To Serranus.
Your friend Marcellinus — a man of skill and a friend's friend — delivered your letter. After its opening greeting, the rest of its considerable length was devoted to praising your patron, the emperor Petronius Maximus [Roman emperor for barely two months in 455, before being lynched by a mob as the Vandals approached Rome]. You persist in calling him "the most fortunate" — rather stubbornly and lovingly, I think, than accurately or truthfully — because he was elevated through the highest titles of office all the way to the imperial throne.
But I can never agree with the proposition that men who stand on the perilous and slippery heights of political power are fortunate. For the hourly miseries endured in this life by those so-called happy men are beyond description — if they even deserve the title that Sulla claimed for himself [Sulla styled himself "Felix," the Fortunate]. Having climbed beyond all law and custom, they consider supreme power to be supreme happiness — all the more miserable because they fail to understand that they are subject to the most restless of all servitudes. For just as kings rule over men, so the desire to dominate rules over kings.
If we set aside the fates of earlier and later emperors, your own particular Maximus can serve as the supreme example. Though he had climbed fearlessly to the heights of the prefectural, patrician, and consular offices — repeating those he had already held with an insatiable appetite — when he finally reached the precipice of imperial power, he suffered a kind of vertigo of immense authority and could not bear to be master, having never learned to bear being under one.
So compare the grace, power, and duration of his earlier life with the origin, turbulence, and end of his barely two-month principate: you will find that the man was happier before he was called "most happy." The man whose earlier banquets, manners, wealth, processions, literary pursuits, offices, fortunes, and patronage all flourished — the man whose very daily schedule was so carefully guarded that it was measured out by the hours of a water-clock — the moment he was proclaimed Augustus and enclosed within the palace walls, he groaned before dawn that his prayers had been answered. Forbidden by the weight of his cares from maintaining the measured routine of his former peace, he instantly abandoned the rules of his old way of life and realized that the business of an emperor and the leisure of a senator simply cannot coexist.
Nor did the future disappoint his present gloom. For though he had sailed through every other palace honor in perfect calm, the palace itself he governed in the wildest storm — amid the tumults of soldiers, civilians, and federate allies. And his end proved it: sudden, swift, and bitter — bloodied by the treacherous conclusion of Fortune, who had long been flattering him and now, like a scorpion, struck with her tail.
Fulgentius — a literary man who had earned the rank of quaestor through his talent, certainly a man of the best party — used to say he had heard from Maximus's own lips, repeatedly, that when he was sick of the weight of empire and longing for his old security, Maximus would say: "Happy Damocles — you had to endure the necessity of kingship for only a single lunch."
For Damocles, as we read, was a Sicilian from Syracuse, an intimate of the tyrant Dionysius. When he praised his patron's blessings with extravagant enthusiasm — as one naturally does who has not experienced them — Dionysius said: "Would you like to enjoy my blessings and my burdens, just for today, at this table?" "Gladly," said Damocles. The tyrant immediately stripped the delighted but stunned man of his common clothes, dressed him in Tyrian purple, and set him reclining on a golden couch draped in silk and studded with gems and pearls.
As the guest was about to dine in the style of Sardanapalus — bread from the finest Leontine wheat, exquisite dishes on even more exquisite platters, great jeweled cups foaming with Falernian wine, perfumes warming in crystal coolers, the dining room fragrant with cinnamon and incense, garlands of flowers drying his scented hair — suddenly a bare sword began to quiver above his reclining back, hanging from the ceiling by a single horsehair, threatening to plunge into his purple-clad throat at any moment. Like Tantalus, the terrified man dared not open his mouth, lest the food that entered it exit through a wound.
After many tears and desperate prayers, he was barely released — and he fled that royal luxury and those regal delicacies with the same speed that men usually pursue them. He returned to the desires of ordinary men, cured by the terror of the heights, and was careful never again to call anyone blessed who sat surrounded by guards and weapons, pressing on stolen wealth while pressed upon by steel.
To a condition of this kind, my dear brother, I do not know whether the blessed seek to rise — but it is clear that the wretched do arrive there. Farewell.
EPISTULA XIII
Sidonius Serrano suo salutem.
1. Epistulam tuam nobis Marcellinus togatus exhibuit, homo peritus virque amicorum. quae primoribus verbis salutatione libata reliquo sui tractu, qui quidem grandis est, patroni tui Petronii Maximi imperatoris laudes habebat; quem tamen tu pertinacius aut amabilius quam rectius veriusque felicissimum appellas, propter hoc quippe, cur per amplissimos fascium titulos fuerit evectus usque ad imperium. sed sententiae tali numquam ego assentior, ut fortunatos putem qui reipublicae praecipitibus ac lubricis culminibus insistunt.
