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LIBRARY OF NEW TESTAMENT STUDIES
561
formerly the Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement series
Editor
Chris Keith
Editorial Board
Dale C. Allison, John M.G. Barclay, Lynn H. Cohick, R. Alan Culpepper,
Craig A. Evans, Robert Fowler, Simon J. Gathercole, John S. Kloppenborg,
Michael Labahn, Love L. Sechrest, Robert Wall, Steve Walton,
Catrin H. Williams
PAUL’S LARGE LETTERS
Paul’s Autographic Subscriptions in the

Light of Ancient Epistolary Conventions
By Steve Reece
T&T CLARK
Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK
1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA
BLOOMSBURY, T&T CLARK and the T&T Clark logo are

trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
First published in Great Britain 2017

Paperback edition first published 2018
Copyright © Steve Reece, 2017
Steve Reece has asserted his right under the Copyright,

Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
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in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher
regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have
ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Reece, Steve, 1959- author.
Title: Paul’s large letters : Paul’s autographic subscriptions in the light
of ancient epistolary conventions / Steve Reece.
Description: New York : Bloomsbury Academic, 2016. |Series: Library of New
Testament studies ; 561 | Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016050059 (print) | LCCN 2016051072 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780567669063 (hb : alk. paper) | ISBN 9780567669070 (epdf) |
ISBN 9780567669087 (epub)
Subjects: LCSH: Paul, the Apostle, Saint–Autographs. |Bible. Epistles of
Paul–Criticism, interpretation, etc. | Classical letters–History and
criticism.|Letter writing, Classical.
Classification: LCC BS2650.52 .R33 2016 (print) | LCCBS2650.52 (ebook) |
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For Taylor and Lorraine Reece,
who, in the words of the African-American spiritual,
“preached like Peter and prayed like Paul.”
Contents
Preface ix
Part I
PAUL’S AUTOGRAPHIC SUBSCRIPTIONS
Chapter 1
Introduction 3
Chapter 2
The Laboriousness of Letter Writing in Antiquity 12
Chapter 3
The Greek Literary Letter-Writing Tradition 17
Chapter 4
The Latin Literary Letter-Writing Tradition 26
Chapter 5
The Jewish Literary Letter-Writing Tradition 35
Chapter 6
Paul’s Letter Writing in the Light of Contemporary Epistolary
Conventions 40
Chapter 7
The Function of Autographic Subscriptions in Ancient Letters 51
Part II
PAUL’S LARGE LETTERS
Chapter 8
“With What Large Letters” in Galatians 6.11 73
Chapter 9
Letters in Various Languages Excavated in Eastern Judaea 111
Chapter 10
Latin Letters Excavated in Northern England 121
viii Contents
Chapter 11
Greek Letters Excavated in Middle and Upper Egypt 136
Chapter 12
Some Conclusions and Further Questions 198
Appendices 217
List of Figures 252
Works Cited 258
Index of Subjects 271
Index of Proper Names 286
Index of Ancient Passages 299
Index of Inscriptions, Ostraca, Papyri, and Tablets 310
Preface
At the end of several of his letters the apostle Paul claims to be penning a summary
and farewell greeting in his own hand: 1 Corinthians, Galatians, Philemon, cf.
Colossians, 2 Thessalonians. Paul’s claims raise some interesting questions about
his letter-writing practices. Did he write any complete letters himself, or did he
always dictate to a scribe? How much did his scribes contribute to the composition
of his letters? Did Paul make the effort to proofread and correct what he had
dictated? What was the purpose of Paul’s autographic subscriptions? What was
Paul’s purpose in calling attention to their autographic nature? Why did Paul write
in large letters in the subscription of his letter to the Galatians? Why did he call
attention to this peculiarity of his handwriting?
A good source of answers to these questions can be found among the primary
documents that have survived from around the time of Paul, a large number of
which have been discovered over the past two centuries and in fact continue to
be discovered to this day. From around the time of Paul there are extant several
dozen letters from the caves and refuges in the desert of eastern Judaea (in Hebrew,
Aramaic, Nabataean, Greek, and Latin), several hundred from the remains of a
Roman military camp in Vindolanda in northern England (in Latin), and several
thousand from the sands of Middle and Upper Egypt (in Greek, Latin, and
Egyptian Demotic).
Over the past several years I have examined most of these documents, many
of them unpublished and rarely read, with special attention to their handwriting
styles, in order to shed some light on the technical aspects of Paul’s letter-writing
conventions. This would have been an impossible task until fairly recently, as these
documents are to be found in hundreds of different collections housed in museums,
libraries, and academic and religious institutions in every corner of the world, as
well as in private hands. The burdensome undertaking of photographing many of
these documents and making them accessible in digital form on various databases
has resulted in a radical democratization of the traditionally very specialized field
of papyrology. I acknowledge a great debt to the Leon Levy Dead Sea Scrolls Digital
Library, Vindolanda Tablets Online, Duke Databank of Documentary Papyri,
Advanced Papyrological Information System, and Heidelberger Gesamtverzeichnis
der griechischen Papyrusurkunden Ägyptens, much of whose content is accessible
through the new and excellent portal Papyrological Navigator (http://papyri.
info/). One need no longer be a conservator working with the Israel Antiquities
Authority, an archaeologist excavating at the Roman fort of Vindolanda, or a
papyrologist residing at the Sackler Library in Oxford to witness and study these
ancient documents.
x Preface
In my examination of the actual handwriting on ancient letters from around

the time of Paul I have observed that a substantial percentage have been dictated
to a professional scribe and then subscribed in the handwriting of the author. It
is usually very clear in these ancient letters, those on papyrus from the desert
of southern Egypt, those on leather and papyrus from the wilderness of eastern
Judaea, and those on wooden and wax tablets from the frontier of northern
England, exactly where the scribe has left off and where the author of the letter
has begun. Often a smaller, tidier, more regular and uniform, even elegant,
professional hand gives way to a larger, thicker, more awkward and clumsy,
unpracticed, amateurish hand. This is not to suggest that the authors of these
letters were lacking in education, or even that they had exceptionally poor
penmanship; it is only to observe that they had a writing style that was technically
less refined than that of the professional scribes to whom they dictated. This is
of great interest when considering Paul’s several autographic subscriptions in his
letters, and in particular his famous subscription in his letter to the Galatians, in
which he remarks “See with what large letters I write to you with my own hand.”
This is only my third foray into the field of New Testament studies. By training
I am a Classical philologist, with specialization in early Greek linguistics and
literature, and my research has resided largely in these fields. I am fully aware
of the perils of venturing too far outside one’s comfort zone, and in so doing I
will no doubt on occasion display my naiveté and even—though hopefully not
too often—my ignorance of areas already trod by specialists in the field. I used to
lament that the bibliography of secondary research in Homeric studies, which over
the past century has amounted to almost five-hundred pages of commentary for
each page of Homeric poetry, was unmanageably immense—until I began delving
into New Testament studies. I hope that any deficits in this study will be balanced
by the asset of having someone examine an important area of New Testament
studies from the perspective of a Classical philologist. My impression of the field
of New Testament studies so far is of a discipline notable for its chivalrous scholars
who are generous with their time, helpful in their criticisms, and welcoming of
perspectives different from their own. I am immensely grateful for this and regret
that I am not able to claim these as distinguishing features of my own discipline,
where the rules of the old agonistic model cultivated in 19th-century Europe still
often control the debates.
It has been useful, indeed necessary, in what follows to include many quotations
from Greek and Latin texts and documents, but in every case I have provided a
very literal English translation. These translations are all my own and are offered
here for practical purposes, not because I have any literary or poetic pretensions.
Part I
P aul ’ s A utographic S ubscriptions

Chapter 1
I ntroduction
On August 2, 1776, John Hancock affixed his signature to what is now widely
regarded as the “official” version of the Declaration of Independence—the version
known as the “Engrossed Copy” or “Parchment Copy” that is currently on
display in the Exhibition Hall of the National Archives Building in Washington,
DC (Figures 1–2). As president of the Continental Congress at the time that
the document had been approved and adopted a month earlier on July 4th, he
was, now in August, the first to affix his signature, and he therefore placed it in a
prominent position in the middle of the top row (Figure 2). He signed his name in
a large, fancy script, as was his custom on all documents that he signed in an official
capacity. This “official” version of the Declaration was then circulated among the
various congressional delegates, some of whom were not able to add their signatures
for several weeks and months. It was not until January 18, 1777, that Congress
authorized a printing of this document, with all but one of the signatories’ names
listed, but this printing, known as the “Goddard Broadside,” displayed the names
of the signatories in typeface, not as facsimiles of their actual signatures (Figure 3).
This historical version of events, however, was not interesting or inspiring
enough for future generations of Americans. Before long a different version arose,
codified in the American psyche by John Trumbull’s famous 1817 painting that has
been hanging in the rotunda of the United States Capitol since 1826 (Figure 4)—
which has recently been imprinted on the reverse of the US two-dollar bill—that
John Hancock had affixed the largest and clearest signature, right in the middle of
the top row, as a public act of defiance during the actual congressional meeting on
July 4, 1776. With his bold stroke he was trying to instill in his fellow delegates the
confidence to affix their signatures as well, in a grandiose display of resistance to
the British monarchy. Stories arose that on this occasion Hancock was said to have
exclaimed, “There, I guess King George will be able to read that!” Another version
of the story offers that Hancock asserted sardonically, “There, John Bull (i.e., the
British) can read my name without spectacles and may now double his reward
of 500 pounds for my head. That is my defiance.” Consequently, in modern-day
American parlance one’s “John Hancock” has become an expression for one’s
signature, and especially a bold, handwritten signature.
This momentous event and its attendant anecdotes, though firmly etched into
the American consciousness, never actually occurred; they are all part of a rich
4 Paul’s Large Letters
Figure 1 “Engrossed Copy” or “Parchment Copy” of the Declaration of Independence,

signed incrementally by fifty-six congressional delegates between August 2, 1776
and sometime after January 18, 1777 (courtesy of the National Archives and Records
Administration). Most signatures are now nearly illegible from wear and tear.
body of American myth. The Declaration of Independence was not addressed to

King George or to the British; the purpose of the Declaration was to explain to
American colonists, as well as to other foreign nations, why Congress had decided
to absolve the colonies from all allegiances to the British Crown. The congressional
delegates did not sign the Declaration the day it was adopted, on July 4, 1776;
they simply voted to adopt the document, with revisions, and charged Hancock,
as president of the Congress, to authenticate the revised document so that copies
could be printed and sent to the colonial legislatures for their approval. This
handwritten document, known as the “Fair Copy,” was lost, apparently destroyed in
the process of printing. The first printed copy of the Declaration, produced during
the night of July 4 and known as the “Dunlap Broadside,” bore only the names of
Introduction 5
Figure 2 Facsimile of the “Engrossed Copy” of the Declaration of Independence made by

printer William J. Stone on June 5, 1823 (courtesy of the National Archives and Records
Administration). Close-up of John Hancock’s signature.
John Hancock and Charles Thomson, the secretary of Congress, and these two
names, along with the text of the Declaration, were typeset by the official printer
to Congress, John Dunlap, thus appearing in typeface rather than as facsimiles of
their actual signatures (Figure 5).1
1. For a thorough treatment of the history of the various manuscripts and printings of
the Declaration, see J. P. Boyd (1943, 1976).
Figure 3 The “Goddard Broadside,” a printed version of the “Engrossed Copy” authorized
by Congress on January 18, 1777, displaying the names of the signatories in typeface
(courtesy of the Library of Congress). The name of Thomas McKean, delegate from
Delaware, is missing, presumably because he had not yet signed the “Engrossed Copy.”
I offer this account of John Hancock’s signature on the Declaration because

similarly interesting and inspiring stories have arisen to explain the apostle Paul’s
large autograph at the close of his letter to the Galatians. At the beginning of the
subscription to his letter (Gal. 6.11-18) Paul instructs his audience to “observe with
what large letters I write to you with my own hand” ( Ἴdete phlίkoiV ὑmῖn grάmmasin
ἔgraya tῇ ἐmῇ ceirί). Paul has apparently taken over the duties of the scribe to
whom he had been dictating his letter and is now penning a summary and farewell
greeting in his own hand. This is an epistolary convention that is not uncommon in
letters of this period throughout the Mediterranean world; it has from time to time
Introduction 7
Figure 4 John Trumbull’s 1817 painting of the supposed July 4, 1776 signing of the
Declaration of Independence, which has been hanging in the rotunda of the United States
Capitol since 1826 (courtesy of the Architect of the Capitol).
been given the linguistically hybrid label “autographic subscription,” the term that
I shall apply to this feature. Paul takes it for granted that the recipients of his letter
will notice that the handwriting in his autographic subscription is different from
that of the scribe in the body of the letter. This must have been a feature that was
clearly visible in the original letter, but of course it was effaced already in the earliest
handwritten copy, just as it is in all our modern printed editions.2
Having been raised in a church where ambitious exegesis of even such
mundane passages as this one was a regular component of pastoral sermons, I
recall well a singular explanation for Paul’s large letters often and confidently
asserted from the pulpit: Paul wrote large letters because he had poor eyesight,
and he had poor eyesight as a result of the blinding light from heaven that he
had witnessed on his way to Damascus (Acts 9.1-19, 22.6-16, 26.12-18). Scholarly
articles and commentaries, in addition to sermons and devotional books, continue
to offer this explanation, as well as various related and equally creative ones. Many
commentators have concurred that the large size of Paul’s letters is an indication
of a physical malady that he suffered, perhaps from his experience on the way
to Damascus, perhaps from another later mystical experience after he returned
2. Neither Paul’s autograph nor the earliest copy of it survives, of course. The earliest
surviving manuscript of Galatians, P46, which dates to around 200 CE and is therefore very
early by the standards of New Testament manuscripts, must nonetheless have been many
copies removed from the original.
Figure 5 The “Dunlap Broadside,” printed on July 4, 1776 and signed only by John Hancock,
President of the Congress, and Charles Thomson, Secretary of the Congress (courtesy of the
Library of Congress).
to Tarsus (2 Cor. 12.2-10), or perhaps simply from the physical wear and tear of
an extraordinarily difficult life. In addition to poor eyesight, they have suggested
other larger somatic diseases, as well as specific physical ailments associated with
the normal types of injuries and deformities suffered by those who, like Paul,
work with their hands, and even more abnormal injuries associated with beating,
scourging, and even crucifixion. They marshal in support of their explanations
Paul’s frequent references in his letters to his physical ailments: his “thorn in the
flesh” and “angel of Satan” in 2 Cor. 12.7; his “weakness” in 2 Cor. 12.9-10; his
“weakness of the flesh” in Gal. 4.13-15; the “marks of Jesus on his body” in Gal.
6.17. Indeed, to the church in Corinth Paul recites virtual catalogs of his hardships
and afflictions (1 Cor. 4.9-13; 2 Cor. 4.8-12, 6.4-10, 11.23-29).
Introduction 9
Others commentators have shied away from such hypothetical biographical

