Letter 20

A father to his son, written when, during the time of the usurper's rule, the father himself had remained behind at Trier [Treveri] while the son had set out for Pannonia. Begun but never finished, jotted down thus from rough drafts: This narrative too I owe to my cares for you, my sweetest son; though, by its untroubled title, it scarcely deserves so serene a name, since it was an anxious lament over sorrowful affairs. Already over the still, pooling waters of the chill Moselle [Mosella] the boat had carried you forth, my son, and the envious river had cut short the kisses and embraces of your grieving father. Alone was I, and, though surrounded by a throng of friends, alone I was, offering up dutiful prayers for the departing vessel, alone still gazing on you, my son; and I blamed the swift towrope for hurrying its course against the stream. What a day that was! Not longer is that year which the patient learning of skilled Meton of Attica reckoned out. [Meton, the fifth-century BC Athenian astronomer, devised the nineteen-year lunar cycle.] Forsaken, I wear myself out upon the empty and solitary shores. Now I thresh down the budding fronds of the willows; now I crush couches of grass, and across the green sedge I steady my slipping footsteps upon the stones strewn beneath. Thus the first day went by; thus the second turn of the day reached its goal; thus the alternating wheel rolled round two nights; thus still others: and so the whole year will pass away for me, until your fate restores me, your father, to you. On this condition I would strike a bargain even with death, provided that you, my son, surviving, may render your father his last honors.

***** This narrative also I owe to my cares for thee, my dearest son; although this troubled plaint for my gloomy fortunes scarce deserves so mild a term. Already o'er the sluggish surface of chill Moselle the bark had borne thee forward, O my son, and from the kisses and embraces of thy weeping sire the envious stream had parted thee. Alone! though compassed with a throng of friends, I was alone and offered yearning prayers for that fleeting craft; alone, though still I saw you, my child, and grudged the hasty speed of the swift oarage plying against the stream. What day was that? No longer is that year which Attic Meton 4 worked out with such patient skill. Forlorn I pace the empty, lonely shores. Now I strike down the sprouting willow-shoots, now I crush beds of turf and o'er green sedge I poise my slippery footsteps on the pebbles strewn beneath. So the first day passed away, so the second reached its bourne, so the two nights which wheeled revolving after each, so others: and the whole year for me will so pass by until thy destiny gives back me, thy sire, to thee. With this condition I may bargain even for death, that thou, my son, payest thy father the last tributes, surviving him.

PATER AD FILIUM CUM TEMPORIBUS TYRANNICIS IPSE TREVERIS REMANSISSET ET FILIUS AD PNTHIAM PROFECTUS ESSET. Hoc INCOHATUM NEQUE INPLETUM SIC DE LITURARIIS SCRIPTUM debeo et hanc nostris, fili dulcissime, curis historiam: quamquam titulo non digna sereno anxia maestarum fuerit querimonia rerum. Iam super egelidae stagnantia terga Mosellae protulerat te, nate, ratis maestique parentis oscula et amplexus discreverat invidus amnis, solus ego et quamvis coetu celebratus amico solus eram profugaeque dabam pia vota carinae solus adhuc te, nate, videns; celerisque remulci culpabam properos adverso flumine cursus. quis fuit ille dies? non annus longior ille est, Attica quem docti collegit cura Metonis. desertus vacuis solisque exerceor oris. nunc ego pubentes salicum deverbero frondes, gramineos nunc frango toros viridesque per ulvas lubrica substratis vestigia libro lapidis, sic lux prima abiit, sic altera meta diei, sic geminas alterna rotat vertigo tenebras, sic alias: totusque mihi sic annus abibit, restituant donec tua me tibi fata parentem. hac ego condicione licet vel morte paciscar, dum decores suprema patris tu, nate, superstes.