2. nam dici nequit, quantum per horas fert in hac vita miseriarum vita felicium istorum, si tamen sic sunt pronuntiandi qui sibi hoc nomen ut Sylla praesumunt, nimirum qui supergressi ius fasque commune summam beatitudinem existimant summam potestatem, hoc ipso satis miseriores, quod parum intellegunt inquietissimo se subiacere famulatui. nam sicut hominibus reges, ita regibus dominandi desideria dominantur.
3. hic si omittamus antecedentium principum casus vel subsecutorum, solus iste peculiaris tuus Maximus maximo nobis documento poterit esse, qui quamquam in arcem praefectoriam patriciam consularemque intrepidus ascenderat eosque quos gesserat magistratus ceu recurrentibus orbitis inexpletus iteraverat, cum tamen venit omnibus viribus ad principalis apicis abruptum, quandam potestatis inmensae vertiginem sub corona patiebatur nec sustinebat dominus esse, qui non sustinuerat esse sub domino.
4. denique require in supradicto vitae prioris gratiam potentiam diuturnitatem eque diverso principatus paulo amplius quam bimenstris originem turbinem finem: profecto invenies hominem beatiorem prius fuisse quam beatissimus nominaretur. igitur ille, cuius anterius epulae mores, pecuniae pompae, litterae fasces, patrimonia patrocinia florebant, cuius ipsa sic denique spatia vitae custodiebantur, ut per horarum disposita clepsydras explicarentur, is nuncupatus Augustus ac sub hac specie Palatinis liminibus inclusus ante crepusculum ingemuit, quod ad vota pervenerat. cumque mole curarum pristinae quietis tenere dimensum prohiberetur, veteris actutum regulae legibus renuntiavit atque perspexit pariter ire non posse negotium principis et otium senatoris.
5. nec fefellerunt futura maerentem; namque cum ceteros aulicos honores tranquillissime percurrisset, ipsam aulam turbulentissime rexit inter tumultus militum popularium foederatorum; quod et exitus prodidit novus celer acerbus, quem cruentavit Fortunae diu lenocinantis perfidus finis, quae virum ut scorpius ultima sui parte percussit. dicere solebat vir litteratus atque ob ingenii merita quaestorius, partium certe bonarum pars magna, Fulgentius ore se ex eius frequenter audisse, cum perosus pondus imperii veterem securitatem desideraret: 'felicem te, Damocles, qui non uno longius prandio regni necessitatem toleravisti.'
6. iste enim, ut legimus, Damocles provincia Siculus, urbe Syracusanus, familiaris tyranno Dionysio fuit. qui cum nimiis laudibus bona patroni ut cetera scilicet inexpertus efferret: 'vis', inquit Dionysius, 'hodie saltim in hac mensa bonis meis pariter ac malis uti?' 'libenter', inquit. tunc ille confestim laetum clientem quamquam et attonitum plebeio tegmine erepto muricis Tyrii seu Tarentini conchyliato ditat indutu et renidentem gemmis margaritisque aureo lecto sericatoque toreumati imponit.
7. cumque pransuro Sardanapallicum in morem panis daretur e Leontina segete confectus, insuper dapes cultae ferculis cultioribus apponerentur, spumarent Falerno gemmae capaces inque crystallis calerent unguenta glacialibus, hinc suffita cinnamo ac ture cenatio spargeret peregrinos naribus odores et madescentes nardo capillos circumfusa florum serta siccarent, coepit supra tergum sic recumbentis repente vibrari mucro destrictus e lacunaribus, qui videbatur in iugulum purpurati iam iamque ruiturus; nam filo equinae saetae ligatus et ita pondere minax ut acumine gulam formidolosi Tantaleo frenabat exemplo, ne cibi ingressi per ora per vulnera exirent.
8. unde post mixtas fletibus preces atque multimoda suspiria vix absolutus emicatimque prosiliens illa refugit celeritate divitias deliciasque regales, qua solent appeti, reductus ad desideria mediocrium timore summorum et satis cavens, ne beatum ultra diceret duceretque qui saeptus armis ac satellitibus et per hoc raptis incubans opibus ferro pressus premeret aurum. quapropter ad statum huiusmodi, domine frater, nescio an constet tendere beatos, patet certe miseros pervenire. vale.
EPISTULA XIV.
Sidonius Maurusio suo salutem.
1. Audio industriae tuae votisque communibus uberiore proventu, quam minabatur sterilis annus, respondere vindemiam. unde et in pago Vialoscensi, qui Martialis aetate citeriore vocitatus est propter hiberna legionum Iulianarum, suspicor diuturnius te moraturum; quo loci tibi cum ferax vinea est, tum praeter ipsam praedium magno non minus domino, quod te tuosque plurifaria frugum mansionumque dote remoretur.