reconstructions in favor of a more bookish explanation: that Paul’s observation
about the size of his own handwriting is an indication to his Galatian audience that
he is placing great emphasis on his statements to follow. Paul’s “large letters,” then,
are supposed to be an ancient chirographic counterpart to a modern typographic
bold-faced font. This explanation has become the communis opinio of scholarly
commentators today, and those who subscribe to it consequently regard the text
that follows (Gal. 6.12-16), Paul’s condemnation of a Judaizing theology that
preaches the indispensability of circumcision, as the centerpiece of his entire letter
to the Galatians.
Numerous other explanations for Paul’s “large letters” have been offered over
the past two millennia: for example, that Paul came from a low social class, did not
enjoy a typical Hellenistic education, and so had attained only rudimentary skills
in reading and writing Greek; that he was deliberately writing in a childish style in
order to put his audience at ease; that he was offering a special sign of his affection
toward the Galatians; that he was trying to express his great displeasure toward
the Galatians; that he was going out of his way to accentuate, and therefore to
compliment, the higher quality of the writing of his scribe; that he wanted his letter
to be displayed publicly to a large audience; that he was eager to assert his status as
a school master; that he was overcompensating for his psychological timidity. We
shall revisit all these explanations, as well as several others, below, and then try to
account for their attractiveness to commentators throughout history.
However, the real reasons for Paul’s “large letters,” I suspect—just as those of John
Hancock—are rather less intriguing. They are readily elicited from a comparison
with the epistolary conventions of letter-writers contemporary with Paul. As was
his habit, Paul had taken the reed from the scribe to whom he had been dictating
his letter to the Galatians and was about to append an autographic subscription,
primarily intended to assert his letter’s authenticity (i.e., to indicate that the letter
was from the apostle himself),3 but secondly designed to authorize and legitimize
the letter by assuring its audience that he had taken the time and made the effort
3. Autographic subscriptions regularly served this function in letters and contracts in

the Greek and Latin documentary papyri and tablets (see below). This function can also
be detected in several letters that have been passed down through textual transmission: for
example, L. Munatius Plancus expresses confidence in letters from Lepidus and Laterensis
because they are written in their own hands (credidi chirographis eius “I trust his handwritten
letters”) (Cicero ad Familiares 10.21). It can also be observed in anecdotal comments about
letters in ancient works: for example, Josephus Jewish War 1.137, where the governors have
been instructed to obey only those letters that are actually in the hand of Aristobolus (taῖV
aὐtogrάϕoiV ἐpistolaῖV “the autographic letters”). The issue of authenticity is raised
explicitly in the subscription of the second letter to the Thessalonians (3.17): ὁ ἀspasmὸV
tῇ ἐmῇ ceirὶ Paύlou, ὅ ἐstin shmeῖon ἐn pάsῃ ἐpistolῇ· oὕtwV grάϕw “this greeting
(has been written) with my own hand, which is my mark in every letter; it is the way I write.”
Note the author’s concerns expressed earlier in the letter (2 Thess. 2.2.) about false letters
containing mistaken doctrine.
to check the final draft of the letter that had been dictated by him but written, and
perhaps rewritten, by his scribe,4 and thirdly crafted to add a personal touch to
what had been a rather stern letter.5 Precisely at this moment Paul decided to point
out, as additional support for all three of his purposes, that his own writing was
stylistically different from that of his more professional scribe. There was nothing
unusual about this: a difference in the style of handwriting is a normal feature of
autographic subscriptions appended to dictated letters in antiquity, and large letters
in these subscriptions are common. They are simply the result of a nonprofessional
writing style rather than an indication of a physical or psychological affliction of
some sort, or a reflection of low social class or educational level, or a clue to some
subtle message between the author and his audience.
It is usually very clear in ancient letters, from as far apart geographically as
those on papyrus from the deserts of southern Egypt, those on leather and
papyrus from the wilderness of eastern Judaea, and those on wooden and wax
tablets from the frontier of northern England, exactly where the scribe has left
off and where the author/sender of the letter begins: often a smaller, tidier, more
regular, and uniform, even elegant, professional hand gives way to a larger, thicker,
more awkward and clumsy, unpracticed, amateurish hand.6 Again, this is not to
suggest that Paul was lacking in education, or even that he had exceptionally poor
4. The authorizing and legitimizing function of autographic subscriptions is a regular

feature in the letters and contracts of the Greek and Latin documentary papyri and tablets
(see below). It can also be observed in many comments about letters in ancient works:
for example, Tacitus Annales 1.11, where a document composed in Augustus’s own hand
is particularly revered by the Senate, (sua manu perscripserat Augustus “Augustus had
composed it in his own hand”); Plutarch Pericles 10.4, where Pericles’ autograph lends
authority and legitimacy to a decree (tὸ yήϕisma grάyaV aὐtόV “he himself having
written the decree”).
5. Autographic subscriptions in antiquity are sometimes explicitly said to offer a
personal touch to a letter (see below). Cicero, for example, takes particular delight in the
letters of Atticus that are written in his own hand (ad Atticum 7.2.3 tua manu “with your
own hand,” 7.3.1 a te ipso scriptae “written by you yourself ”). Seneca writes about how a
letter substitutes for the actual presence of a friend, especially if that letter is in the friend’s
hand (Epistulae 40.1 quanto iucundiores sunt litterae, quae vera amici absentis vestigia, veras
notas afferunt? nam quod in conspectu dulcissimum est, id amici manus epistulae impressa
praestat, agnoscere. “How much more pleasant are letters that bring us the true vestiges and
true traces of an absent friend! For that which is most sweet face to face is provided by the
impression of a friend’s hand upon his letter—namely recognition.”).
6. But, as we shall observe below, the opposite is also often true with respect to mere size:
the autographic subscription may be in a smaller hand than that of the body of the letter (or
in a hand of about the same size). In any case, the hand of the subscription (usually that of
the author/sender) is almost always less proficient than that of the body (usually that of a
professional scribe or trained secretary).
Introduction 11
penmanship; it is only to observe that Paul, admittedly, had a writing style that
was technically less refined than that of the scribe to whom he had been dictating.
This explanation, based on a thorough examination and comparison of
contemporary epistolary features, though not as intriguing as many of the
imaginative explanations offered by commentators over the past two millennia, is
in fact more complex and multifaceted than it may first appear. It addresses four
questions that are better kept separate than fused into one in our consideration to
follow:
1. Why did Paul add an autographic subscription to his letter to the Galatians?
2. Why did Paul mention explicitly that he was writing the autographic
subscription with his own hand?
3. Why did Paul write with large letters?
4. Why did Paul observe explicitly that his letters were large?
Answers to these questions can best be discovered by examining the conventions

of letter writing in the ancient Mediterranean world, with special emphasis on the
technicalities of handwriting and on the dynamic relationship between an author
and his or her scribe.
Chapter 2
T he L aboriousness of L etter W riting

in A ntiquity
Writing in the ancient world was a laborious process performed primarily by

highly trained slaves, servants, and hired hands, and, later in the medieval
period, by religiously motivated, dedicated scribes. Anecdotal evidence of its
laboriousness is easy to come by: it is not unusual, for example, to find at the
end of a long manuscript a colophon appended by the scribe as a “parting shot,”
such as the following epigram that I stumbled upon in the special collections of
the University of California graduate library at the end of a meticulously written
medieval manuscript of the Greek New Testament:
ὡV ἡdὺV toῖV plέousin ὁ eὔdioV limήn·

oὕtwV kaὶ toῖV grάϕousin ὁ ἔscatoV stίcoV.
+Ἰwannikίou Μonacoῦ+
As sweet to sailors as is the calm harbor,
So also to writers is the last line.
+Ioannikios the Monk+
Similar colophons by weary scribes abound in medieval manuscripts. “Though

only three fingers write, the whole body labors.” “Writing bows one's back, thrusts
the ribs into one's stomach, and fosters a general debility of the body.” “The end of
the book; thanks be to God!”1
The tedium of writing is evidenced from earlier antiquity as well. In the
1st-century BCE Latin rhetorical handbook, the Rhetorica ad Herennium, the
anonymous author discourages the aspiring orator from wasting his time on the
laborious and uninspiring task of copying texts (4.4.6): laboriosum non statim
praeclarum. sunt enim multa laboriosa, quae si faciatis, non continuo gloriemini;
nisi etiam si vestra manu fabulas aut orationes totas transscripsissetis gloriosum
putaretis. “What is laborious is not necessarily excellent. For there are many
laborious things that, if you were to do them, you would not consequently boast
1. For these and other similar medieval colophons appended to New Testament
manuscripts, see B. M. Metzger and B. D. Ehrman (2005, 29–33).
about them—unless you consider it a glorious thing to have transcribed by your

own hand entire dramas or speeches!”
The laboriousness of writing not only long manuscripts but even short personal
letters is colorfully attested in a 4th-century CE letter on papyrus (P.Oxy. 56.3860)
from an Egyptian woman named Taesis to her husband Tiron, which she has
dictated to a houseguest named Alexandros. Alexandros interjects a complaint
after a mere forty-one lines of writing, in a rather heavy and rudimentary hand, that
he has “worn himself out by writing the letter” (ἀpekάkhsa ἐgὼ ὁ ἈlέxandroV
grάϕwn soi tὰV ἐpistolάV).2 For the sake of comparison, Taesis’s letter is about
the length of Paul’s letter to Philemon, his shortest, and it is less than 1/20th the
length of Paul’s letter to the Romans, his longest.
The tedium of writing may partly account for the fact that documentary letters
among the papyri average fewer than 100 words, and very few surpass 200.3
This limitation was also enforced by material constraints, for even the largest
papyrus sheets upon which letters were normally written could hold only about
250 words.4 Writers of literary letters, who had the luxury of using additional
sheets of papyrus that had been glued together into rolls, often produced much
longer works: Cicero’s letters range from 22 to 2,530 words, with an average of
295; Seneca’s range from 149 to 4,134, with an average of 955; Paul’s range from
335 (Philemon) to 7,114 (Romans), with an average of 2,495 (based on a corpus
of all thirteen letters).5
In the ancient world the production of a manuscript even as short as a personal
letter was not only a laborious process but also a highly technical one. The duties
of a scribe required specialized training: the skill to follow dictation quickly and
2. It is possible that the plural ἐpistolάV (letters) here refers not just to this letter but
to a series of short letters mentioned earlier in the text. But the plural form is regularly used
of a single letter in Koiné Greek, as in 1 Macc. 11.29 and Josephus Antiquities 12.225.
3. A. Wikenhauser (1956, 245) calculates that the documentary letters are on average
eighty-seven words in length, but his calculation is based not on a comprehensive collection
but rather on a representative selection of some 200 documents from S. Witkowski (1911),
B. Olsson (1925), and A. Wifstrand (1937).
4. The longest extant Greek documentary letter among the papyri is P.Duk.inv. 177
recto, 348 CE, a private letter comprising 178 lines in six columns regarding family business
matters from a lawyer named Ammon in Alexandria to his mother Senpetechensis in
Panopolis. The letter is reconstructed from numerous fragments, the left column is broken
off, and much of the text is faded, so it is impossible to count the number of words with
precision. But nine to eleven words can be made out on several visible lines, which, if taken
as the average, yield a total of roughly 1,800 words—comparable to the length of Paul’s
letters to the Philippians or to the Thessalonians (i.e., 1 Thess.).
5. The 1,600 Greek literary letters collected by R. Hercher (1873)—most of which, while
attributed to famous figures of antiquity, are fabrications of the Hellenistic and Roman
periods—average 178 words, higher than the documentary papyri but on the low end of
the larger corpora of Latin literary letters, and substantially lower than the letters of Paul.
accurately, probably in a form of shorthand,6 by incising a wax tablet with a metal

stylus,7 or by writing on a sheet of papyrus with a reed pen and carbon-based ink,8
and then the skill and patience to transform the shorthand version into two clear,
even elegant, transcriptions with reed and ink on a papyrus sheet or roll, one for
the author of the letter and the other for the recipient.9
Proficiency in writing, then, was the result of specialized technical training,
and a well-produced manuscript commanded a hefty price. According to a letter
written during the reign of Claudius (mid-1st century CE) from the town of
Philadelphia in the nome of Arsinoites (SB 14.12143 [= P.Mich.inv. 855]), it cost
two drachmae to have a short personal letter copied on papyrus. To put this in
perspective, two drachmae was the standard daily wage for a skilled laborer at the
time. According to Diocletian’s 301 CE edict on maximum prices, the set wage for
first-rate scribes at the time was 25 denarii for 100 lines of text.10 Again, while it is
6. In addition to the many stray specimens of shorthand symbols on the Egyptian papyri
(e.g., the explanatory notes attached to a text of Plato’s Republic on P.Oxy. 15.1808, late 2nd
century CE), there survive several fragments of an ancient Greek shorthand manual or
commentary (e.g., P.Col. 8.207, early 2nd century CE [Fig. 61]), as well as some references to
the training program required to master Greek shorthand writing (e.g., P.Oxy. 4.724, 155 CE,
a contract in which a slave is apprenticed to a “writer of shorthand” (shmeiogrάϕoV) for
two years in order to be taught “the signs” (shmeῖa)). For further primary and secondary
evidence of the development of Greek and Latin shorthand in antiquity, including recently
discovered early specimens from Wadi Murabbaat in Judaea and Vindolanda in England,
see Appendix V.
7. In Greek graϕeῖon (e.g., Machon fr. 18.404) or graϕίV (e.g., Plato Protagoras 326d)
and pίnax (e.g., Homer Iliad 6.169) or dέltoV (e.g., Herodotus 8.135); in Latin stilus and
codicilli (e.g., Cicero ad Familiares 6.18.1), pugillares (e.g., Pliny Epistulae 1.6.1), or tabellae
(e.g., Plautus Bacchides 715).
8. In Greek kάlamoV, mέlan, and cάrthV (e.g., 2 Jn 12; 3 Jn 13); in Latin calamus,
atramentum, and charta (e.g., Cicero ad Quintum Fratrem 2.15.1 [sometimes this letter is
numbered 2.14]).
9. Examples of copies of letters retained by their authors are found among the Greek
papyri (e.g., P.Oxy. 59.3993) and the Latin leaf tablets (e.g., P.Vindol. 225). Seneca and Pliny
clearly retained copies of their letters and later fashioned them into published collections.
Cicero kept copies of at least some of his letters (ad Atticum 16.5.5, ad Familiares 7.25.1, ad
Quintum Fratrem 2.11[10].4–5), a practice that probably facilitated their later collection and
publication. This may hold true also in the case of Paul (cf. 2 Tim. 4.13), though there are good
reasons to think that the later manuscript tradition was based on the copies of the letters that
Paul actually sent (see below). See further Appendix V on the practice of shorthand writing.
10. The set wage for second-rate scribes was twenty denarii, and for “market-place”
scribes ten denarii (7.39–41). T. Mommsen’s edition (1893) of Diocletian’s edict is readily
accessible through the Hathi Trust (http://www.hathitrust.org/); see page 22 for the
pertinent section on scribes. The best critical edition currently in print is that of S. Lauffer
(1971); see pages 120–121 for the pertinent section on scribes.
difficult to translate this currency meaningfully into modern terms, we may gain
some perspective by observing that the average daily wage stipulated for various
other skilled laborers by the same edict is around 50 denarii; hence, a proficient
scribe who produced 200 lines of text, with the typical line comprising 16 syllables,
would have been compensated for his work with a wage equal to the daily wage of
a skilled laborer. Put another way, at the end of the 3rd century CE, it would have
cost 84 denarii, about a day and a half ’s wage for a skilled laborer, to hire a scribe to
make a first-rate copy of Paul’s letter to the Galatians. A copy of Paul’s letter to the
Romans would have cost 268 denarii, about a week’s wage for a skilled laborer. This
may not include the cost of the writing material—notably the papyrus—which
was not inconsiderable. The price of a papyrus roll in Egypt during the mid-1st
century CE was typically four drachmae; the price of a single sheet was two obols
(a third of a drachma). The price would have been higher the further one lived
from Egypt.11
Yet, in spite of its laboriousness, its technical requirements, and the high price
that it commanded, the practice of writing was not a mark of advanced education
or of high social status. In Hellenistic society—Greek, Roman, and Jewish—social
status was attained by one’s lineage, wealth (especially landed wealth), citizenship,
associations, and offices, not by one’s writing skill. Moreover, one’s level of literacy
in antiquity, which did in fact correlate to some degree with one’s social status,
hinged more on fluency in reading than in writing.12 Though highly trained
technically, scribes were often slaves, servants, or hired hands who served not only
the illiterate and semiliterate but also the well educated, who, for their part, though
perhaps capable of writing with an acceptably legible hand, generally preferred
11. So W. V. Harris (1989, 194–196).

