Letter 8011: How are your Nitiobroges and Vesunnici [the peoples of Agen and Perigueux] — between whom there is always a holy...

Sidonius ApollinarisLupus, close friend|c. 467 AD|Sidonius Apollinaris
education booksfriendshipgrief deathhumorillness

To Lupus [not the bishop, but a literary friend].

How are your Nitiobroges and Vesunnici [the peoples of Agen and Perigueux] — between whom there is always a holy contest over which has the greater claim on you? One people holds you by inheritance, the other by marriage too; one by birth, the other by wedding — but better yet, both by deliberate choice. And how blessed you are, by God's gift, that devoted peoples should compete over who gets to keep you longer!

You divide your presence carefully between them: now giving Drepanium to these, now Anthedius to those [apparently his representatives or proteges]. And if rhetorical instruction is asked of you, the one group has no need of Paulinus, the other no need of Alcimus [famous teachers]. So I am all the more surprised that you — whose daily reading exhausts a vast and varied library — should demand old songs from me. I obey, though the recollection of jests seems ill-timed in a season of grief.

I have only just learned of the murder of Lampridius [a poet and orator of Bordeaux, Sidonius's close friend]. His death would have afflicted me with the deepest anguish even if violence had not been the cause. He once used to call me "Phoebus" in our friendly banter, while I called him by the name of the Odrysian bard [Orpheus]. I mention this so the figurative names in the poem below will not puzzle you. I once sent this poem ahead to Bordeaux as a kind of advance notice when I was visiting. I think it can be offered more freely now than if I composed something mournful about his death — since a man who did not please by his eloquence would only displease by his subject matter.

[The poem is a playful piece in which "Phoebus" (Sidonius) sends his Muse ahead to Bordeaux to announce his arrival to "Orpheus" (Lampridius), asking him to arrange lodging — and if none is available, to ask the bishop for a roof, so that the poet does not end up in some smoky tavern.]

What a wretched necessity — to be born, to live miserably, to die harshly! See where the wheel of human fortune has turned. I loved the man, I confess, deeply — though he was entangled in certain faults, venial ones, and his virtues outweighed his flaws. He was often roused to anger by small causes, though the anger itself was slight. I always tried to persuade others that this was a matter of temperament rather than vice, and argued that the anger that ruled his heart — since it was tainted with no streak of cruelty — could at least be disguised as severity. Beyond this, though fragile in judgment, he was utterly steadfast in loyalty; utterly credulous because utterly trusting; utterly fearless because utterly harmless. No enemy could ever extract a curse from him, yet no friend could escape his sharp tongue. Difficult to approach but easy to look at — someone who had to be borne with, but who was bearable.

As for his literary work: his orations were sharp, polished, well-composed, and vigorous; his poems were delicate, varied in meter, clever, and artful. In controversial subjects he was strong and muscular; in satire, careful and biting; in tragedy, fierce and tearful; in comedy, urban and versatile; in his lighter wedding-songs, fresh in words and warm in feeling; in pastoral, alert, sparing, and melodious; in agricultural verse, rustic in the best sense without a trace of crudity. In lyric he followed Horace — now swift in iambics, now solemn in choriambics, now sinuous in Alcaics, now swelling in Sapphics.

But what was not merely blameworthy in the man but fatal was this: he once consulted astrologers about the end of his life — citizens of African cities, whose temperament, like their climate, burns hotter. They examined his horoscope and named the exact year, month, and day they said would prove critical — having seen, as they put it, the pattern of a violent nativity in his birth chart.

He was strangled at home by the hands of his slaves — murdered in his bed with his breathing choked off and his throat bound tight, dying, if not the death of Lentulus or Jugurtha or Sejanus, then at least that of Scipio Numantinus [all Romans said to have been murdered in their beds]. The one consolation in this catastrophe was that the crime and its perpetrator were discovered by daylight. The livid skin, the bulging eyes, the signs of fury as much as pain on his smothered face — all told the story at once. The assassins had turned the dead man face-down on the floor to simulate a natural hemorrhage, but the truth was immediately apparent. The ringleader was caught, the accomplices seized, and under interrogation the terror of torture extracted the truth from their unwilling hearts.

Would that he had not earned such an end by so recklessly consulting forbidden things! For whoever presumes to pry into forbidden secrets risks straying from the Catholic faith and making himself deserve the very adverse fate that was foretold. Vengeance followed the dead man — but such things serve the living more. When a murderer is punished, it is not a remedy but a consolation.

My love has carried me on longer than I meant. Share with me in turn anything worth knowing from your end — write, if only to lift a heart weighed down with sadness. For my confused breast was full of grief — justly so — when I committed these words to the page. For the present, I have no desire to write, speak, or think about anything else. Farewell.

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

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