Letter 4021: It is true that a man's identity comes first from his father's line, but we owe a great deal to our mothers too.

Sidonius ApollinarisAper|c. 467 AD|Sidonius Apollinaris
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To Aper.

It is true that a man's identity comes first from his father's line, but we owe a great deal to our mothers too. We have no right to honor the seed less than the womb. But let the scientists sort out the question of origins — I have a more immediate point to make.

Your father was from the Aedui [the region around Autun in central Gaul], your mother from the Auvergne. You belong to the Aedui first, but not to them alone. Even Virgil makes this case: Pallas, who was Arcadian through his father but also Sabine through his mother, could have led the Etruscan armies against Mezentius as a foreigner — but because his mother gave him a share in their homeland too, he belonged to both peoples. So here is your precedent from the greatest of authorities: a man's motherland counts as part of his country. Unless you think poets lie even when they are telling history.

If the Auvergne claims at least a share of you, then hear their complaint patiently. Through the voice of one man, they pour out the feelings of many hearts. Imagine them saying to you: "What wrong have we done you, ungrateful man, that for so many years you have fled the soil that nursed you as though it were enemy territory? Here we cradled your infancy, here we formed your wailing limbs, here you were carried in the arms of your fellow citizens.

"Here was your grandfather Fronto — gentle with you, strict with himself — a model for the men we hold as models. Here was your grandmother Auspicia, who after your mother's death took on the duties of two women. Here was your aunt Frontina, holier than holy virgins, a girl of supreme self-denial and rigor, who feared God with such intensity that she herself was feared.

"Here the flourishing schools of grammar and rhetoric competed for the privilege of educating you. You came away well enough educated that you have no excuse for not loving the Auvergne at least for the sake of its literary culture.

"I say nothing of the particular beauty of this land — that ocean of fields where profitable waves of grain ripple without danger, where the harder a man works the less he shipwrecks. Gentle for travelers, fruitful for farmers, delightful for hunters. Mountain ridges crowned with pastures, hillsides covered in vineyards, lowlands dotted with villas, rocky heights with castles, shady valleys with game preserves, open land under cultivation, hollows with springs, cliffs with rivers — a land that has persuaded many a visitor to forget his own homeland.

"I say nothing of the city itself, which has always loved you so dearly that you ought to prefer its company of nobles above all else."

This is what one man says to you on behalf of all your fellow citizens — or at least the good ones. Since they ask for you with such honor and desire you with such love, you must see that you will gain more joy by granting their request than it costs you to make the journey. Farewell.

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

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