12. So E. Havelock (1982, 38–59). This held true also among Palestinian Jews of the
period, who did not as a rule consider the inability to write degrading—so C. Hezser (2001,
176–189). In antiquity, as throughout human history, more people have been able to read
than to write—so R. Thomas (1992, 10). While learning to read was always a priority in
Jewish homes, learning to write was given much less attention, and as a result many fewer
Jews could write than could read—so M. Bar-Ilan (1990, 21–23), H. Gamble (1995, 7).
Hence to assert that Paul was not a skillful writer does not insinuate that he was illiterate
or uneducated.
For an example of a prominent official who is illiterate, see P.Oxy. 1.71 (column one), 303
CE, a petition to the praefect from Aurelius Demetrios, the “chief priest” (ἀrcierateύV)
of the city of Arsinoe, who refers to an occasion on which someone attempted to take
advantage of him in a financial matter “because of his own illiteracy” (diὰ tὸ ἀgrάmmatόn
me eἶnai).
A glimpse of the dichotomy between reading and writing can be observed as early
as Euripides’ tragedy Iphigeneia in Tauris 578–794: on the one hand, Iphigeneia informs
Pylades and Orestes that she had to resort to compelling a former prisoner to write out a
letter for her to her brother; on the other hand, she is easily able to read the contents of this
very letter to them.
to dictate to a professional scribe rather than put reed to papyrus themselves.13

Evidence for this comes from the testimony of ancient authors, including the
poets, the rhetoricians, and even the great letter-writers of antiquity, such as
Cicero, Seneca, and Pliny. More ample evidence comes from the primary artifacts
themselves: the papyrus, leather, and lead sheets, the wooden and wax tablets, and
the ostraca upon which the various hands of scribes and authors are recorded. For
our present purposes we shall survey the former in a somewhat cursory manner
and concentrate our attention on the latter, since the former offers only indirect
evidence (we have copies rather than autographs of these authors), while the latter
offers direct evidence (we can witness the autographs themselves).
13. In his long treatise on proper educational practice Quintilian, a rough contemporary
of Paul, emphasizes that it is important for the aspiring orator to acquire writing skills, but
he admits that the art of writing well and quickly is generally disregarded by persons of
high social status: non est aliena res, quae fere ab honestis neglegi solet, cura bene ac velociter
scribendi. nam cum sit in studiis praecipuum, quoque solo verus ille profectus et altis radicibus
nixus paretur, scribere ipsum, tardior stilus cogitationem moratur, rudis et confusus intellectu
caret; unde sequitur alter dictandi quae transferenda sunt labor. (Institutio Oratoria 1.1.28)
“The ability to write well and quickly is not an irrelevant matter, although it is generally
disregarded by respectable people. For although writing itself is of the greatest importance
in our studies, and by it alone can true progress, supported by deep roots, be acquired, a
slow pen delays thinking, while a clumsy and illegible hand cannot be understood, from
which follows another chore, that of dictating what is to be copied.” Similar comments by
Quintillian on the use of dictation are found in Institutio Oratoria 10.3.19–22.
Chapter 3
T he G reek L iterary L etter- W riting T radition
Although the Mycenaean Greeks likely participated to some degree in the rich
letter-writing activities of other Bronze Age Mediterranean and Eastern civilizations
(Hittites, Babylonians, Egyptians, etc.), no letters of any kind have been discovered
among the plethora of Linear B tablets.1 Later literary sources too (Homer, Hesiod,
early lyric poets) are silent about letter writing during the early periods of Greek
history. Aside from the mythic tale of the pίnax ptuktόV (folded tablet) on which
the courier Bellerophon’s own death sentence was inscribed (Iliad 6.168–170),2 the
earliest Greek letters recorded in literature are those between Polycrates of Samos
and Amasis of Egypt in the 520s (Herodotus 3.40–43).3 It seems likely that during
the Bronze and Archaic periods messages were normally transmitted in oral rather
than written form, and even into the Classical period written letters appear to have
1. The absence of official and personal letters among the Linear B tablets is likely due to
the vagaries of attestation, not to the absence of such documents among the Mycenaeans
(i.e., most tablets were discovered among the archives of administrative accounts, and so
there is lacking anything of a “literary” nature). Among the twenty-eight Hittite documents
that mention the Ahhiyawa (Achaeans), the most evocative for our purposes is the so-called
“Tawagalawa Letter” (Keilschrift-Urkunden aus Boghazköi 14.3) from a 13th-century BCE
King of the Hittites to the King of the Ahhiyawa; cf. H. A. Hoffner and G. M. Beckman
(2009, 296–313) for bibliography and text. Equally evocative is the diptych (hinged wax
tablets) retrieved from the late 14th-century BCE ship wrecked off the coast of Ulu Burun,
which, if not Mycenaean, certainly included Mycenaean ports among its many ports of call;
cf. R. Payton (1991).
2. The same sinister motif can be observed in the story of the letter carried by Uriah
the Hittite in 2 Sam. 11.14-15. Stories about letters that are set in the mythic past in later
Greek literature are equally sinister: for example, Phaedra’s false letter accusing Hippolytus
of rape (Euripides Hippolytus 877–890); Odysseus’s forged letter incriminating Palamedes
of treachery (Euripides Palamedes fr. 578 [ed. A. Nauck]); Agamemnon’s devious letter
summoning Iphigeneia to Aulis, ostensibly to be married to Achilles but in reality to be
sacrificed to Artemis (Euripides Iphigeneia in Aulis 94–105). All three letters result in the
deaths of those concerned.
3. Herodotus mentions a slightly earlier secret missive between the Mede Harpagus and
the Persian Cyrus (1.124), but the text would not have been in Greek in its original form.
been regarded simply as tangible records of what were essentially oral messages.
They do not yet follow the codified epistolary format so typical of written letters in
later periods: address (with sender’s name in the nominative case, recipient’s name
in the dative case), initial greeting, body of the letter, and farewell greeting.4
Greek letter writing can be witnessed in earnest beginning in the late 5th and
early 4th centuries BCE, and the tradition remained strong throughout antiquity.
However, very few authentic Greek literary letters have survived. We may gain
some sense of their features by examining the later secondary works on the theory
of letter writing in Greek antiquity, such as Perὶ ἙrmhneίaV (On Style) by the
Hellenistic rhetorician now known as “Demetrius” (since the work was mistakenly
attributed to Demetrius of Phalerum), who offers instruction on the proper style
and content of letters (On Style 223–235), Τύpoi Ἐpistolikoί (Epistolary Types)
by the 2nd–1st-century BCE rhetorician now known as “Pseudo-Demetrius”
(since this work too was mistakenly attributed to Demetrius of Phalerum), who
catalogs twenty-one different epistolary types (friendly, commendatory, blaming,
etc.), and Ἐpistolimaῖoi ΧaraktῆreV (Epistolary Styles), a work falsely attributed
to the 4th-century CE rhetorician Libanius, in which the number of epistolary
types is increased to forty-one.5 And, of course, the survival of many Greek
letters of a documentary nature may shed some light on the features of their
literary counterparts: two or three dozen inscribed on thin sheets of lead from
as early as late 6th century,6 several dozen inscribed on stone from as early as the
4. The evidence of the actual texts of surviving letters indicates that it was not until the 4th
century that this typical epistolary format was codified. This dating is supported indirectly
by the fact that it is not until the rise of New Comedy in the 4th century that the delivery
of letters becomes a workaday event in Greek literature, depicting, as it does, the ordinary
activities in the social lives of sophisticated urbanites—or so, at least, we may suppose from
the later Latin offspring of Greek New Comedy (Plautus’s comedies mention letters sixteen
times: for example, Asinaria 760–767, Miles Gloriosus 129–135, Trinummus 843–1007).
5. None of these works is very helpful for our purposes, since they assume that their
readers are already familiar with the regular epistolary conventions such as the address,
greeting, and postscript, and so do not raise the matters that are of greatest interest to us here.
A. J. Malherbe (1988) offers a convenient collection of the texts and translations of all three.
6. Perhaps the earliest and best known is a letter from a merchant named Achillodoros to
his son Protagoras dating to the second half of the 6th century from the Milesian colony of
Borysthenes on the Black Sea: Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum 26.845, first published
in Y. G. Vinogradov (1971). P. Ceccarelli (2013, 335–356) has collected the texts of all
extant letters on lead sheets. Most lack the typical elements of later documentary letters
entirely, although some begin with the sender in the nominative case and recipient in the
dative case (Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum 37.665), some continue with the typical
initial greeting caίrein (hail) (Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum 54.983), and some
conclude with a final greeting, such as ἔrrwso (farewell) (Supplementum Epigraphicum
Graecum 50.704), caῖre (hail) (Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum 37.838), or eὐtύcei
(good luck) (Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum 54.983).
4th century,7 several hundred written on ostraca from as early as the 4th century,8
and several thousand written on papyrus from as early as the 3rd century.9
We know that there once existed archives of private correspondence that was
literary rather than documentary—for example, Artemon’s collection of Aristotle’s
7. These are largely official Greek letters between cities and between rulers, which,
while originally written with ink on papyrus, were regarded as important enough by their
recipients to be chiseled into stone and displayed in public places. With the rising power of
the Macedonians, and later the Romans, letters inscribed on stone increasingly served as
an instrument to extend the royal will into the far reaches of their empires. Dozens of these
inscriptions survive, most in quite fragmentary condition, but we can still observe several of
the epistolary features that appear to have become standard. For example, a letter from King
Antigonus to the city of Eresus in Lesbos (Inscriptiones Graecae XII, 2 [1899], 526), dating
to around 306 BCE, begins with a date, based on who was holding the office of prytanis
(Melidorus), followed by the name of the sender (King Antigonus) in the nominative case
and the recipients (the council and people of Eresus) in the dative case, followed by the
greeting caίrein (hail). The short body of the letter mentions a previous exchange of
letters regarding some legal matters concerning the sons of Agonippus. The letter ends
with the greeting ἔrrwsqe (farewell). The most comprehensive collection of official Greek
letters inscribed on stone remains C. B. Welles (1934).
8. A few short letters are included in U. Wilcken’s massive collection of ostraca (Wilcken
1899); likewise in M. L. Lang’s collection of ostraca from the Athenian Agora (Lang 1990).
The texts, and in some cases the images, of almost 20,000 ostraca, mostly from Egypt, several
hundred of which are letters, can be accessed electronically through the portal Papyrological
Navigator (http://papyri.info/). Most of these letters on ostraca are records of very short
business transactions (orders for payment, receipts, etc.), the only epistolary features of
which are the address, with sender in the nominative case and recipient in the dative case,
followed by the initial greeting caίrein (hail), and perhaps a date at the end (e.g., O.Mich.
1.90, 155 BCE, Arsinoites). Some include additional epistolary features: a more extensive
initial greeting, such as prὸ mὲn pάntwn eὔcomaί se ὑgiaίnein “above all else I
pray that you are healthy,” and more extensive closing greetings, such as ἀspάzou “greet
so-and-so” and ἔrrwso (farewell) (e.g., O.Faw. 9, 1st–2nd century CE, Wadi Fawakhir;
O.Did. 339, 1st century CE, Didymoi; O.Did. 402, 2nd century CE, Didymoi). Occasionally
a second hand, presumably that of the author/sender, who had dictated the earlier portion
of the letter to a scribe, appends a short farewell greeting: for example, O.Did. 57 and 406,
1st–2nd century CE, Didymoi (in both cases the farewells are in a larger hand than that of
the text of the letter); O.Florida 3, 2nd century CE, Thebes(?); O.Claud. 2.258 and 2.376,
2nd century CE, Raima; O.Claud. 4.866, 2nd century CE, Mons Claudianus; O.Did. 461,
3rd century CE, Didymoi.
9. Tens of thousands of documentary papyri, several thousand of which are letters,
now housed in hundreds of different archives all over the world, can be handily accessed
by digital means through the portal Papyrological Navigator (http://papyri.info/), which
displays information collected from several digital databases. The epistolary features of
documentary letters among the papyri will be considered at great length below.
correspondence (so “Demetrius” On Style 223)—but these archives have not

