Letter 4018: You forget what is asked of you and, conversely, remember perfectly when you are the one doing the asking.

Sidonius ApollinarisLucontius|c. 467 AD|Sidonius Apollinaris
imperial politics

To Lucontius.

You forget what is asked of you and, conversely, remember perfectly when you are the one doing the asking. It would take too long to repeat all that you and yours promised me and mine about a quick return — not one of which promises has been kept. While you were plotting your escape, you took no heavy luggage from the city to your estate, no carts, no carriages for hauling loads — so we would think you were coming back for Easter.

And to say nothing of the ladies' contribution to the deception — you carried them away with their bags already packed — you and our mutual brother Volusianus traveled with barely a servant or two apiece, which lulled the suspicions of those seeing you off with the false hope of a quick return. Meanwhile, brother Volusianus, who happened to be heading off to his estates near Bayeux, has been wandering across the entire province of Second Lugdunensis, making a mockery of our expectations under the pretense of a short trip.

And now from his leisurely position among all those many faithless days, he tells me I should send him whatever verse-trifles I may have lately composed. I agree to his instructions — you deserve to read such things. For the poem that now slips from my hands is so rustic and unpolished that you would think I was sending it not to a country house but from one.

Bishop Perpetuus [of Tours] — a successor most worthy of so great a predecessor [Saint Martin] — has built a new basilica of the holy bishop and confessor Martin, far more spacious than the one that previously stood there. It is a great work, they say, and well-named — for it was fitting that so great a man should have built it in honor of so great a saint. The bishop has compelled me to inscribe this epigram on its walls — and you will review it, since in everything he demands he exercises the most imperious privilege of charity.

Would that the offering of this tribute not tarnish the beauty of that magnificent building and its gifts! I greatly fear it will — unless, perhaps, amid all that splendor, the very ugliness of my epigram may please, like a dark mole on a fair body, which usually provokes a smile and wins approval. But enough of this — set aside your pastoral pipes and lend a hand to my halting elegy:

The body of Martin, venerable throughout the world,
in which honor lives beyond life's span,
was first covered by a humble structure
that did not match its confessor.
The great glory of the man, the small grace of the place,
never ceased to burden the citizens with shame —
until the sixth bishop counted from Martin himself,
Perpetuus, removed the long reproach,
pulling down the inner walls of the modest shrine
and raising a vast new roof with an outer hall.
And as the powerful patron gave generously,
the building grew in space, the builder in merit —
a church fit to rival Solomon's temple,
which was the seventh wonder of the world.
For if that one shone with gems, gold, and silver,
this one surpasses every metal — in faith.
Away, biting envy! Let the past be absolved,
and let chattering posterity add nothing and change nothing.
While Christ comes to raise all peoples,
may the rooftops of Perpetuus endure in perpetuity.

I have offered, as you see, whatever fresh song was at hand. But if you persist in delaying, we shall shake the heavens — employing, if necessary, satirical verses that you will mistakenly think are as gentle as this hymn. For it is natural for mortals to criticize more vigorously and swiftly than they praise. Farewell.

Modern English rendering for readability. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek for scholarly use.

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