know, he was most admired and least envied. His words astounded, his character charmed — he was at once a formidable orator and a good man.
What shall I think of first, and for what shall I grieve first? That we shared a house at Athens? That we shared one table? That we delighted in the same things? That we thought about the same things? That we sharpened one another, each serving as the other's judge?
Or when he returned on his first visit, whom did he not surpass in acclaim and in all those things that seem to be the stock-in-trade of sophists? And indeed, he urged me to return again, and when I arrived he was worth as much as many men.
He did all this knowing it would displease someone, yet being the best of men toward me. The prospect of some blame from a certain person did not deter him from his courageous support of us; rather, he freely did what he thought right and brushed aside those who expected him to favor them at our expense, as people not entirely sound of mind.
While helping us in this way he fell ill, and though pressed by so great a malady he endured it in silence. Then, rising from his sickbed, he set out for Cilicia — and set out for Hades. And that place to which he departed, previously thought the most pleasant — how, do you suppose, it is now judged harsh?
As for me, when I first heard the news I was speechless for a long while. When at last I could break my silence, my first words were these: that the finest thing on earth has departed — a man more temperate than Peleus [the father of Achilles], no less beloved by the gods than Sophocles, powerful in speech, even better in judgment, a true friend, in no way inferior to those famous Syracusans whose devotion was demonstrated under the tyranny of Dionysius.
All this I recounted, Hierocles, through tears. Then from the very things I wept over, a thought came to me: that one should not weep. For to have lived so nobly is itself a consolation at death. What he suffered is the common lot; but the things for which he is praised — those are not common.
And so you should rather rejoice that you possessed such a nephew and son-in-law than be stricken by what has happened. Consider that all things are done by the will of the gods, and the gods would not do anything bad to a man of such virtue. They are just, and would not punish one whom they ought to honor.
He did not die, then, because he had suffered anything terrible, but for something better. For it seems to me that the gods, judging the man too good to spend his time on earth and fit for their own company, carried him hence to heaven. This is how you yourself must think, and how you must persuade your daughter to think — and believe that it is worthy of his education that you know how to bear this.
Modern English rendering for readability. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek for scholarly use.