To Petreius.
I am deeply grieved by the loss to our age of your uncle Claudianus [Claudianus Mamertus, the philosopher-priest of Vienne], who has been taken from our sight. I wonder whether we shall ever see his equal again. He was a man of foresight, prudence, learning, and eloquence — sharp-minded and the most brilliant person of his time, place, and people — one who never ceased to philosophize while keeping his faith intact. Though he neither grew his hair long nor kept a beard, though he now mocked and now positively execrated the philosopher's cloak and staff, he was separated from the school of Platonists only by his dress and his creed.
Good God, what it was like whenever we gathered in his company simply for the joy of consultation! How freely he would open his entire knowledge to everyone, without hesitation or condescension, counting it the greatest pleasure when some insoluble philosophical knot forced open the treasures of his learning. When many of us sat together, he would assign the duty of listening to everyone while granting the right to speak to only one person at a time — each in turn, not all at once — and without theatrical gesture, he would dispense the riches of his learning.
Whatever he said, we would immediately challenge with opposing syllogisms; but he repelled all our reckless objections, so that nothing was accepted without being thoroughly weighed and tested. This is precisely why we held him in the deepest reverence — that he did not resent sluggish compliance from some of us. This was a forgivable fault in his eyes, which meant that his patience was admirable to us, even if we could not imitate it. For who would reluctantly consult a man on difficult subjects when even the questions of ignorant amateurs were never turned away from his conversation?
These few words about his intellectual life. But who could adequately praise the rest — that, always mindful of the human condition, he consoled the grieving with his words, the destitute with his help, the captives with ransom, the hungry with food, the naked with clothing? I judge it unnecessary to say more on these points. For he was more eager to conceal the merits by which he enriched his conscience through the poverty of his purse, in hope of future reward.
He observed his brother the bishop [Mamertus, bishop of Vienne] — his elder — with the deepest affection, loving him as a son while revering him as a father. And his brother in turn looked up to him enormously, finding in him a counselor in judgments, a deputy in church affairs, a steward of business, a manager of estates, an accountant for taxes, a companion in reading, and an interpreter in exposition. So faithfully did each repay the other's brotherly devotion that it aroused the envy of those who witnessed it.
But why do we feed the flames of our grief when we meant to moderate it? As I was saying, I have composed a sad funeral poem over his ashes — "ungrateful ashes," as Virgil puts it, since they will not repay the favor. It came with some difficulty, since long disuse had made composition hard, but grief heavy with tears spurred even my most naturally lazy mind:
Brother's glory, brother's grief — Mamertus mourns —
sole boast among admiring bishops:
here in this turf lies Claudianus,
under whose mastery a triple library —
Roman, Greek, and Christian — flourished.
All this he drank in as a monk,
in the green years of his youth,
through secret study:
orator, logician, poet,
theologian, geometer, musician,
skilled at untying knotted questions
and cutting down heresies
with the sword of the Word
that dared attack the Catholic faith.
He set the psalms to music, trained the choirs,
and taught the ordered ranks to sing
before the altar, to his brother's joy.
He prepared the readings for each annual feast,
assigning what was fitting for each season.
He was a bishop in the second rank,
lifting from his brother's shoulders
the weight of the episcopal burden:
for while his brother held the title,
he did the work.
But you, dear reader, who grieve
as though nothing survives so great a man,
spare your wet cheeks — do not water the marble:
the mind and the glory cannot be buried.
There it is — the poem I wrote over my dear friend's bones as soon as I arrived. I was not present for the funeral, but I did not entirely lose the cherished opportunity to mourn. For while I was composing, I gave my tears free rein and produced the epitaph that others had produced at the tomb. I have written this to you so you would not think I cultivate only the friendships of the living, or judge me guilty of failing to remember dead friends as faithfully as living ones. For if the semblance of loyalty is barely maintained even toward the living, you may rightly conclude that very few are those who love the dead. Farewell.
EPISTULA XI
Sidonius Petreio suo salutem.