survived the ravages of time. Hence, we do not have nearly as many examples
of authentic Greek literary letters as we do of later Roman letter-writers, such as
Cicero, Seneca, and Pliny. Actually, the New Testament itself provides one of the
richest sources of literary, or at least quasi-literary, letters in Greek: twenty-one of
the twenty-seven books of the New Testament are letters (all but the four Gospels,
the Acts of the Apostles, and Revelation), and there survive also two letters
embedded in the narrative of the Acts of the Apostles (15.23-29 and 23.25-30)
and seven in the narrative of Revelation (Rev. 2–3). With the full realization that
Paul’s letters fall somewhere on the spectrum between the extremes of the longer,
grander, literary letters, or rather “letter-essays,” such as those of Epicurus, and of
the shorter, situational, run-of-the-mill, documentary letters, such as those in the
papyri, we shall take the opportunity to examine both.
The collections of Greek letters attributed to famous figures of antiquity that do
survive are largely later fabrications of the Hellenistic and Roman periods, or even
later, intended to fill perceived holes in the historical record, to offer entertainment
or moral instruction, or simply to provide models for school exercises. These
include collections of letters attributed to: the philosophers Anacharsis (10),
Heraclitus (9), Plato (13), Socrates and his disciples (35), Aristotle (6), Diogenes
(51), Crates (36), and Apollonius of Tyana (100); the orators Lysias (7), Isocrates
(9), Aeschines (12), and Demosthenes (6); the Sicilian tyrant Phalaris (148);
the Athenian general Themistocles (21); the Coan physician Hippocrates (27);
the Athenian dramatist Euripides (5); the Athenian historian Xenophon (7);
Plato’s student Chion of Heraclea (17); Alexander the Great (3); and the Roman
politician Brutus, the assassin of Caesar (70 in Greek).10 These mostly fictitious
pieces are of a literary, rhetorical, political, historical, or philosophical nature. The
most consistent feature that they hold in common with documentary letters is a
short initial address; a few also slap on a greeting at the beginning and/or end.
10. The most comprehensive edition of Greek literary letters, including 1,600 letters
by 60 authors between the 6th century BCE and the 6th century CE, remains R. Hercher
(1873). More recent, though somewhat less comprehensive, treatments can be found in
N. Holzberg and S. Merkle (1994), C. D. N. Costa (2001), M. Trapp (2003), P. A. Rosenmeyer
(2006), and J. Muir (2009, 177–210). More recent treatments of specialized topics include:
I. Düring (1951) on the letters of Chion of Heraclea; R. Merkelbach (1954) on the letters of
Alexander; G. R. Morrow (1962) on the letters of Plato; F. H. Reuters (1963) on the letters of
Anacharsis; H. U. Gösswein (1975) on the letters of Euripides; A. J. Malherbe (1977a) on the
Cynic epistles; R. J. Penella (1979) on the letters of Apollonius of Tyana; A. Städele (1980)
on the letters of Pythagoras and his disciples; G. Cortassa and E. Culasso Gastaldi (1990) on
the letters of Themistocles; W. D. Smith (1990) on the letters of Hippocrates; V. Hinz (2001)
on the letters of Phalaris; P. A. Rosenmeyer (2001) on fictive letters embedded in Greek
literature, from Homeric epic to the Hellenistic novel. For a synoptic but excellent survey
of these and other literary letters from antiquity, with a view to the light they shed on New
Testament letters, see H.-J. Klauck (2006).
The initial address follows a standard construction: the name of the sender in the
nominative case, followed by the name of the recipient in the dative case, followed
by the greeting caίrein (hail) or eὖ prάttein (do well)—the former being about
five times more frequent than the latter. In his 3rd (315a–b) and 13th (360a, cf.
363b) letters “Plato” asserts that it is his custom to use the greeting eὖ prάttein
rather than caίrein when addressing friends, and, like “Paul” in 2 Thess. 3.17,
stresses that this particular feature can be regarded as a “sign” that the letter is
really from him.11 In a “Socratic” letter (Εpistulae 36) the author Dionysius weighs
the relative merits of the three greetings eὖ prάttein (do well,) caίrein (hail,) and
ἥdesqai (be happy).12 Those literary letters that have final greetings—and most
do not—use two formulas that become standard in later epistolary traditions,
including among the New Testament writers: ἔrrwso/ἔrrwsqe (farewell) or
eὐtύcei/eὐtuceῖte (good luck). Rarely we find a farewell formula at the end of
a letter that becomes quite regular (though usually in the plural form) in Pauline
letters: ἀspάzou/ἄspasai (greet so-and-so), as in the 13th letter of “Plato”
(ἀspάzou ὑpὲr ἐmoῦ “greet on my behalf ”) and in the 4th letter of “Apollonius of
Tyana” (ἄspasai tὸn uἱὸn Ἀristokleίdhn “greet your son Aristokleides”). We
find one instance of the epistolary formula ὑgiaίnein eὔcomai “I pray that you are
healthy,” in the 4th letter of “Apollonius of Tyana,” that is common in the letters of
the documentary papyri, and that also occurs in the New Testament.
Of the Greek literary letters that have an appreciable likelihood of authenticity,
and that have survived from antiquity through the normal channels of textual
transmission, the three “letters” of Epicurus found in Diogenes Laertius’s Lives
of the Philosophers (10.35–83, 84–116, 122–135) are not real letters but rather
philosophical treatises introduced by a simple address; the three “letters” of
Dionysius of Halicarnassus (two to Ammaeus and one to Pompeius) come
somewhat closer to the genre of the private letter but are still better categorized
as scholarly treatises; Arrian’s Circumnavigation of the Black Sea is put into the
form of a letter, inasmuch as it is addressed to the emperor Hadrian, but it is a
long travelogue; Alciphron’s 123 letters are literary pieces placed in the mouths
11. “Plato” uses the term sύmbolon, while “Paul” uses shmeῖon, but they are nearly
synonymous.
12. Rarely the introductory greeting ὑgiaίnein (be healthy) replaces the usual caίrein
(hail) (e.g., “Hippocrates” Epistulae 6), and in the Greek documentary letters among the
Egyptian papyri ὑgiaίnein (be healthy) occasionally accompanies caίrein (hail) (e.g., BGU
4.1078, 38 CE Arsinoites). Very rarely in the Greek papyri letters of condolence replace
the usual caίrein (hail), literally (be joyful), with eὐyuceῖn or eὐqumeῖn, both meaning
(take heart) or (be of good courage) (e.g., P.Oxy. 1.115, 2nd century CE, Oxyrhynchos;
PSI 12.1248, 3rd century CE, Oxyrhynchos), apparently out of a sense of decorum under
the sad circumstances. What epistolary greetings were favored by great figures of the past
seems to have been a question of acute interest in late antiquity: Lucian Pro lapsu inter
salutandum; Diogenes Laertius Lives of the Philosophers 3.61, 10.14; “Libanius” Epistolary
Styles 51.
of fictitious characters half a millennium before his own time; Aelian’s 20 Rustic
Letters are literary vignettes describing life in the ancient Athenian countryside;
Philostratus’s 73 letters fall under the literary genre of “anonymous love letters”
and include no epistolary conventions.
Some Greek letters have survived embedded in other genres of literature: for
example, in historical writing (Thucydides 7.11–15—Nicias to the Athenians)13;
in orations (Demosthenes de Corona 39—King Philip to the Athenians)14; in
biographies (Diogenes Laertius Lives of the Philosophers 7.7–8—an exchange
of letters between King Antigonas and the philosopher Zeno)15; and in novels
(Chariton Chaereas and Callirhoe 4.4.7–10—Chaereas to Callirhoe).16 But these
embedded letters are designed by their authors primarily to further the narratives
of their literary works; they are not generally specimens of real letters. In order to
create an illusion of verisimilitude, some of these embedded letters are decorated
with the typical epistolary addresses and greetings: the name of the sender in the
nominative case, followed by the name of the recipient in the dative case, followed
by the greeting caίrein (hail), and a final greeting ἔrrwso/ἔrrwsqe (farewell),
or eὐtύcei/eὐtuceῖte (good luck).17 We learn from these embedded letters a few
details about the dispatch and reception of letters: for example, that carriers of
letters sometimes deliver an oral message along with the written text, and that letters
13. Cf. Herodotus 3.40—Amasis to Polycrates; Xenophon Cyropaedia 4.5.27–33—the

Persian King Cyrus to the Median King Cyaxares; Josephus Antiquities 12.148–153—
King Antiochus to his general Zeuxis. Herodotus quotes only three letters, and he surely
composed the texts himself (1.124; 3.40, 122). Thucydides quotes only four letters, and he
too, as he confesses explicitly with regard to his recording of historical speeches (1.22),
was probably recalling not the exact words of the letters but rather what he thought was
likely written given the circumstances (1.128, 129, 137; 7.11–15). Josephus’s Antiquities are
particularly rich in embedded letters, with some thirty examples, but he was as inventive
as his predecessors; on letters embedded in the works of Josephus, see R. S. Olson (2010).
14. Cf. de Corona 77–78, 157, 166, 167. Letters are often embedded in ancient Greek
orations as records of evidence read in court.
15. Other letters embedded in Diogenes’ Lives of the Philosophers: 1.43–44, 53–54, 64–67,
73, 81, 93, 99–100, 105, 113, 122; 2.4–5, 141; 3.22; 4.44; 7.7–9; 8.49–50, 80–81; 9.13–14;
10.5–7, 22, 35–135.
16. Embedded letters play a very important role in the narratives of early novels: Chariton
Chaereas and Callirhoe 4.4.7–10; 4.5.8; 4.6.3–4; 8.4.2–3; 8.4.5–6; Xenophon An Ephesian
Story 2.5.1–2; 2.5.4; 2.12.1; Achilles Tatius Leucippe and Clitophon 1.3.6; 5.18.2–6; 5.20.5;
The Alexander Romance 1.38.1–40.5, 2.10.4–12.4, 3.25.3–26.7, 3.27–28 (ed. W. Kroll).
17. Some of the embedded letters in the Greek novels, which are of Eastern origin, or
are at least situated in an Eastern setting, reverse the order of sender and recipient. This
is not an uncommon construction in Hebrew and Aramaic letters, as we shall see below,
especially when the recipient is perceived to be of higher status than the sender. It also
occurs occasionally in the Greek papyri from Egypt, but usually only on formal petitions to
an official that are framed in the form of a letter.
addressed to a group are usually read aloud (e.g., Thucydides 7.11–15—Nicias to

the Athenians). Two embedded letters are remarkable in the number of points
of contact that they share with letters of the documentary papyri, and with the
letters of Paul. Josephus Ant. 12.148–153—King Antiochus’s letter to his general
Zeuxis—shares many of the formulaic features found at the beginning of letters
in the papyri: basileὺV ἈntίocoV Ζeύxidi tῷ patrὶ caίrein. eἰ ἔrrwsai, eὖ ἂn
ἔcoi, ὑgiaίnw dὲ kaὶ aὐtόV. punqanόmenoV . . . “King Antiochus to Zeuxis his
father (used affectionately, not literally), hail. If you are well, all is well. I myself am
healthy too. Learning that . . . (body of letter).” Chariton Chaereas and Callirhoe
8.4.5–6—Callirhoe’s letter to her husband Dionysius—is almost Pauline in its final
greeting (we shall return to this in greater detail below): ἀspάzomaί se, Plaggώn.
taῦtά soi gέgraϕa tῇ ἐmῇ ceirί. ἔrrwso, ἀgaqὲ Δionύsie, kaὶ ΚallirόhV
mnhmόneue tῆV sῆV. “I greet you, Plangon. I have written these things to you with
my own hand. Farewell, good Dionysius, and remember your Callirhoe.”
One might suppose that the early Christian letters (late 1st–late 2nd century
CE) would shed some light on Paul’s letter-writing conventions: Clement of
Rome wrote a letter from the Roman church to the Corinthian church; Ignatius of
Antioch wrote six letters to various churches, as well as one to Polycarp the bishop
of Smyrna; Polycarp of Smyrna wrote a letter to the Philippian church; we may
also include the anonymous letter from the church of Smyrna regarding Polycarp’s
martyrdom, the Epistle of Barnabas, and the Epistle to Diognetus.18 These early
Christian letters use some of the Classical and Hellenistic Greek letter-writing
conventions, especially in the opening greeting, but they are already heavily
influenced by the conventions of the letter-writing tradition of the New Testament.
Moreover, although they use some formal epistolary conventions, most of these
letters are, to an even higher degree than Paul’s, fundamentally theological treatises
and homilies rather than real letters.
This brings us finally to the other early Church Fathers, thousands of whose
letters have survived. But these letters are not very helpful for our purposes for
several reasons: they are heavily influenced by the letters of the New Testament,
so it is difficult to elicit traces of earlier epistolary conventions that may also
have influenced the Pauline letters; they too tend to fall within the genres of
theological treatise or homily; and they are generally very unreflective about the
process of letter writing. I offer just two observations that pertain in some way
to the circumstances of Paul’s letter writing: some letter-writers express concerns
about their letters being falsified or forged (cf. 2 Thess. 2.2, 3.17)19; some letter-
writers make a point of mentioning that they are adding greetings at the end of
their letters in their own hands, thereby indicating that the earlier portions of their
18. I leave out the many apocryphal letters of this period: Paul’s Letter to the Laodicaeans
and a third Letter to the Corinthians, Paul and Seneca’s supposed exchange of letters, etc.
19. For example, Dionysius of Alexandria (Eusebius Historia Ecclesiastica 4.23.12), and,
among the Latin Church Fathers, Jerome (Adversus Rufinum 3.20, 3.25).
letters were written by someone else (cf. 1 Cor. 16.21; Gal. 6.11; Col. 4.18; 2 Thess.
3.17; Phlm. 19).20
As a whole Greek literary letters that have survived through the normal
channels of textual transmission are not self-reflective about the process of letter
writing, unlike the documentary letters that survive in the papyri, which we shall
consider below. References to the activity of a scribe, to the process of dictation,
to the laboriousness of the work of writing, to writing in one’s own hand, to
subscriptions, to papyrus, pen, and ink, are few and far between. That is not to
say that a literary letter written in the 3rd century BCE, for example, would not
have undergone a process of composition similar to that of a documentary letter
of the same period. It seems reasonable, for example, to assume that most authors
of letters throughout Greek antiquity dictated their letters to scribes. We know
that dictation (tὸ ὑpagoreύein) was part of educational training already in the
Classical and Hellenistic periods and that it was practiced widely.21 However,
the literary letters are simply not self-reflective enough about the process of
letter writing to make any mention of these scribes.22 A few, very late, letters do
mention letter-writers who compose portions of letters, or even entire letters,
in their own hands, implying that this was highly unusual: in the Alexander
Romance 3.27–28 (ed. W. Kroll) a letter is purportedly written by Alexander
the Great to his mother Olympias in his own hand, the motive for this being
20. The 4th-century CE patriarch Gregory Nazianzenus, at the end of his Testamentum
appends the formula ὑpέgraya ceirὶ ἐmῇ “I have subscribed with my own hand.” The
4th century CE rhetorician Libanius, with whom several Church Fathers studied, and who
boasts the largest collection of ancient Greek letters (c. 1,600), was in the habit of adding
salutations at the bottom of his letters in his own hand, and in his letter to Philip (1223) he
adds the interesting note that he has received a letter from Philip just as he was about to add
a final farewell to a letter of his own in his own hand (mέllontόV mou tῇ ceirὶ tὸ ἔrrwso
prosqήsein “when I was about to add the farewell with my own hand”).
21. It is likely that dictation was practiced as early as the first textualization of Homer’s
epics in the late 8th century BCE: that is, that dictation was the very process whereby
Homer’s oral epics for the first time became written texts—on which see S. Reece (2005).
For dictation during the Classical period, see Xenophon Oeconomicus 15.7, Aristotle Topica
142b30–35, Demosthenes Perὶ tῶn prὸV Ἀlέxandron sunqhkῶn 29. The explicit
advice of the philosopher and rhetorician Dio Chrysostom (c. 40–c. 120 CE) to an aspiring
statesman, though late, is appropriate in this context (Perὶ Lόgou ἈskhsέwV 18 = On
Training for Public Speaking 18): “I do not advise you to write yourself, or only very rarely,
but rather to delegate it to another. For, in the first place, someone who dictates is more
similar to one who speaks than he is to one who writes, and, in the second place, less labor
is required.”
22. There is a surprising absence of a commonly accepted word in ancient Greek
generally to denote a scribe (in the sense of an amanuensis): occasionally grammateύV,
graϕeύV, and ὑpograϕeύV are used in this sense, but it is not the primary meaning of any
of these words.
secrecy (grάϕei kaq’ ἑautὸn tὰ pepragmέna Ὀlumpiάdi tῇ mhtrὶ ἐn ἰdίᾳ

