Letter 4012: You know that our silence is an equal offense on both sides, and so the blame is unfairly placed on me alone for...

Quintus Aurelius SymmachusProtadius|c. 371 AD|Quintus Aurelius Symmachus
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From: Quintus Aurelius Symmachus, Roman Senator
To: Protadius
Date: ~371 AD
Context: A long, multi-part letter touching on their mutual silence, literary exchanges, and the proper style of correspondence between friends. This entry contains several short letters to Protadius and Minervius.

You know that our silence is an equal offense on both sides, and so the blame is unfairly placed on me alone for what we share in common. I have a defense, though: the comings and goings of travelers are hard to track, and you never stay in one place -- you shuttle between Trier on official business and the Five Provinces [southern Gaul, roughly modern Provence and Languedoc] for leisure. I am fixed in Rome, and more so now, since the presence of your distinguished brother both holds me here with his responsibilities and delights me with his reputation. You could have combined your letters to us into one packet, so that both your brother and the man who deserves to be counted as his equal would receive them together. I am glad you have done so at last, even if late. Still, when you held off writing, I never thought your devotion to me had slipped. True friendship is so secure that it measures the other's love by its own faithfulness. I am tired of saying more in this vein, so let me turn to the part of your letter that touches on something I have been wanting.

You say my writings have reached your hands through our mutual friend Minervius, who cannot keep away from my trifles -- drawn more by literary curiosity than by any real pleasure. If you have enough leisure to seek out even dull material to relieve your boredom, I will send you everything I have composed, confident of the forgiveness your affection guarantees me. But I nearly forgot to raise the complaint that should have come first: has the simple use of our letters really died out, that you prefer to dress your pages in the fashionable affectations of our age? Let us return to plain headings, and when a greeting is given or returned, let us agree that nothing is more gracious or pleasing than our customary words. Take my letter as your model -- and if you refuse to follow it, I will be marked both as arrogant and lumped together with those whose great pretension in words masks an utter emptiness of thought.

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To Protadius (~400 AD): The same consul who summoned me had called you to Milan. I hoped the occasion would bring us together, but when illness kept you away, I bore the loss of that longed-for joy very badly. Now that the consular festivities -- which surpassed everyone's expectations in their splendor -- are finished, I am returning to Rome, where the distinguished magistrate himself has promised to come shortly, with my son-in-law confirming it. How I wish that if your health has fully returned, you would make up for your earlier absence by visiting, and in one trip both pay the Senate a voluntary courtesy and the consul the honor he is owed. But how can I dare to hope for so much, when even lesser hopes have come to nothing? When will you ever prefer the toga to the hunt?

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To Protadius (~396 AD): I want the bonds of affection between us to grow every day, but I would rather not be indebted for your letters -- which are often thrown in my face as proof of my laziness. So to your two letters, which did not reach me at the same time, I reply with an equal number but send them together. I am well, as far as my age allows as it slopes toward old age. I rarely visit my country estate, and the chance to read is rarer still. You have ample opportunity both to enjoy the countryside and to pursue learning. That is why you write to me so often -- because all your time, devoted to exercising your mind, is claimed by leisure. But my boldness will not yield to your confidence. Even if you pore over the works of the ancients and commit your own to the page, I will pester you with my dry prose, which you must read out of both love and good judgment, so that I may make up for neglecting those other works.

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

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