1. Angit me nimis damnum saeculi mei nuper erepto avunculo tuo Claudiano oculis nostris, ambigo an quempiam deinceps parem conspicaturis. vir siquidem fuit providus prudens, doctus eloquens, acer et hominum aevi loci populi sui ingeniosissimus quique indesinenter salva religione philosopharetur; et licet crinem barbamque non pasceret, pallium et clavam nunc inrideret, nunc etiam execraretur, a collegio tamen conplatonicorum solo habitu ac fide dissociabatur.
2. deus bone, quid erat illud, quotiens ad eum [sola] consultationis gratia conveniebamus! quam ille omnibus statum totum non dubitans, non fastidiens aperiebat, voluptuosissimum reputans, si forte oborta quarumpiam quaestionum insolubilitate labyrinthica scientiae suae thesauri eventilarentur. iam si frequentes consederamus, officium audiendi omnibus <iniungebat>, uni solum quem forsitan elegissemus deputans ius loquendi, viritim vicissimque, non tumultuatim nec sine schematis cuiuspiam gestu artificioso doctrinae suae opes erogaturus.
3. dein quaecumque dixisset protinus reluctantium syllogismorum contrarietatibus excipiebamus; sed repellebat omnium nostrum temerarias oppositiones: itaque nihil non perpensum probatumque recipiebatur. hinc etiam illi apud nos maxima reverentia fuit, quod non satis ferebat aegre pigram in quibuspiam sequacitatem. haec apud eum culpa veniabilis erat; quo fiebat esset ut nobis patientia eiusdem sine imitatione laudabilis. quis enim virum super abditis consuleret invitus, a cuius disputationis communione ne idiotarum quidem imperitorumque sciscitatio repudiaretur?
4. haec pauca de studiis. ceterum cetera quis competenti praeconio extollat, quod condicionis humanae per omnia memor clericos opere sermone populares, exhortatione maerentes destitutos solacio, captivos pretio ieiunos cibo nudos operimento consolabatur? pariter et super his plura replicare superforaneum statuo. nam merita sua, quibus divitem conscientiam censu pauperatus locupletavit, spe futurae retributionis celare plus studuit.
5. ***episcopum fratrem maiorem natu affectuosissime observans, quem diligebat ut filium, cum tamquam patrem veneraretur. sed et ille suspiciebat hunc granditer, habens in eo consiliarium in iudiciis vicarium in ecclesiis, procuratorem in negotiis vilicum in praediis, tabularium in tributis in lectionibus comitem, in expositionibus interpretem in itineribus contubernalem. sic utrique ab alterutro usque ad invidiam exempli mutua fide germanitatis officia restituebantur.
6. sed quid dolorem nostrum moderaturi causis potius doloris fomenta sufficimus? ergo, ut dicere institueramus, huic iam, ut est illud Maronianum, cineri ingrato id est gratiam non relaturo neniam condidimus tristem luctuosamque propemodum laboriose, quia faceret dictandi desuetudo difficultatem, nisi quod animum natura desidiosissimum dolor fletu gravidus accendit. eius hoc carmen est:
Germani decus et dolor Mamerti,
mirantum unica pompa episcoporum,
hoc dat caespite membra Claudianus,
triplex bybliotheca quo magistro,
Romana, Attica, Christiana fulsit;
quam totam monachus virente in aevo
secreta bibit institutione,
orator, dialecticus, poeta,
tractator, geometra, musicusque,
doctus solvere vincla quaestionum
et verbi gladio secare sectas,
si quae catholicam fidem lacessunt.
psalmorum hic modulator et phonascus
ante altaria fratre gratulante
instructas docuit sonare classes.
hic sollemnibus annuis paravit
quae quo tempore lecta convenirent.
antistes fuit ordine in secundo,
fratrem fasce levans episcopali.
nam de pontificis tenore summi
ille insignia sumpsit, hic laborem.
at tu, quisque doles, amice lector,
de tanto quasi nil viro supersit,
udis parce genis rigare marmor:
mens et gloria non queunt humari.
7. Ecce quod carmen, cum primum affui, super unanimi fratris ossa conscripsi. namque tunc afui, cum funerarentur; nec ob hoc tamen perdidi in totum desideratissimam flendi occasionem. nam dum forte meditarer, lacrimis habenas anima parturiente laxavi fecique ad epitaphium, quod alii fecerunt ad sepulcrum. haec ergo scripsimus tibi, ne forsitan arbitrarere solam nos colere vivorum sodalitatem reique tuo iudicio essemus, nisi amicorum vita carentum semper aeque ut incolumium reminisceremur. namque et ex hoc, quod vix reservatur imaginaria fides vel superstitibus, non praeter aequum opinabere, si perpaucos esse conicias, qui mortuos ament. vale.