graϕῇ oὕtwV “He wrote about his own affairs to his mother Olympias in his own
writing as follows.”); the 4th-century CE emperor Julian sometimes appends an
autographic subscription to his letters, introduced by the scribe with the formula
tῇ aὑtoῦ ceirί (with his own hand) (Epistulae 9 and 112), or ἰdίᾳ ceirί (with his
very hand) (Epistulae 11); on one occasion (Epistulae 28) Julian complains that
he has to write a letter himself because of the absence of a scribe (oὐk ἔcwn
oὐdὲ tὸn ὑpogrάϕonta diὰ tὸ pάntaV ἀscόlouV eἶnai, mόliV ἴscusa prόV
se taῦta grάyai “Since I had no scribe, because they were all busy, I barely
mustered up the energy to write these things to you.”); on another occasion
(Epistulae 96) Julian offers as an excuse for using dictation the fact that his
hand is lazier than his tongue (ὑphgόreusά soi· grάϕein gὰr oὐc oἷόV te ἦn,
ἀrgotέran ἔcwn tῆV glώtthV tὴn ceῖra “I dictated to you, for I was unable to
write, as I had a hand lazier than my tongue.”).
In sum, Greek literary letters from the Classical, Hellenistic, and Roman periods
are only marginally helpful as analogues to Paul’s letters, for they appear to be
“guilty as charged” by the rhetorician “Demetrius,” who asserts that letters of such
high style and great length are not real letters in any true sense but rather treatises
with a greeting slapped on as a heading (On Style 228): aἱ dὲ ἄgan makraὶ kaὶ
prosέti katὰ tὴn ἑrmhneίan ὀgkwdέsterai oὐ mὰ tὴn ἀlήqeian ἐpistolaὶ
gέnointo ἄn, ἀllὰ suggrάmmata tὸ caίrein ἔconta prosgegrammέnon,
kaqάper tῶn PlάtwnoV pollaὶ kaὶ ἡ Qoukudίdou. “Those (letters) that are
too long, and further are too inflated in expression, are not in any true sense letters
but rather treatises with the greeting caίrein ‘hail’ attached, as in many of the
letters of Plato and the one of Thucydides (i.e., Nicias’s letter to the Athenians in
Thucydides 7.11–15).” Again, “Demetrius” asserts (On Style 231): eἰ gάr tiV ἐn
ἐpistolῇ soϕίsmata grάϕoi kaὶ ϕusiologίaV, grάϕei mέn, oὐ mὴn ἐpistolὴn
grάϕei. ϕiloϕrόnhsiV gάr tiV boύletai eἶnai ἡ ἐpistolὴ sύntomoV, kaὶ perὶ
ἁploῦ prάgmatoV ἔkqesiV kaὶ ἐn ὀnόmasin ἁploῖV. “If anyone should write
in a letter about problems of logic and natural philosophy, he writes indeed, but
he does not write a letter. For a letter is intended to express friendship succinctly,
and it is the exposition of a simple subject in simple terms.” Paul’s letters, on the
other hand, while in some cases achieving great length and rising stylistically to an
ambitious literary level, remained in essence functional letters addressed and sent
to historical recipients and framed by the epistolary conventions more commonly
found in the situational letters of the documentary papyri.
Chapter 4
T he L atin L iterary L etter- W riting T radition
We are on more solid ground when we turn to Roman letter writing, since there
survive three major collections: Cicero’s 836 letters to various recipients, along with
an additional 89 letters addressed by others to him, during the 1st century BCE1;
Seneca the Younger’s 124 letters to Gaius Lucilius during the 1st century CE; Pliny
the Younger’s 247 letters to 105 different recipients, along with an additional 121
letters between Pliny and the emperor Trajan, during the 1st–2nd century CE.2 We
1. The total number of surviving letters in the Ciceronian corpus is difficult to come
by, since some letters are conflations of two or more letters, and since some letters include
enclosures and embedded correspondence that should count as letters in their own right.
The numbers stated here—836 by Cicero, 89 to Cicero, and 21 by and to someone other than
Cicero, for a total of 946 in the surviving Ciceronian corpus—are based on the calculations
of P. White (2010, 171–175), which are, in turn, based, with some modifications, on the
division of letters in the editions of D. R. Shackleton Bailey (1965–1970, 1977, 1980).
Among the ancient letters that I have included in these initial chapters under the
category of “literary” letters, perhaps some of those of Cicero squirm most uncomfortably.
The categories “literary” and “documentary” are ambiguous and potentially misleading. I
have used the terms primarily in a formal sense, “literary” referring to letters that have
been published and then passed down through the manuscript tradition, “documentary”
referring to actual autographs of letters discovered more or less accidentally. To be sure,
Cicero often writes personal letters to friends that pertain to a particular occasion, that
raise only very mundane topics, that are written in everyday language, that are intended
only for the expressed recipient, and that Cicero could never have envisioned being part of
a published collection of his works. If one of these letters had been discovered in the sands
of Egypt instead of having been copied and recopied through the ages as part of a corpus of
published work, it would have resided comfortably among the letters of the documentary
papyri. Nonetheless, it is beneficial and efficient to include the entirety of the Ciceronian
corpus of letters here among the rest of these “literary” letters.
2. Standard editions of these three collections of Latin letters are: for Cicero, D. R.
Shackleton Bailey (1965–1970, 1977, 1980); for Seneca, L. D. Reynolds (1965); and, for
Pliny, R. A. B. Mynors (1963). Other writers of Latin literary letters roughly contemporary
with Paul include: Ovid, 1st century BCE–1st century CE (Heroides—fictive letters in
may with some confidence retroject onto the Greeks the well-attested epistolary
conventions that we observe in these Romans letter-writers, for we can surmise
from the glimpses of the Greek tradition of literary letter writing (above), and much
more, as we shall see, from the thousands of Greek documentary letters on the
Egyptian papyri (below), that the Roman epistolary tradition inherited its basic
forms from the Greek.3
These Roman literary letters follow the basic structure of their Greek models in
the initial address: the name of the sender in the nominative case, followed by the
name of the recipient in the dative case. Casual letters include just the nomina of
both parties; more formal letters often add the praenomina and cognomina of one
or both parties, as well as a modifying adjective and/or a notation of the public
offices that they hold. When addressing close friends or family members it is
customary to attach the affectionate possessive pronoun suo (his own) (cf. English
“dear”), sometimes simply abbreviated s., to the name of the recipient.
Seneca and Pliny’s letters always include the initial greeting salutem (hail)
(abbreviated s. in Pliny’s case) and the final greeting vale (farewell). These are, of
course, modeled on the Greek initial and final greetings caίrein (hail) and ἔrrwso
(farewell). Cicero’s letters offer much more variety: sometimes they include no
greetings at all, either at the beginning or the end of the letter; sometimes they
include the initial greeting salutem (hail) (often abbreviated sal. or s.), salutem dicit
(says hail) (usually abbreviated s.d.), salutem plurimam (hail well) (sometimes
abbreviated s.p.), or salutem plurimam dicit (says hail well) (always abbreviated
s.p.d.); sometimes they offer a more expanded initial greeting along the lines of
si vales, bene est (ego valeo) “if you are well, it is well (I too am well)” (usually
abbreviated s.v.b. or s.v.b.e.v.). These initial greetings must have been standard long
before Cicero: Seneca (ad Lucilium 15.1.1) observes that it has been the custom
since antiquity to begin a letter with the formula si vales bene est, ego valeo; Pliny
(Epistulae 1.11) complains to a friend that even if he cannot write a long letter he
should at least send the formulaic greeting si vales bene est, ego valeo. Ultimately,
these common initial greetings can be traced back to Greek models, for we find an
verse form, Tristia and Epistulae ex Ponto—poetic letters); Horace, 1st century BCE (two
books of epistles in verse form that are not real letters, even though they are addressed
to real people like his patron Maecenas and Caesar Augustus, but rather counsel on how
to lead one’s life); Fronto, 2nd century CE (a large collection of correspondence—348
letters—more commonplace than literary, and surely not intended for publication, with
the emperors Marcus Aurelius, Lucius Verus, Antoninus Pius, and various other friends).
Surviving documentary letters in autographic form from this period (on papyri, wooden
tablets, ostraca, etc.) are far fewer in Latin than in Greek, but specimens are accessible in
the collection of P. Cugusi (1992–2002) and in the various publications of the Vindolandan
tablets (see below).
3. P. Cugusi (1983, 43–72) has cataloged many of the formulaic features found in ancient
Latin letters, both literary and documentary. P. White (2010, 63–86) surveys the formulaic
conventions of Cicero’s letters specifically.
almost identical formula in Greek letters among the papyri of the early Hellenistic
period: eἰ ἔrrwsai, kalῶV/eὖ ἂn ἔcoi· ἔrrwmai/ὑgiaίnw dὲ kaὶ aὐtόV “if you
are well, it is well; I too am well” (e.g., P.Cair. Zen. 1.59015 [verso] from 258 BCE,
P.Cair. Zen. 1.59046 from 257 BCE, P.Cair. Zen. 2.59225 from 253 BCE).
When Cicero includes a greeting at the end of a letter—which he does in about
20 percent of his letters—it is, as in Pliny and Seneca’s letters, often a simple vale
(farewell), modeled on the Greek final greeting ἔrrwso (farewell). But sometimes
Cicero concludes his letters with a more elaborate formula: cura ut valeas “take
care that you fare well,” da operam ut valeas “make an effort to stay well,” or fac
valeas meque diligas “gratify me by staying well.” These formulas too are clearly
modeled on ones found among the letters of the Hellenistic Greek papyri: sautoῦ
ἐpimeloῦ, ἵna/ὅpwV ὑgiaίnῃV “take care of yourself so that you may stay healthy”;
tὰ d’ ἄlla carieῖ sautoῦ ἐpimelόmenoV “as for the rest, grant me the favor of
taking care of yourself.” (e.g., PSI 13.1312 from the 2nd century BCE, P.Tebt. 1.12
from 118 BCE, P.Tebt. 1.20 from 113 BCE). Occasionally, Cicero appends a date
to his letters.4
One of the most well-attested conventions of Roman literary letter writing—
again, like the Greek—is the dictation of the words of the author of the letter
to a professional scribe (usually called librarius, but sometimes scriba, scriptor,
amanuensis, or notarius), who performed the actual labor of putting reed to
papyrus. Anecdotal and tangential evidence suggests that from an early period
Roman poets too regularly dictated their work as they composed their poetry
orally: the 2nd-century BCE Roman satirist Lucilius is reported by Horace (Satires
1.4.9–13) to have dictated two hundred verses an hour while standing in the same
position; according to Suetonius (Vita Vergili 22) Vergil was in the daily habit of
dictating verses of his Georgics that he had composed orally each morning; Ovid
laments at the end of a poem (Tristia 3.3.85–86) that he would have continued
composing his verses but for the fact that his voice is too tired and his tongue too
dry to continue dictating.5 Ovid turns the table on himself when he ends an elegy
(Amores 2.1.38) by declaring that Love (Amor) had dictated the verses to him.
More to the point of our present concern with epistolography, Roman writers
of both public and private letters regularly employed professional scribes to write
4. The practice of appending a date in Latin letters is erratic. Pliny occasionally mentions
the date in the body of a letter but does not append a formal dateline. Cicero appends a
formal dateline in less than 15 percent of his letters. His correspondent Atticus, on the other
hand, regularly dated his letters: “In your other letter, contrary to your usual habit, you
append no date (ad Atticum 3.23.1).” Suetonius reports that the emperor Augustus dated
all his letters with great precision: “To all of his letters he attached the exact hour, not only
of the day, but even of the night, in order to indicate when they were written (Suetonius
Augustus 50).”
5. More casual dictation of poetry apparently occurred during meal times: Horace
(Epistulae 2.1.110–111) mentions sons and fathers dictating poetry as they dine, and Persius
(Satires 1.51–52) remarks on the penchant of noblemen to dictate elegies while dining.
out major portions of their compositions. According to Pliny the Elder (Naturalis
Historia 7.91), Julius Caesar was able to dictate four letters simultaneously, seven
if he was busy with nothing else, and according to Plutarch (Caesar 17.4, 7) Caesar
dictated letters even as he traveled in a litter or on horseback, keeping one, two, or
even more scribes busy. Cicero expresses admiration for the lawyer Servius Galba,
who before an important case confined himself to his study, where he kept himself
busy dictating to his secretaries, several of whom he kept fully occupied at the same
time (Brutus 87).6 Pliny the Younger describes his own practice of dictating to a
scribe (Epistulae 9.36.2, 9.40.2, cf. 9.20.2) and also expresses great admiration for
his uncle Pliny who always had a servant at his side to read to him or take dictation,
even when he was dining, bathing, or traveling in a litter (Epistulae 3.5.10–15);
the elder Pliny reportedly continued to dictate even as he witnessed the eruption
of Vesuvius in 79 CE (Epistulae 6.16.10). Seneca the Younger (ad Lucilium 15.6)
encourages his friend Lucilius to get out of his study and enjoy a change of pace
by reading, dictating, conversing, and listening while riding in a litter or taking a
walk. Tacitus (Annales 15.63) reports that even as Seneca was bleeding to death
from wounds inflicted at Nero’s behest, he summoned his secretaries and dictated
many matters to them.
The richest evidence for the practice of dictation comes from Cicero’s letters,
which frequently state explicitly that Cicero, or one of his correspondents, is
employing a professional scribe. Cicero’s regular scribe was Tiro (ad Quintum
Fratrem 3.1.19, etc.), his Greek slave and later freedman, but he also mentions
Spintharus (ad Atticum 13.25.3) and Tullius (ad Familiares 5.20.1). Since dictating
to a scribe rather than writing out a letter in one’s own hand was a normal Roman
epistolary convention, Cicero usually takes the practice for granted and makes no
mention of it in his dictations; and on the occasions that he does make mention of
it, he usually does so incidentally, without further elaboration, as though it is an
unremarkable detail (ad Quintum Fratrem 2.6.4 hanc epistulam dictaveram “I had
dictated this letter”; cf. ad Atticum 6.6.4; 8.1.1; 10.3a.1; 11.24.2; 13.9.1; 13.25.3; ad
Familiares 2.13.3).
Nonetheless, Cicero greatly prided himself in his letter-writing skills, including
the technical skills required of autographic letter writing, and so at times he reveals
a certain level of embarrassment that he is resorting to dictating to a scribe rather
than writing in his own hand and, consequently, offers an excuse for doing so: that
he is dining, walking, or journeying in a carriage (ad Quintum Fratrem 3.1.19 “I
dictated to Tiro while at dinner”7; ad Atticum 2.23.1 “I have dictated this while
walking”8; ad Atticum 5.17.1 “I dictate this letter while sitting in my carriage”); that
6. A similar feat is later reported by Eusebius of the Church Father Origen in the
composition of his commentaries (Historia Ecclesiastica 6.23).
7. Also ad Atticum 14.21.4 haec scripsi seu dictavi apposita secunda mensa “I wrote this,
or rather dictated it, after dessert had been prepared.”
8. Cf. Fronto ad M. Caesarem et Invicem 5.62 haec obambulans dictavi “I dictated this
while walking around.”
he is exceptionally busy (ad Quintum Fratrem 2.16.1 “When you receive a letter
from me by the hand of a scribe [librarii manu] you may be sure that I have not
even a little leisure”)9; that his eyes have been giving him problems (ad Atticum
8.13.1 “Take the handwriting of my scribe as a sign of my eyes being inflamed”)10;
that he is simply being lazy (ad Atticum 16.15.1 “Put it down to idleness [pigritia],
for I have no other excuse to give”)11; and even, in one instance, that he wants
to avoid the possibility of incriminating himself with an autographic letter (ad
Atticum 2.20.5 “But I shall use neither my own handwriting nor seal [neque utar
meo chirographo neque signo] in case the letter happens to be such as I should not
wish to fall into the hands of a stranger”).12
9. Ad Quintum Fratrem 2.16 is sometimes numbered 2.15. Also ad Quintum Fratrem

