To Aristainetos. (355 AD)
When we heard your wife was ill, we shared your pain, imagining how you must feel as she suffered. And when I learned of her death, I cried out, thinking it a terrible thing that Aristainetos — a man whose nature suits festivals — should be in mourning.
I set out to console you with words, but held back, afraid that in presuming to know you well I might be caught in ignorance. For the remedies I would have offered — the lines of Pindar and Simonides, and all the medicines we customarily draw from tragedy against grief — you seemed to me to have known long ago and to be capable of saying to others yourself. I reasoned, then, that if such things can put sorrow to sleep, you would heal yourself; and if they cannot, they would be said in vain even by another. For these reasons I set that aside and instead give you an account of what happened over the winter.
We began the term with a prologue and a kind of competition on one of Demosthenes' speeches. The prologue was a prayer to Fortune for a stable home, and the competition took many forms. After I rose to speak, seventeen new students enrolled. Meanwhile, I believe, good Zenobios fell ill.
Then I threw myself into teaching, and the nations poured in — citizens and foreigners alike, all wanting to learn what sort of man I was. That I was no poor craftsman of words was already conceded; the other question — whether I was equally good in person — was being tested. Some judged me no worse in the flesh, others even better, so that within a few days my chorus numbered fifty students. There was no time for lunch; one had to work until evening. Among the things that won admiration was my mastery over my stomach.
Strategios arrived, and I welcomed the man with a speech — brief, as is proper for an address of welcome, but one that pleased both him and everyone else. My rival — for I call him what he calls himself — threatened to deliver one too. The promise was the performance.
Seeing that the pedagogues [student-recruiters] had grown powerful by selling students, and that the dignity of the lecture halls was being destroyed, I urged my fellow citizens not to tolerate this but to take offense and put a stop to it. Considerable anger arose against the offenders. My rival threatened to speak in their defense. Again, the promise was the performance.
Zenobios died, and I composed a monody on returning from his grave. Shortly after, I delivered a longer eulogy for my teacher, and it was judged no mean payment of my debt to him. My rival promised he would speak — when his father dies. His father is still alive.
While all this was going on, the three die-hards who had shamelessly held out — bribed with lavish dinners — finally gave in.
I needed a rest, but my uncle [Phasganios] was never satisfied. Kyrinos too was among those who would not relent; he kept his son with me, imitating you in his devotion to my work, and me in my devotion to yours.
I then performed a declamation — one of those fictitious courtroom exercises. The audience danced with delight, having been raised on such things, and when I had reached the middle of the speech they begged me to compose the counter-argument with equal art. I wrote it and delivered it as quickly as I could. The speech was a brother to the first, and my enemies' position was shaken.
My rival, fearing he would be stripped bare, entered the fray as if to hold back the defections — but only stirred up revolts that would never have occurred had he kept quiet.
When we heard your wife was ill, we shared your pain, imagining how you must feel as she suffered. And when I learned of her death, I cried out, thinking it a terrible thing that Aristainetos — a man whose nature suits festivals — should be in mourning.
I set out to console you with words, but held back, afraid that in presuming to know you well I might be caught in ignorance. For the remedies I would have offered — the lines of Pindar and Simonides, and all the medicines we customarily draw from tragedy against grief — you seemed to me to have known long ago and to be capable of saying to others yourself. I reasoned, then, that if such things can put sorrow to sleep, you would heal yourself; and if they cannot, they would be said in vain even by another. For these reasons I set that aside and instead give you an account of what happened over the winter.
We began the term with a prologue and a kind of competition on one of Demosthenes' speeches. The prologue was a prayer to Fortune for a stable home, and the competition took many forms. After I rose to speak, seventeen new students enrolled. Meanwhile, I believe, good Zenobios fell ill.
Then I threw myself into teaching, and the nations poured in — citizens and foreigners alike, all wanting to learn what sort of man I was. That I was no poor craftsman of words was already conceded; the other question — whether I was equally good in person — was being tested. Some judged me no worse in the flesh, others even better, so that within a few days my chorus numbered fifty students. There was no time for lunch; one had to work until evening. Among the things that won admiration was my mastery over my stomach.
Strategios arrived, and I welcomed the man with a speech — brief, as is proper for an address of welcome, but one that pleased both him and everyone else. My rival — for I call him what he calls himself — threatened to deliver one too. The promise was the performance.
Seeing that the pedagogues [student-recruiters] had grown powerful by selling students, and that the dignity of the lecture halls was being destroyed, I urged my fellow citizens not to tolerate this but to take offense and put a stop to it. Considerable anger arose against the offenders. My rival threatened to speak in their defense. Again, the promise was the performance.
Zenobios died, and I composed a monody on returning from his grave. Shortly after, I delivered a longer eulogy for my teacher, and it was judged no mean payment of my debt to him. My rival promised he would speak — when his father dies. His father is still alive.
While all this was going on, the three die-hards who had shamelessly held out — bribed with lavish dinners — finally gave in.
I needed a rest, but my uncle [Phasganios] was never satisfied. Kyrinos too was among those who would not relent; he kept his son with me, imitating you in his devotion to my work, and me in my devotion to yours.
I then performed a declamation — one of those fictitious courtroom exercises. The audience danced with delight, having been raised on such things, and when I had reached the middle of the speech they begged me to compose the counter-argument with equal art. I wrote it and delivered it as quickly as I could. The speech was a brother to the first, and my enemies' position was shaken.
My rival, fearing he would be stripped bare, entered the fray as if to hold back the defections — but only stirred up revolts that would never have occurred had he kept quiet.
Modern English rendering for readability. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek for scholarly use.