◆
To Petreius.
I am deeply grieved by the loss to our age of your uncle Claudianus [Claudianus Mamertus, the philosopher-priest of Vienne], who has been taken from our sight. I wonder whether we shall ever see his equal again. He was a man of foresight, prudence, learning, and eloquence — sharp-minded and the most brilliant person of his time, place, and people — one who never ceased to philosophize while keeping his faith intact. Though he neither grew his hair long nor kept a beard, though he now mocked and now positively execrated the philosopher's cloak and staff, he was separated from the school of Platonists only by his dress and his creed.
Good God, what it was like whenever we gathered in his company simply for the joy of consultation! How freely he would open his entire knowledge to everyone, without hesitation or condescension, counting it the greatest pleasure when some insoluble philosophical knot forced open the treasures of his learning. When many of us sat together, he would assign the duty of listening to everyone while granting the right to speak to only one person at a time — each in turn, not all at once — and without theatrical gesture, he would dispense the riches of his learning.
Whatever he said, we would immediately challenge with opposing syllogisms; but he repelled all our reckless objections, so that nothing was accepted without being thoroughly weighed and tested. This is precisely why we held him in the deepest reverence — that he did not resent sluggish compliance from some of us. This was a forgivable fault in his eyes, which meant that his patience was admirable to us, even if we could not imitate it. For who would reluctantly consult a man on difficult subjects when even the questions of ignorant amateurs were never turned away from his conversation?
These few words about his intellectual life. But who could adequately praise the rest — that, always mindful of the human condition, he consoled the grieving with his words, the destitute with his help, the captives with ransom, the hungry with food, the naked with clothing? I judge it unnecessary to say more on these points. For he was more eager to conceal the merits by which he enriched his conscience through the poverty of his purse, in hope of future reward.
He observed his brother the bishop [Mamertus, bishop of Vienne] — his elder — with the deepest affection, loving him as a son while revering him as a father. And his brother in turn looked up to him enormously, finding in him a counselor in judgments, a deputy in church affairs, a steward of business, a manager of estates, an accountant for taxes, a companion in reading, and an interpreter in exposition. So faithfully did each repay the other's brotherly devotion that it aroused the envy of those who witnessed it.
But why do we feed the flames of our grief when we meant to moderate it? As I was saying, I have composed a sad funeral poem over his ashes — "ungrateful ashes," as Virgil puts it, since they will not repay the favor. It came with some difficulty, since long disuse had made composition hard, but grief heavy with tears spurred even my most naturally lazy mind:
Brother's glory, brother's grief — Mamertus mourns — sole boast among admiring bishops: here in this turf lies Claudianus, under whose mastery a triple library — Roman, Greek, and Christian — flourished. All this he drank in as a monk, in the green years of his youth, through secret study: orator, logician, poet, theologian, geometer, musician, skilled at untying knotted questions and cutting down heresies with the sword of the Word that dared attack the Catholic faith. He set the psalms to music, trained the choirs, and taught the ordered ranks to sing before the altar, to his brother's joy. He prepared the readings for each annual feast, assigning what was fitting for each season. He was a bishop in the second rank, lifting from his brother's shoulders the weight of the episcopal burden: for while his brother held the title, he did the work. But you, dear reader, who grieve as though nothing survives so great a man, spare your wet cheeks — do not water the marble: the mind and the glory cannot be buried.
There it is — the poem I wrote over my dear friend's bones as soon as I arrived. I was not present for the funeral, but I did not entirely lose the cherished opportunity to mourn. For while I was composing, I gave my tears free rein and produced the epitaph that others had produced at the tomb. I have written this to you so you would not think I cultivate only the friendships of the living, or judge me guilty of failing to remember dead friends as faithfully as living ones. For if the semblance of loyalty is barely maintained even toward the living, you may rightly conclude that very few are those who love the dead. Farewell.
Modern English rendering for readability. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek for scholarly use.