3.3.1; ad Atticum 2.23.1; 4.16.1; 5.14.1.
10. Also ad Quintum Fratrem 2.2.1; ad Atticum 7.13a.3; 8.12.1; 10.14.1; 10.17.2. Elsewhere
Cicero writes that the apparent use of a scribe in a letter from his friend Atticus implies
some form of ill health (ad Atticum 7.2.3): “While I like the handwriting of Alexis for its
excellent imitation of your own, yet I don’t like it for its indication that you (i.e., Atticus)
are not well.” For various physical ailments that sometimes required a letter-writer to resort
to dictation, the letters of Fronto are informative. At the end of a very long letter to the
Emperor Antoninus dated 162 CE, Fronto apologizes for not writing in his own hand
(especially since he had received a letter from the emperor in his own hand), giving as an
excuse the weak condition of his fingers (de Bello Parthico 11.4–8); he also gives the excuse
of a painful right hand, along with a cough, for dictating rather than writing a long letter to
Antoninus (ad M. Antoninum 1.2.10); Antoninus replies in a letter back to Fronto that since
his hand is trembling after his evening bath he has not written in his own hand (de Nepote
Amisso 1.2). Elsewhere Fronto blames the pain in his shoulder for his failure to write in his
own hand to the Emperor Aurelius (ad M. Caesarem et Invicem 4.9.2); he also uses pain
in his elbow, knee, and ankle as an excuse for not writing in his own hand to Aurelius (ad
M. Caesarem et Invicem 5.73.1). In a letter to his friend, Volumnius Quadratus, Fronto
blames a severe pain in his hand for his use of a scribe (librarii manu) (ad Amicos 2.3.1).
11. Also ad Familiares 16.22.1.
12. A pressing fear among Roman letter-writers was that autographic documents might
eventually show up as evidence in the law courts: Cicero Philippic 2.8 “How would you
(i.e., Antony) oppose me if I (i.e., Cicero) were to deny that I had ever sent these letters to
you? By what evidence could you convict me? By my handwriting (chirographo)? About
this subject you have a profitable knowledge, but how could you prove anything, since
these letters are in the hand of a scribe (librarii manu)?” Cf. Pliny Epistulae 3.9.13: “With
regard to the case against Classicus the prosecution was a quick and easy task. He had left
a document in his own hand (sua manu) about what he had profited from each transaction
and case, and he had even sent letters to Rome to a certain girlfriend boasting and vaunting
in these words: ‘Hurray! I am coming back to you a free man.’” Cf. Apuleius Apology 69:
“Is this your letter . . . Is this your subscription? Please read it more clearly so that all may
know how much his tongue is inconsistent with his hand.” So also: Plutarch Sertorius 27.3
(regarding the autographic letters of the conspirators against Pompey); Suetonius de Vita
But although dictating to a scribe was a normal Roman epistolary practice,

an author sometimes preferred to write a portion of a letter, or even an entire
letter, in his own hand, and when he did so he would sometimes explicitly
mark the fact by using the expression mea manu (with my own hand). This
Latin expression corresponds to the Greek epistolary expressions tῇ ἐmῇ ceirί
(with my own hand), tῇ aὑtoῦ ceirί (with his own hand), and ἰdίᾳ ceirί
(with his very hand) that we have already observed, though very infrequently,
in the Greek literary letters: for example, in an embedded letter in Chariton’s
1st-century CE novel Chaereas and Callirhoe 8.4.6. And, as we shall observe
below, this Latin expression corresponds to the much more commonly attested
Greek epistolary expressions tῇ ἐmῇ ceirί (with my own hand), tῇ ceirί mou
(with this hand of mine), tῇ ἰdίᾳ mou ceirί (with this very hand of mine), etc.,
found in the Greek documentary letters and contracts among the Hellenistic-
and Roman-era papyri from Egypt in which a writer will not infrequently
emphasize that he or she is writing, or at least attaching a signature to, a section
of the letter or contract with his or her own hand.13 Most apposite to our
purposes, the Latin epistolary expression mea manu corresponds exactly to the
regular Pauline expression tῇ ἐmῇ ceirί (with my own hand) in the autographic
subscriptions of the letters to the Corinthians (1 Cor. 16.21), Colossians (Col.
4.18), Thessalonians (2 Thess. 3.17), and to Philemon (Phlm. 19), as well as
to the Galatians in the passage under primary consideration here (Gal. 6.11):
ἴdete phlίkoiV ὑmῖn grάmmasin ἔgraya tῇ ἐmῇ ceirί “Observe with what
large letters I write to you with my own hand.”
Cicero was particularly fond of sending partly or even completely autographic
letters to his dear friend and confidante Atticus: in a letter to Atticus that Cicero
confesses was dictated to a scribe (ad Atticum 2.23.1), composed in November of
59 BCE, he claims that all his previous letters to Atticus had been written in his
own hand (there survive forty-two letters of Cicero to Atticus from before this
date).14 In some letters Cicero claims that the very letter that he is writing is in
his own hand: ad Atticum 15.20.4 “I thought this ought to be written by my own
hand, and I have accordingly so written it.”15 In other letters, which are possibly
Caesarum 17.1–2 (regarding Julius Caesar’s handwritten letter [chirographum] to Catiline);

Cicero ad Catilinam 3.5 (regarding the autographic letters sent by some Roman senators to
the Allobroges).
13. SB 14.12138 (= P.Mich.inv. 71) (Fig. 6); PSI 13.1325; P.Hamb. 1.73; P.Oxy. 3.495;
BGU 1.326; P.Oxy. 1.43; cf. P.Euphr. 14. Two early-2nd-century CE papyri in Greek from
Wadi Murabbaat in the Judaean desert include a similar formula: P.Mur. 29 (ceirὶ ἐmautoῦ
gέgraϕa “I have written with my own hand”); XHev/Se 50, now joined to P.Mur. 26 (ceirὶ
ἐmautoῦ “with my own hand”). Similar formulae are found on Greek inscriptions (e.g., FD
III 6 29) and ostraca (e.g., O.Bodl. 2.2010).
14. Cicero also sent completely autographic letters to Trebatius (ad Familiares 7.18.1–2).
15. Also ad Atticum 11.24.2; 12.32.1; 13.28.4; ad Quintum Fratrem 2.15(14).1; cf. Seneca
ad Lucilium 26.8.
being dictated to a scribe, Cicero refers to previous letters that he had written in
his own hand.16 The Ciceronian corpus of letters also sometimes includes remarks
on the autographic nature of letters from others: Atticus (ad Atticum 6.9.1; 7.2.3;
7.3.1); Brutus (ad Familiares 11.23.2); Trebatius (ad Familiares 7.18.1–2); Lepidus
and Laterensis (ad Familiares 10.21.1–3).
In sum, writing a section of a letter, or even an entire letter, in one’s own hand
was not considered contrary to Roman epistolary conventions under certain
circumstances. Many letters appear to have been written autographically as a
special sign of cordiality, affection, friendship, and respect17: Cicero ad Atticum
6.9.1 “But it aroused my fondness for you, as well as my surprise, that you (i.e.,
Atticus) should nonetheless (i.e., in spite of a fever) have written to me with your
own hand.” ad Atticum 7.2.3 “I now come to your letters, great numbers of which I
have received at the same time, one more delightful than the other, at any rate those
that were in your own hand.” ad Atticum 7.3.1 “At first glance at it (i.e., Atticus’s
letter) I took pleasure from seeing that it was written in your own hand.” Fronto
ad M. Caesarem et Invicem 3.3.3: “Truly I love even your handwriting; wherefore
I desire that whatever you write to me that you write it in your own hand.” We
shall consider below if Paul’s autographic subscriptions were likewise intended as
a special sign of friendship and respect to his letters’ recipients.
Among the Romans the vestiges of the author’s own hand were in a mysterious
way thought to be a manifestation of the author himself: Seneca ad Lucilium 40.1
“How much more pleasant is a letter, which brings us real traces, real evidences, of
an absent friend! For that which is sweetest when we meet face to face is afforded
by the impress of a friend’s hand upon his letter—recognition.” We shall consider
below what light this casts on Paul’s autographic subscriptions as a device for
asserting his apostolic presence (i.e., his parousίa parousia).
Some autographs were considered among the Romans to be more trustworthy
than their dictated counterparts: Cicero ad Familiares 10.21.1–3, where L. Munatius
Plancus expresses confidence in letters from Lepidus and Laterensis because they
are written in their own hands (credidi chirographis eius “I trust his handwritten
letters”). We have already observed—and we shall consider this further below—
that Paul’s autographic subscriptions sometimes appear to have been intended to
ensure his letters’ authenticity.
Some letters were written autographically by the Romans for purposes of
confidentiality and security, that is, to avoid a third party, namely the scribe,
becoming privy to a sensitive matter and possibly betraying the trust of the author:
ad Atticum 4.17.1—“For my letters . . . contain so many confidential secrets that
I do not as a rule trust them even to a scribe, for fear of some jest leaking out in
some direction or another.” ad Atticum 11.24.2—“Here I go back to my own hand;
16. Ad Atticum 2.23.1; 4.17.1; 5.19.1 8.12.1; 10.3a.1; 13.38.1; ad Quintum Fratrem
2.16(15).1; ad Familiares 3.6.2; 7.18.1–2; 10.21.1–3; 11.23.2; 16.22.1.
17. So N. Horsfall (1995), who writes broadly about the roles of readers and scribes
among the Roman elite.
for what follows must be treated very confidentially (more than 80 percent of this
letter follows).”18 Seneca (ad Lucilium 83.15) mentions that while on Capri the
emperor Tiberius wrote many things to the prefect Cossus in his own hand (sua
manu) for the sake of secrecy. Confidentiality, however, plays no part in Paul’s
autographs, since his scribes were likely his own confidantes, and since, in any
case, his letters were largely public, not private, documents.
Of special interest to us for our examination of Paul’s handwriting in his letter
to the Galatians are those letters in which Roman authors have dictated the main
body of their texts to a scribe but have then appended a greeting or subscription
in their own hands. Examples of these letters, though few, offer an instructive
analogue to the many autographic subscriptions in the documentary letters
among the Hellenistic Greek- and Roman-era papyri, and, more interestingly, to
the autographic subscriptions in the Pauline letters to the Corinthians, Galatians,
Colossians, Thessalonians, and to Philemon. So: Cicero ad Familiares 2.13.3 “Your
last page, in your own handwriting (tuo chirographo), was like a dagger in my
heart.” (Cicero is referring to a subscription in a letter that Cicero had received
from M. Caelius Rufus.) ad Atticum 8.1.1 “But at the end of Pompey’s letter there
was a sentence in his own handwriting: ‘I am of the opinion that you should come
to Luceria; you will not be safer anywhere else.’” (Cicero is referring to an earlier
letter from Pompey with a subscription in Pompey’s own hand.) ad Atticum
11.24.2 “Here I go back to my own hand; for what follows must be treated very
confidentially.” (Cicero says this after the opening paragraphs, composing less
than 20 percent of the letter, which were presumably dictated to his scribe; all that
follows, more than 80 percent of this letter, is presumably in Cicero’s own hand.)
ad Atticum 12.32.1 “What follows is in my own hand (haec ad te mea manu).”
(Cicero says this after the opening paragraph, composing about 10 percent of
the letter, which was presumably dictated to his scribe; all that follows, about
90 percent of this letter, presumably in Cicero’s own hand, contains private
matters concerning his second wife Publilia.) ad Atticum 13.28.4 “What follows
I have written with my own hand.” (Cicero adds a subscription in his own hand,
introduced by the phrase hoc manu mea, composing about 15 percent of the
letter, that contains private matters about a man who may have been a prospective
husband for Atticus’s daughter.) For our purposes, we learn from these remarks
that among Roman letter-writers autographic subscriptions could be lengthy,
even composing major portions of letters. In the case of Paul’s letters, it is often
ambiguous where autographic subscriptions begin. Some scholars have proposed,
partly on the basis of this Roman evidence, that major portions of Paul’s letters
were composed autographically.19
I conclude this section on Roman literary letters by reiterating the obvious: in
the absence of the original manuscripts of any of the Roman literary letter-writers
18. Cf. ad Atticum 12.32.1; 13.28.4; 15.20.4.

19. Most notoriously G. J. Bahr (1968), who in my view substantially overestimates the
length of the autographic sections.
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3.
A legnagyobb izgalomban járt fel-alá szobájában és hiába

