Sidonius to his son Apollinaris.
It would be only fair to curb my loquacity with the same silence you have imposed on me. But since perfect love ought to remember what it owes rather than keep account of what has been repaid, I once again — loosening the reins of modesty — repeat the tribute of this shameless correspondence. The sheer brazenness of it is proved by the very fact that you say nothing in return. Could I really not deserve to know what you were doing during the hostilities, brother? Did you deliberately hide from a friend who was anxious on your behalf — refusing to reveal either your safety or your fear?
What is it, if you suppress news of your doings from someone who asks, but to suspect that the person who worries about you will either take no joy in good news or feel no sorrow if things go badly? Let such an impious opinion stay far from decent conduct, and let true affection remove from its bright surface the stain of so wretched a suspicion. For as your Crispus [Sallust] affirms: "To want the same things and to reject the same things — that, and that alone, is true friendship."
Meanwhile, if you at least are well, that is good. For my part, weighed down by the burden of an unhappy conscience, I recently came to the very brink of death from a violent fever — since the weight of so great a vocation [the episcopate] has been thrust upon one so utterly unworthy. Wretched man that I am, compelled to teach before I learned, and presuming to preach the good before practicing it, I am like a barren tree: having no works for fruit, I scatter words for leaves.
For the rest, pray that there is some value in my having returned from what was nearly the grave. If I persist in my former sins, then my survival may belong more to the death of my soul than to the life of my body. Here — I have told you what I am doing. And still I ask what you are doing. I have done my part; now do what seems right to you. But count this as graven in bronze, like the laws of Athens: under Christ's protection, I will never accept a limit to the love whose foundation I have labored to lay. Farewell.
EPISTULA III
Sidonius Apollinari suo salutem.
1. Par erat quidem garrulitatem nostram silentii vestri talione frenari. sed quoniam perfecta dilectio non tam debet recolere, quid officiorum solvat, quam meminisse, quid debeat, etiam nunc laxatis verecundiae habenis obsequium alloquii impudentis iteramus. cuius improbitas vel hinc maxime dinoscitur, quod tacetis. ergone quid tempore hostilitatis ageretis, frater, nosse non merui? dissimulastis trepido pro vobis amico vel securitatem prodere vel timorem?
2. quid est aliud, si requirenti tuas supprimas actiones, quam suspicari eum, qui tui sollicitus existat, aut certe non gavisurum compertis prosperis aut tristem, si diversa cesserint, non futurum? facessat haec a bonis moribus impietatis opinio et a candore suo vera caritas naevum tam miserae suspicionis eliminet. namque, ut Crispus vester affirmat, idem velle atque idem nolle, ea demum firma amicitia est.
3. interea si vel vos valetis, bene est. ego autem, infelicis conscientiae mole depressus, vi febrium nuper extremum salutis accessi, utpote cui indignissimo tantae professionis pondus impactum est, qui miser, ante compulsus docere quam discere et ante praesumens bonum praedicare quam facere, tamquam sterilis arbor, cum non habeam opera pro pomis, spargo verba pro foliis.
4. quod restat, orate, ut operae pretium sit, quod ab inferna propemodum sede remeavimus, ne si in praeteritis criminibus manserimus, incipiat ad animae potius mortem pertinere quod vivimus. ecce quod agimus indicamus; ecce adhuc, quid agatis, inquirimus. fit a nostra parte quod pium est, vos deinceps facite quod videtur. illud sane velut Atticas leges in aere credite incisum, nos sub ope Christi numquam admissuros amoris terminum, cuius studuimus fundare principium. vale.
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Sidonius to his son Apollinaris.
It would be only fair to curb my loquacity with the same silence you have imposed on me. But since perfect love ought to remember what it owes rather than keep account of what has been repaid, I once again — loosening the reins of modesty — repeat the tribute of this shameless correspondence. The sheer brazenness of it is proved by the very fact that you say nothing in return. Could I really not deserve to know what you were doing during the hostilities, brother? Did you deliberately hide from a friend who was anxious on your behalf — refusing to reveal either your safety or your fear?
What is it, if you suppress news of your doings from someone who asks, but to suspect that the person who worries about you will either take no joy in good news or feel no sorrow if things go badly? Let such an impious opinion stay far from decent conduct, and let true affection remove from its bright surface the stain of so wretched a suspicion. For as your Crispus [Sallust] affirms: "To want the same things and to reject the same things — that, and that alone, is true friendship."
Meanwhile, if you at least are well, that is good. For my part, weighed down by the burden of an unhappy conscience, I recently came to the very brink of death from a violent fever — since the weight of so great a vocation [the episcopate] has been thrust upon one so utterly unworthy. Wretched man that I am, compelled to teach before I learned, and presuming to preach the good before practicing it, I am like a barren tree: having no works for fruit, I scatter words for leaves.
For the rest, pray that there is some value in my having returned from what was nearly the grave. If I persist in my former sins, then my survival may belong more to the death of my soul than to the life of my body. Here — I have told you what I am doing. And still I ask what you are doing. I have done my part; now do what seems right to you. But count this as graven in bronze, like the laws of Athens: under Christ's protection, I will never accept a limit to the love whose foundation I have labored to lay. Farewell.
Modern English rendering for readability. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek for scholarly use.