2. ilicet si horreis apothecisque seu penu impleta destinas illic usque ad adventum hirundineum vel ciconinum Iani Numaeque ninguidos menses in otio fuliginoso sive tunicata quiete transmittere, nobis quoque parum in oppido fructuosae protinus amputabuntur causae morarum, ut, dum ipse nimirum frueris rure, nos te fruamur, quibus, ut recognoscis, non magis cordi est aut voluptati ager cum reditibus amplis, quam vicinus aequalis cum bonis moribus. vale.
Apollinaris Sidonius
The Miscellany
The Latin Library
The Classics Page
◆
To Serranus.
Your friend Marcellinus — a man of skill and a friend's friend — delivered your letter. After its opening greeting, the rest of its considerable length was devoted to praising your patron, the emperor Petronius Maximus [Roman emperor for barely two months in 455, before being lynched by a mob as the Vandals approached Rome]. You persist in calling him "the most fortunate" — rather stubbornly and lovingly, I think, than accurately or truthfully — because he was elevated through the highest titles of office all the way to the imperial throne.
But I can never agree with the proposition that men who stand on the perilous and slippery heights of political power are fortunate. For the hourly miseries endured in this life by those so-called happy men are beyond description — if they even deserve the title that Sulla claimed for himself [Sulla styled himself "Felix," the Fortunate]. Having climbed beyond all law and custom, they consider supreme power to be supreme happiness — all the more miserable because they fail to understand that they are subject to the most restless of all servitudes. For just as kings rule over men, so the desire to dominate rules over kings.
If we set aside the fates of earlier and later emperors, your own particular Maximus can serve as the supreme example. Though he had climbed fearlessly to the heights of the prefectural, patrician, and consular offices — repeating those he had already held with an insatiable appetite — when he finally reached the precipice of imperial power, he suffered a kind of vertigo of immense authority and could not bear to be master, having never learned to bear being under one.
So compare the grace, power, and duration of his earlier life with the origin, turbulence, and end of his barely two-month principate: you will find that the man was happier before he was called "most happy." The man whose earlier banquets, manners, wealth, processions, literary pursuits, offices, fortunes, and patronage all flourished — the man whose very daily schedule was so carefully guarded that it was measured out by the hours of a water-clock — the moment he was proclaimed Augustus and enclosed within the palace walls, he groaned before dawn that his prayers had been answered. Forbidden by the weight of his cares from maintaining the measured routine of his former peace, he instantly abandoned the rules of his old way of life and realized that the business of an emperor and the leisure of a senator simply cannot coexist.
Nor did the future disappoint his present gloom. For though he had sailed through every other palace honor in perfect calm, the palace itself he governed in the wildest storm — amid the tumults of soldiers, civilians, and federate allies. And his end proved it: sudden, swift, and bitter — bloodied by the treacherous conclusion of Fortune, who had long been flattering him and now, like a scorpion, struck with her tail.
Fulgentius — a literary man who had earned the rank of quaestor through his talent, certainly a man of the best party — used to say he had heard from Maximus's own lips, repeatedly, that when he was sick of the weight of empire and longing for his old security, Maximus would say: "Happy Damocles — you had to endure the necessity of kingship for only a single lunch."
For Damocles, as we read, was a Sicilian from Syracuse, an intimate of the tyrant Dionysius. When he praised his patron's blessings with extravagant enthusiasm — as one naturally does who has not experienced them — Dionysius said: "Would you like to enjoy my blessings and my burdens, just for today, at this table?" "Gladly," said Damocles. The tyrant immediately stripped the delighted but stunned man of his common clothes, dressed him in Tyrian purple, and set him reclining on a golden couch draped in silk and studded with gems and pearls.
As the guest was about to dine in the style of Sardanapalus — bread from the finest Leontine wheat, exquisite dishes on even more exquisite platters, great jeweled cups foaming with Falernian wine, perfumes warming in crystal coolers, the dining room fragrant with cinnamon and incense, garlands of flowers drying his scented hair — suddenly a bare sword began to quiver above his reclining back, hanging from the ceiling by a single horsehair, threatening to plunge into his purple-clad throat at any moment. Like Tantalus, the terrified man dared not open his mouth, lest the food that entered it exit through a wound.
After many tears and desperate prayers, he was barely released — and he fled that royal luxury and those regal delicacies with the same speed that men usually pursue them. He returned to the desires of ordinary men, cured by the terror of the heights, and was careful never again to call anyone blessed who sat surrounded by guards and weapons, pressing on stolen wealth while pressed upon by steel.
To a condition of this kind, my dear brother, I do not know whether the blessed seek to rise — but it is clear that the wretched do arrive there. Farewell.
Modern English rendering for readability. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek for scholarly use.