iparkodott rendbe szedni gondolatait. Csak azt ismerte fel, hogy egy
nagy fordulat előtt áll s csak azt látta világosan, hogy rendkívül
vigyázatosnak kell lennie. Mit fog tenni ez az asszony? – Elválasztja
feleségétől. Eh, hát baj is az? Hiszen a feleség rettentő nyügképen
nehezedik az életére. Kínokat kell szenvednie és bemocskolnia
férfiasságát örökös hazudozásaival és bujkálásával. Miért ijed hát
mégis meg, hogy a lélegzete is elszorul, a gondolatra, hogy felesége
mindent meg fog tudni és el fogja hagyni! A szíve nagyot dobban és
ellágyul: szegény édes! Úgylátszik, mégis szereti, de inkább úgy,
mint az apa a leányát. Ebben a pillanatban úgy érzi, hogy képes
volna minden áldozatra azért a szegény gyermekért: tettre és
lemondásra egyaránt. És soha oly határozottan és oly véglegesen
nem döntött az Évával való szakításról, mint most. Mire is való ez a
viszony, melyben a lelkének nincs része? Rögtön le is ült és írt
Évának. Nem igen szerette a frázisokat. Egyszerűen azt írta, hogy
családjában kezdenek nyomára jönni viszonyuknak, ennélfogva
abba kell hagyniok, mert neki a felesége nyugalmát meg kell őriznie.
Ne várja tehát holnap, ami pedig az anyagiakat illeti, intézkedni fog,
hogy Évának e tekintetben sem legyen oka a neheztelésre.
A levelet nem is írta alá.
Mintha megkönnyebbült volna a lelke. Sőt fütyörészett is, mikor
becsöngette a szolgát s átadta neki a levelet: rögtön adja póstára.
Mikor ez megtörtént, megdöbbent. Szerette volna visszavenni.
Hátha Éva csinál botrányt? Nem, azt nem fogja tenni, hiszen az
érdeke megkívánja a hallgatást. Jól meg fogja fizetni, ad neki egy
marok pénzt végkielégítésül. Éva még hálás is lesz.
Az anyósával való csatára pedig most erősebbnek érezte magát.
Szakításával pedig úgy érezte, mintha nem is lett volna soha
viszonya Évával. A felesége elé hazugság nélkül állhat és ez
szokatlanságával szinte boldogsággal töltötte el. Igen, most már ő
neki van igaza, vélte, ő a tiszta, a becsületes ember, ebből az
asszonyból pedig a sértett hiúság, az oktalan bűnös féltékenység
beszél. Féltékeny a tulajdon leányára. Szörnyűség! S míg ezt, mint
valami természetellenes elfajulást tudta észrevenni, egyre maga
előtt látta a haragjában még igézőbb asszonyt: még most is az övé
lehetne!
– Eh, – hessegte el magától ezt a képzeletet – ne gondoljunk
semmire.
Beletemetkezett az aktákba, fogadta a tanácsosokat s
szenvedélyesen vitatkozott velük. Lázas buzgóság fogta el, a
felhalmozódott indulatnak valamiképen lefolyást kellett adni. Soha
életében nem volt annyira hivatalnok és politikus, mint most,
életének legizgalmasabb jelenete után és a legkritikusabb fordulat
előtt.
Két óratájt kalapjához nyúlt. Szíve most a megrepedésig
dobogott. Vajjon mi sor vár rá otthon? Kömleyné beszélt-e már a
feleségével? Sikerült-e neki még mélyebben verni szívébe a gyanú
ékét? Mindegy, bármint lesz is, ő az erősebb. Sőt most már kezében
van a legerősebb fegyver is: ő is elmegy a feleségével. A hivatalos
dolgát el tudja intézni, eddig csak Éva miatt akart itt maradni, meg
azért is, hogy néhány hétig fel legyen mentve a hazudozástól és
tettetett szerelmeskedéstől. De most már máskép áll a dolog. Éva
nincs többé és a feleségeért, ezt most világosan érzi, mindenre
képes.
Palotája kapuja előtt kocsi állott. Megismerte a Hideghék fogatját
s épen nyilt is a kapu és a két pirosképű leány mamájuk kíséretében
kilépett rajta.
– Ah Miklós, – sipogja a nagyobbik – hát mégis láthatjuk?
Búcsúzni voltunk Olgánál, megyünk a pusztánkra. Hívtuk Olgát is,
de maga rossz ember, nem ereszti el. Mondja csak, nem sajnálja azt
a szegény gyereket örökösen kínozni a szerelmével? Önök férfiak
olyan kegyetlenek, szegény Olga bele fog pusztulni a maga
szenvedélyességébe.
Néhány elkényszeredett frázissal szabadulni iparkodott a fecsegő
leányoktól, akik szemükkel egyre ostromolták.
Égő türelmetlenséggel rohant föl a lépcsőn. Valami azt súgta
neki, hogy minden pillanat életkérdés. Hogyan, hogyan nem, úgy
képzelte, mintha a kicsi asszony épp most emelné ajkához a
méregpoharat. Ha úgy volna, ha későn jönne!
Szinte meg volt lepve, mikor mind ennek nyomát sem találta.
Olga a fészekben ült s a kárpitajtó lebbenésére mint a madár röpült
ura karjaiba. Le sem akarta venni ajkáról az övét és csodálatos,
Deméndynek ezuttal jól esett a felesége csókja és boldog volt, hogy
lehelletét magába szívhatta.
– Édes, – szólt oly igaz érzéssel, hogy a kicsi asszony, akinek a
lelke minden árnyalat iránt betegesen fogékony volt, boldogan
összerezzent – valami nagy, valami roppant jó ujságot tudok.
Elmondjam-e?
– Mi az? Mi az? – kérdi mohón Olga és már tapsra emeli kezét.
– Hát az, amit magad is kitalálnál, ha egy kicsikét megkérdeznéd
a szívedtől, hogy mi az ő kivánsága!
A tapsra emelt kicsi kéz összecsapódik. Olga a nyakába ugrik
urának és kiáltja:
– Velem jösz, velem jösz!
– Eltaláltad, édes és most ugy-e bár nem busulsz, hogy pakkolni
kell és itt kell hagynod a mamádat?
Olga arca elborul.
– A mama, – súgja és félve bujik ura keblére, majd hirtelen
elereszti és reszketve a szemébe néz:
– Miklós, – szólt megindult hangon – még soha sem szólította
nevén az urát – igazán szeretsz te engem?
– Micsoda kérdés, – felel ez kelletlenül.
– Mondd, meg, Miklós, mondd meg, de komolyan: szereted a
feleségedet? Látod, édes uram, én tudom, hogy nagyon ostoba kicsi
teremtés vagyok és te olyan nagy, olyan tökéletes vagy, én nem
csodálnám, ha nem tudnál engem szeretni.
– De szeretlek, édes, miért kételkedel benne most, holott eddig
mindig hittél?
Olga lehorgasztja a fejét.
– Eddig is sokat gondolkodtam rajta, – súgja hangtalanul –
tudom, hogy te jó vagy és nem akarsz nekem fájdalmat okozni.
Hanem látod, édes uram, ha tudnám, hogy nem szeretsz, akkor én
meghalnék, de ha megtudnám, hogy csak szánalomból teszel úgy,
mintha szeretnél, akkor… ó, ez borzasztó volna. Gyűlölnélek és
átkoználak, mert még a sírban sem tudnék megnyugodni.
Deméndy elborulva állott felesége előtt és nem mert a szemébe
nézni.
– Vannak pillanatok, – folytatja ez kábultan magába elmerülve –
amikor a szerelem úgy a szívembe gyűlik, hogy azt hiszem, meg kell
halnom. És akkor arra gondolok: mi lesz az én szegény uramból, ha
én meghalok? Fog-e tovább élni és fog-e akkor is szeretni? És akkor
látlak, ahogy egymagadban élsz és azt mondanám neked: ne búsulj
annyira, édes uram, de aztán látom, hogy csak úgy járnál a
minisztériumba és tartanál beszédeket a képviselőházban és
beszélsz az asszonyokkal, akik mind szerelmesek beléd és akkor
szeretnélek megfojtani, hogy ha én nem vagyok, akkor… akkor te se
légy…
Sírógörcs fogta el szegénykét.
Deméndy karjai közé kapta és vállán keresztül elborongva nézett
ki a nyári tájra.
– Micsoda komédia, – gondolta magában – hát hiheti ezt valaki?
Ennek az asszonynak minden túlzott rémlátomása kézzel fogható
valóság, mégis itt tartom a karjaimban, tudok nyiltan a szemébe
nézni és tudom rágalmazónak tartani azt, aki engem leleplez. Hát
mért vagyok én ilyen aljas, vagy mi van rajtam, ami ennyire meg
tudja téveszteni ezt az éretlen, csalhatatlan teremtést!
Csakhamar megtalálta ismét a maga fölmentését. Nem magáért
teszi, hanem a feleségeért. Igen, ennek a gyermeknek az élete függ
attól, hogy jól tudjon komédiázni. Megvetni való dolog, de nemes
célja van. Komédiázzunk tovább.
A bűvös módszerhez folyamodott. Ölébe ültette feleségét és a
fülébe csókolta:
– Szeretlek, szeretlek, végtelenül szeretlek!
És a rémek eloszlottak, az asszonyka fölvidult és boldog
kacagása kicsendült az izzó tájra, majd kéz kezet fogva, a karjukat
lóbázva mentek ebédre és vígan főzték a terveket: merre, hova
menjenek.
A Tátrába? Nagyon sok az ismerősük. Pedig a boldogság a
magányban van. A pusztára? Igen, majd aratás után, amikor nem
zaklatják őket tiszttartók, ispánok. Valahová messzire, ahol nem
ismeri őket senki, például Norvégiába, ahol ilyenkor nincs is éjszaka.
Avagy… ez Deméndynének jutott eszébe s boldog ravaszsággal
kacsint az urára, mikor kimondja: ismételjék meg a nászútjukat,
keressék föl mind a kedves helyeket, béreljék ki ugyanazokat a
szobákat és egyék ugyanazokat az ételeket, mint első ízben.
Mindenki azt fogja hinni, hogy csak most esküdtek meg és azt
mondják majd: ni, milyen szerelmesek!
Pompás, ez a legkitünőbb eszme. És Olga már lázban ég, mintha
már vasúton ülne. Azonnal pakkol, hogy minden rendben legyen.
Csakhogy ennyire gyorsan még sem megy a dolog, vagy három
napig bele tart, míg Deméndy rendezni tudja dolgait a
minisztériumnál. Három nap! Jaj be rossz lesz, míg letelik a három
nap, de úgy-e bár, sokat lesznek együtt a fészekben? Akkor
gyorsabban múlik az idő.
Deméndy igent bólint és arra gondol, milyen végtelen hosszúak a
percek a fészekben. De most nem úgy lesz, hiszen már is érzi, hogy
nem úgy lesz. Sőt ma nem is megy többé el, együtt maradnak egész
délután és egész este… hacsak – ezt az óvatosság mondatja vele –
valami miatt nem muszáj a pártkörbe mennie. Ahogy ezt kimondja,
elszégyelli magát: lám a fogadkozás pillanatában is tartogat
magának nyitott ajtókat az elvonulásra.
A délután nagyon meleg volt, a fészekbe letűzött a nap és
Deméndy iszonyúan szenvedett a forróságtól. Olga az ölébe bújt és
elbágyadva, boldog mosollyal el is aludt. Deméndy nézte, nézte az
édes gyermek-arcot, ezt a pihegő gyermekálmot, úgy gondolt vissza
multjára, végig összes kalandjain, az anyósáig, Éváig.
– Ha tudnád mind azt, ami most az agyamon végigszalad, –
gondolja és fejét csóválja – nem, azt nem fogod megtudni soha. És
bizalommal itt alszik az ölemben, pedig ami a fejemben van, az a
halál.
Hirtelen fölocsúdik. Mintha hallotta volna a vendégjelző éles
harangütést. Vajjon ki jöhet most? Az ösztöne mohón kapott rajta:
kiszabadulhat a fészekből. Aztán eszébe jutott fogadkozása és
sajnálta a feleségét, hogy édes álmából föl kell zavarnia. Neszelt,
fülelt: semmi. Valószinűleg csalódott.
De aztán csak lebben a kárpitajtó, Deméndy egy ijedt reflex-
mozdulattal letenné öléből a feleségét, de csak dermedten veszteg
maradt és nagy szégyenletében elpirul és lesüti a szemét. Az
ajtóban Kömleyné áll, kalaposan, napernyőjére támaszkodva,
elragadóan és csúfos mosollyal nézi őket.
– A fészek, – mondja gúnyos kacagással és rávillan nagy
szemével a vejére, majd formálisan, hidegen azt mondja:
– Azt mondták nekem, hogy egyedül találom a leányomat, erre
az idillre nem voltam elkészülve. Az államtitkár úr egy kicsit jobban
vigyázhatna az ajtajára.
Olga fölébred és ijedten szökik le ura öléből. Rémületesen
megzavarodott, az arca hol pirul, hol sápad. Mosolygásra
kényszerítené magát, de a szája inkább sírásra áll. Ilyesmi sohasem
esett meg vele, még senki sem látta az ő bizalmaskodásukat s
legfőképpen édes anyja előtt röstelkedik, aki egyre korholta őt
urához való nagy ragaszkodásáért.
– Soha se bánd, – mondja végül Deméndy és megcsókolja neje
kezét – a mama előtt nem kell röstelkedned. Különben jó, hogy
szerencséltetett bennünket, báróné, értésére adhatom a nagy
ujságot, hogy a napokban együtt utazunk, én és Olga.
– Hová? – kérdi Kömleyné.
– Még nem határoztuk el egészen – mondja Deméndy.
– Pedig tudnom kellene, mert én nem szeretek megindulni
anélkül, hogy tudnám, hová.
– Hogyan? – kérdi Deméndy – ön is velünk akar jönni?
– Természetesen.
– De hiszen eddig azért maradtunk itt, mert ön nem mehetett.
Kömleyné leül az ablak mellé és közömbösen mondja:
– Ha ön tudta ily hirtelenül rendezni a dolgait, én is képes leszek
rá. Tehát hová megyünk?
Deméndyben fölforrt a vér.
– Azok után, amiket délben szerencsém volt önnek mondani, föl
kellett tennem, hogy a bárónéra nem számíthatunk többé. Ezért
sajnos, az úti programmunkat úgy szabtuk meg, hogy csak ketten
megyünk.
Kömleyné lebigyeszti ajkát.
– Semmi okom sincs mást akarni most, mint eddig, az a
körülmény pedig, hogy ön velünk jön, önre tartozik, nem pedig
énrám.
Deméndy érzi, hogy felesége jelenlétében nem lesz jó
megismételni az anyósával a déli jelenetet, azért amennyire birta,
nyugodtan Olgához fordult:
– Kedvesem, hallottad, mit mondott a báróné, tudod, mit
mondtam neked én. Rajtad áll a választás, ha anyáddal akarsz
menni, én nem akarok őméltóságának kellemetlenkedni. Határozd el
magad, majd ha a báróné elment, meg fogod mondani, mit
határoztál.
Ezzel kezet csókolt a feleségének, aki reszketve vissza akarja
tartani és a szemével könyörög neki: ne menj el. De ő úgy tesz,
mintha nem venné észre és mélyen meghajolva a báróné előtt,
dolgozószobájába megy.
Deméndyné, mint az iskolásgyerek, sápadtan, lesütött szemmel
áll az édesanyja előtt. Bal kezét szívére szorítja, a szegény kicsi
jószág dobog, mintha meg akarna repedni. Kömleyné kemény
arckifejezéssel a széken ül és egy percnyi hallgatás után szigorúan
ránéz leányára.
– Ülj le, Olga.
Olga szó nélkül megteszi.
– Mit mondott neked az urad arról, ami délben köztünk történt?
– Semmit – rebegi ez.
– Nem is említette, hogy beszéltünk egymással?
– Nem.
– Láthatod ebből, hogy mit tarthatsz az urad őszinteségéről. Ez a
beszélgetés téged legközelebbről érdekel és nem is szólt róla, mit
tudhatsz te akkor olyan dolgokról, amik inkább rátartoznak, mint
terád?
Egy darabig várja a feleletet, de hiába.
– Ma délben nála voltam a minisztériumban, a gyáva sértegetett.
Mit tartasz az olyan férfiról, aki sérti az anyádat?
Olga birkózik a szóért, amelyet ki akar mondani, de nem birja.
Feje lecsuklik a zongorára, úgy zokog magába.
– Hagyd el a sírást, rívást, tisztázzuk a helyzetet. Én nem
kérdezlek, kivel akarsz jönni, mint ő, én parancsolok. Velem jösz és
ha az urad nem akar követni, akkor itt marad. Értetted?
Olga fölkapja a fejét és megembereli magát. Úgy érzi, hogy bele
kell halnia a vakmerőségbe, de könyes szemét nyiltan az anyjára
függeszti, úgy mondja:
– Mama, én vele megyek.
– Úgy, – szólt Kömleyné és fölpattan ültéből. – Nos ebben az
esetben be fogom neked bizonyítani, hogy nem mehetsz vele, mert
tisztességes asszony csak tisztességes férjhez ragaszkodhatik.
Olga érzi, hogy mi következik. Valahányszor az édesanyja
belefogott ábrándjainak rongyokra tépésébe, mindannyiszor
irtózattal szeretett volna menekülni, de a rettenetes ujságok bűvösen
vonzották és mint az édes mérget, úgy meg is kívánta. Minden szó,
amely gyanut fakasztott benne, mint a pőrölycsapás érte, de
ellenállhatatlan vággyal szinte belevájta magát a szörnyűségekbe és
szeretett volna minél többet és minél rettenetesebbet hallani. Most
irtózva és feszülten nézett anyjára és leste, mi következik még.
– Nehogy az az ember az én rágalmazásomra fordítsa, ami
történt, inkább én mondom el neked, amit eddig tudnod nem kellett.
Te balga, úgy élsz, mint a mesében és holmi hattyúlovagot látsz az
uradban. Azt hiszed, hogy ő is olyan tisztán és ártatlanul ment a
házasságba, mint te. Ezt ugyan egyetlen férfitől sem lehet
megkivánni, de egyetlen férfi sem ámítja ezzel a feleségét. Az olyan
házasság, mint a tied, szintén nem tartozik a rendkívüli dolgok közé,
de az olyan házasságot senki más nem avatja olyan hazug
romantikus szerelemmé, mint ő. Tudod, miért vett el téged
Deméndy?
Olga elveszítette öntudatát. A szeme tágra nyílott, ajka félig
nyitva, nincs semmi más érzése, tudata, csak lesi a rettenetes
csapást, melyet rámérnek.
– Azért, – folytatta könyörtelenül Kömleyné – mert nekem
udvarolt. Érted? Engem szeretett, azért jött hozzád, engem akart,
azért vett el téged. És ez az ember az én fülem hallatára meri
hazudni, hogy téged szeret!
A szegény asszonyka egész testében remeg. Amit most
megtudott, olyan váratlan, olyan képtelen volt, hogy lesújtó
rettenetességében is megnevettette. Az egész reménytelen fájdalom
hat így a nevető izmokra. Kömleyné pedig csak folytatja a torturát,
amivel meg akarja gyógyítani leányát.
– Ezt meg kellett most mondanom neked, mivel a nyomorult rám
fogta, hogy a féltékenység beszél belőlem. Féltékeny én, te reád és
ő miatta! Mintha nem rajtam állt volna, hogy magamnak tartsam,
mielőtt neked még csak eszedbe jutott volna, hogy szeresd!
– Mama! – rebegi most Olga és irtózattal húzódik a szék szélére,
hogy majd lebukott róla.
– Szememre vetette nekem, hogy rágalmazom előtted, hogy meg
akarom rontani a boldogságtokat. Ez a boldogság nem ér semmit,
mert hazugságon épül. A te urad távol tart a világtól, hogy ne tudjál
meg semmit, ami rá vonatkozik, de előbb-utóbb mégis megtudnád a
valóságot s minél váratlanabbul ér, annál súlyosabban hat rád. Én
ettől a rettenetes kiábrándulástól akartalak megóvni, azzal, hogy
előkészítlek reá. A férfiak nem szentek és Deméndynek sem vetem
a szemére, hogy úgy élt, mint minden fiatal ember. De az ő bűne,
hogy amit más asszony magától értetődőnek tart, mikor megtudja,
az neked katasztrófa. Nem tartozott neked hűséggel, mielőtt elvett,
miért hiteti el veled, hogy mégsem vétett ellened? Ő, aki most is,
isten tudja, hány szeretőt tart.
– Ez nem igaz! – kiált most helyéről fölpattanva Olga. – Nem
igaz, nem igaz, ezt még mamának sem szabad mondania.
Kömleyné odalépett a leányához és megfogta a vállát.
– Lassan akartalak bevinni a valóságba, hogy felvilágosodva és
ábrándok nélkül élhess vele. De mivel ez az ember így beszélt
velem, ám legyen az operáció gyorsabb, fájóbb, de alaposabb is.
Eddig csak gondoltam, hogy szeretőket tart, egy félóra óta tudom.
Mikor idejöttem, az előcsarnokban a tálcán egy levelet láttam. Egy
hordár hozta, Márton épp be akarta vinni az uradnak. Akaratlanul is
hozzányultam és megtartottam: majd oda adom én. Itt van, nem
bontottam még föl, de az írás női írás. Tudom, hogy mi van benne. A
felesége vagy, te fölbonthatod.
Olga kezében tartja a levelet. Nézi, nézi, finom vonások, lázas
sietséggel odavetve. A vér arcába csap, a szerelmes nő ösztönével
megérzi ezeken a vonásokon a vetélytársnőt.
– Bontsd föl! – sürgeti Kömleyné, aki maga is lázban ég már –
jogod van hozzá, mert nő írta. Kötelességed irányában, hogy
alaptalanul ne gyanusítsd, ha nem igaz, amit mondok.
– Nem, nem – sikoltja Olga, de Kömleyné ekkor már kitépte
kezéből a levelet és fölszaggatta. Belenéz, fölkacag és odatartja
Olgának:
– Hát lásd magad, úgy-e, hogy megmondtam?
Olga szeme rátapad az írásra, csak két sor: «Megkövetelem,
hogy még egyszer eljőjjön. Nem vagyok rongy, hogy így el akar
dobni magától. Éva.»
Deméndyné még egyszer olvasta el az írást, aztán behunyta
szemét és várta: most megszakad a szíve. De éppenséggel nem
szakadt meg. Valami soha nem érzett nyugalom szállta meg, hogy
elcsodálkozott rajta. Hova lett a szíve, hova lett a fájdalom, hova az
iszonyú rémek, melyek ennek a beállott valóságnak már az
elgondolásánál elébe tolultak? Semmi, semmi mindebből, csak
megrázkódott, határtalan undort érzett és két kezével belemarkolt a
mellébe, mintha le akarná magáról tépni. Aztán fölvillant a szeme,
szinte diadalmasan, a levelet mintegy csapásra, magasra emelte,
úgy mondta anyjának:
– Köszönöm!
Kömleyné leányához lépett és megölelte. Először a Deméndy
házassága óta igaz, meleg szeretettel.
– Most ismerek csak a leányomra, – mondta – büszke vagyok
rád és tudtam, hogy a valóság meg fog gyógyítani.
4.
Egy hang nem jött a torkába, köny nem szökött szemébe. Állt az
ablak mellett s a fáját ellepő porba írta az ujjával: gazember,
gazember, gazember.
Aztán leroskadt a székre és magába mosolygott. Úgy, mint aki
valami igen ravaszat eszelt ki, amivel a másikat alaposan
megtréfálhatja. Érzés, gondolat azonban nem volt benne. Csak
ijesztőn sápadt volt az arca, nehány perc alatt megnyúlt, beesett,
megvénült. Végül pedig már fütyülni is kezdett. Amikor magában volt
és leste a szerelmes urát, sokszor szokott fütyülni.
– Elment már, édes? – szól mögötte Deméndy és elébe toppan.
Majd megijed:
– Édes, te beteg vagy! Az istenért mi lelt?
Az édes nem szólt, hanem hirtelen zsebébe dugta a levelet,
melyet addig önfeledten balkezében gyűrögetett.
– Édes – kiáltja nyugtalanul Deméndy és át akarja fogni.
Az asszony kacéran kisiklik karjából és a pálma mögé bújva
nevet.
– Kis gonosz, – mondja most már vidáman az államtitkár – hogy
rám ijesztettél!
A kis asszonyka pedig, aki soha egy pillanatra sem rejtett semmit
az ura előtt, aki nem is sejtette, hogy lehet másnak látszani, mint
amilyen az ember: most őrületes gyönyörűséget talált abban, hogy
ámítsa, bolondítsa az urát. Játszik vele, mint macska az egérrel,
csalja, ahogy az csalta őt. Nem is érte föl ésszel, hogy életének most
pecsételődik meg a tragédiája, szeme beteges pajzánsággal
rácsillant az urára, ajka eltorzult mosolyra állt, így mondta:
– Igen, komédiáztam, úgy-e jól tudok komédiázni?
És az ember nem vett észre semmit, nem látta hogy egészen
más asszony ingerkedik most vele, mint akit egy félórával ezelőtt itt
hagyott. Elhitte, hogy feleségének játékos jó kedve van és ezt jó
jelnek vette. Nem történt semmi baj – mondta magában s maga is
boldogan, könnyedén szökött a pálmához, ahonnan Olga egy
macskaszerű szökkenéssel a zongora alá bújt.
– Kis gonosz, – kiált rá vígan Deméndy – nem bújsz elő? Hármat
olvasok, ha akkor meg nem adod magad…
– Soha! – kiáltja Olga oly elhatározott hangon, mely minden
idegent megdöbbentett volna.
– Ha akkor sem bújsz elő, – ismétli Deméndy jókedvűen – utánad
bújok. Elférünk mi a zongora alatt is.
– Meg ne próbáld, – kiáltja vissza Olga és átmászik a zongora
sarkába, ott felegyenesedik, úgy mereszti lázban égő szemeit az
urára. Ez egészen elkapatva az örömtől, hogy az ideges jelenet,
melyre készült, így szépen elmaradt, olvasni kezdi:
– Egy… kettő… három…
– Hozzám ne nyulj, – sikoltja most Olga és kicsi kezével mellbe
löki urát. Úgy áll aztán ott és nézi a megdöbbent embert, üvegesedő
szemmel, hitetlenül. Elvesztette az összetartozóság érzetét
önmagával, szinte azt várta, hogy az ura meg fogja neki mondani:
micsoda idegen asszony lökte most mellbe!
– Ne bolondozz, édes, – szólt ez kissé száraz hangon – bújj elő
és mondd el: mi történt. El van intézve a mama dolga?
Olga állt a szoba homályos sarkában, úgy nézte az urát. Milyen
tiszta, becsületes arc, hogy tud a szemébe nézni! Meg is ingott a
hite: hátha hazudik az a levél, a mama, a szeme, az egész világ!
Lehet-e így állni a feleség előtt, akit megcsalt?
Hirtelen előbújt.
– Nos, el van intézve? – kérdi Deméndy ismét és a feleségéhez
lép.
– El, – mondja ez fás hangon és leül a zongora mellé s végig
futtatja rajta az ujjait. Úgy fordul hátra s hanyagul kérdi:
– Mondd csak, Miklós, szép leány az az Éva?
Úgy akart volna az urára nézni, látni az arcát, megtudni, milyen
hatást gyakorol rá ez a kérdés, de félt, szörnyen félt és nem tudott
megfordulni. Ha most ránéz, rögtön vége az erejének, pedig úgy
érezte, ezt a jelenetet végig kell élveznie, ez az utolsó élvezete
ebben az életben. Mintha csak muzsikáról volna szó, úgy jártak
tovább ujjai a billentyükön, úgy, hogy Miklós akinek elállt a szíve
verése, már azt hitte, hogy hallucinált s elképedve kérdezte:
– Mit mondtál?
– Azt kérdeztem, hogy szép leány-e az az Éva? – ismétli Olga,
most maga is elbűvölve. A két karja lehanyatlik és feje hátra csuklik,
hogy majd hanyatt esik le a kis zongoraszékről.
Deméndy egészen elvesztette önuralmát. A szája megnyilt,
szeme kidülledt, arca halálsápadt volt, úgy bámult a látszólag
egészen egykedvű asszonyra: mindent tud, gondolta magában,
szegény édesnek vége.
– Éva, – dadogta végül – mit tudsz te Éváról?
– Ugyan, Miklós, – mondja Olga szinte vidáman – minek titkolnád
előttem? A feleségnek bátran beszélhetsz a szeretődről, úgy illik ez
a mi világunkban.
Deméndy még jobban összezavarodott. Úgy állt ott, tehetetlenül,
kínos ügyefogyottan, szinte szánalmasan. Szegény Olga hangosan
felkacagott és becsapta a zongorafödelet.
– Házasságtörő, – rebegte aztán iszonyodva és összeborzongott.
Deméndy most megemberelte magát. Vége, gondolta magában,
hát legyen vége.
– Ezt jól csinálta anyád, – szólt remegő hangon – nagyon jól
csinálta. De én nem adom meg magamat, ma még urad vagyok és
parancsolód és mint ilyen, kérdem: szabad-e valakit elítélni, anélkül,
hogy meghallgattad volna?
– Ne hazudj, – kiált most Olga irtozó hangon – nézd, itt a
bizonyíték, mielőtt hazudnál, lásd, hogy hiábavaló.
És odadobta neki a levelet, melyet Deméndy soká olvasott,
anélkül, hogy értette volna. Végre megértette. Összecsikorgatta
fogát. Szamár, gondolta magában, épen az első becsületes lépés
lett a vesztem. Minek siettem vele? Ha még egyszer megcsalom,
nincs semmi baj!
– Úgy, tehát elfogják a leveleimet, – mondotta végül – de ha már
ennyire vagyunk, tán láthatod épen ebből a levélből, hogy
szakítottam vele. Hallgasd meg legalább a mentségemet.
Olga összecsapta a kezét.
– A mentséget, – ismételte – a mentséget! Hát van erre
mentség?
– Van, – mondja most már Deméndy, aki visszanyerte önuralmát.
– Édes, amikor most remegve és félve és kétségbeesetten
mentegetni akarom magamat, nem magamért teszem, hanem
teérted, szegény gyermekem, hogy visszanyerjed nyugalmadat.
Én…
– Meg vagyok gyalázva, – mondja Olga mind emelkedőbb
hangon – be vagyok mocskolva, nem élhetek ezzel a testtel, új testet
szerezz, új testet szerezz.
És most kitört belőle a zokogás, ledobta magát a földre és
öklével csapkodta mellét. Mikor Deméndy le akart hozzá hajolni,
valósággal felordított és védekezett a kezével. Az embernek
megfagyott a vére és nem tudott mihez fogni. Neki is köny gyűlt a
szemébe – ő, nem magát siratta, hanem igaz, belső fájdalma ennek
a szerencsétlen gyermeknek a marcangoló szenvedését illette,
melyet szívesen váltott volna magára bármily áron.
Letérdelt melléje, hozzáérni nem mert, úgy sirta lelkébe becéző,
csitító, szerelmes szólongatásait.
– Hallod-e édes? A te bűnös uradat, aki most inkább szeret, mint
valaha. Aki mindig szeretett, mert minden hazugság volt, csak ez az
egy nem. Az ember ha csalja is a feleségét, azért szereti. Nézz rám,
mert mégis megérdemlem. Odaadnám az életemet, hogy ne történt
legyen meg, ami megtörtént. Édes, drága édes, kicsi édes, egyetlen,
szerelmes kicsi feleségem.
Az asszony hallotta-e, nem-e, bajos megmondani, arccal feküdt a
padlón. Kicsi testén végigfutott a borzongás, amint magába akarta
szorítani zokogását. Hátra intett a kezével: el, el, de Deméndy
egészen meg volt törve, ott maradt mellette és egyre kérte, kérlelte,
mindhiába.
Egyszerre megmerevült az asszony. Mozdulatlan maradt, mintha
halott volna. Deméndy gondolta is, hogy meghalt és felordított:
– Édes! – kiáltotta és magához fordította az asszony arcát. Nem
volt abban egy csöpp vér sem. A szemepillája le volt csukva,
lélegzetét sem igen érezte, de arcán rángatództak az idegek – már
csak idegeiben élt. Deméndy hangos siratással emelte karjaiba és
végigszaladt vele a szobák során, ráordítván a megriadt cselédekre,
akik estélire rakosgattak:
– Orvost, orvost! A bárónét!
Lefektette a hálószoba pamlagjára és csókolgatta, meg könyeivel
áztatta a halottas arcocskát. Megbontotta ruháját, lefejtette róla cipőit
s ágyba akarta fektetni, mikor belépett Kömleyné. Határtalan düh
fogta el, szerette volna széttépni ezt az asszonyt, aki most is, noha
gyorsabban lélegzett, hideg és fehér és büszke volt, mint mindig.
– Ez az ön műve, – kiáltott rá és feléje rázta az öklét –
gyönyörködjék benne!
Kömleyné odalépett az ágyhoz. Leánya arcát nézte, majd
Deméndyt. Mintha benne is megmozdult volna valami.
– Orvost, – hebegte – küldött orvosért?
Az orvos is belépett. Egy pillanat alatt a jól nevelt úriemberek
elsimították az indulatok külső jeleit.
– Nagy izgalom érte, – magyarázta Kömleyné –
összeszólalkoztak az urával, hiszen tudja doktor úr, milyen érzékeny
a gyermek az ilyesmikben.
Az orvos tudja. Megvizsgálja az asszonyt, akinek a teste
lassankint felenged lázas konvulziókban és fejét csóválja.
– Idegláz, – mondja – alighanem idegláz – és előveszi a
morfiumtűjét. – Egyelőre egy kis injekció, méltóságos báróné, aztán
nyugalom, csak nagy nyugalom.
Az injekció megteszi hatását. Olga magához tér és Deméndy
óvatosan elhuzódik az ágy mellől. A beteg egy darabig révetegen
néz körül, aztán eszébe jut minden és magához szorítja édesanyja
fejét.
– Ne hagyj el, – rebegi – mama, ne hagyj el, – hiszen úgyis
meghalok.
– Nyugalom, nyugalom, – inti az orvos és azt hiszi, ezúttal is
kedvesnek és elmésnek kell lennie. – Lássa, méltóságos asszony,
így jár az, aki összevész az urával. