Letter 36

Quintus Aurelius SymmachusAusonius Corrector|c. 383 AD|symmachus

[This entry contains both a continuation of Symmachus's letter and Ausonius's famous reply.]

SYMMACHUS TO AUSONIUS:

...at the same time, since you never do anything for the sake of showing off, I hesitate to praise your genuine qualities for fear they'll sound like flattery. But know this one thing as undoubted truth: there is no one alive I cherish more than you. That's how firmly your honorable affection has bound me.

Yet you seem overly modest in one respect: you accuse me of having leaked your book. But it's easier to hold hot coals in your mouth than to keep a brilliant work secret! Once a poem has left your hand, you've given up all rights to it. Published speech is a free thing.

Or are you afraid of some hostile reader gnawing at your book with sharp teeth? You alone, of all men I know, owe nothing to favoritism and have suffered nothing from envy. The resentful and the fair-minded alike find you praiseworthy. So banish these empty fears and keep writing — even if it means being "found out" again.

And do dedicate some instructional or encouraging poem to me. Test my discretion — though I confess I can't quite promise to keep it quiet. I know the itch to share a work one admires. In comedy, the playwright gets the credit, but Roscius and Ambivius [famous Roman actors] won fame too.

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AUSONIUS TO SYMMACHUS:

Now I understand what a honeyed thing eloquence is — how beguiling, how persuasive. You almost convinced me that the letter of mine you received at Capua wasn't entirely awful. But only for as long as I was reading your letter, which led me on like nectar-coated bait. The moment I put the page down and questioned myself, my own writing tasted of wormwood again, and I recognized the honey was all yours.

And yet — as I keep doing — whenever I go back to your letter, I fall under the spell again. And every time I stop reading, that delicious fragrance of your prose vanishes, and the weight of your praise proves too sweet to be trusted.

And you dare rank me among the most eloquent? You, who've surpassed all correction? No one shines so brightly that he wouldn't look dull beside you. Who approaches Aesop's charm, Isocrates' polished arguments, Demosthenes' force, Cicero's richness, or our own Virgil's precision? Who matches any one of these as you embody them all? What are you but perfection assembled from every branch of the liberal arts?

These words, my dear Symmachus, I say without fear of sounding more flattering than truthful. You tested my honesty when we served together at court — I an old veteran, you a young man already earning a veteran's rewards. At court, where men's faces are open but their minds are hidden, you found me to be father, friend, and something dearer than both.

But enough — lest this reminiscence begin to sound like the scene in Plautus where Sosia worries he's lost himself.

And what's this pretense of asking me to send you some didactic work or essay of encouragement? Should I teach you, when I still need teaching myself — if I were young enough to learn? Should I spur on a man as sharp and energetic as you?

One mistake is enough: something of mine got published against my wishes, and by good luck it landed among friends. If it hadn't, you couldn't persuade me it was any good.

Let this serve as my reply to your letter. The rest I'll spare you — this letter is already long enough. But if you want to know more about my affairs, I commend to you Julianus, a friend of your family. Farewell.

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

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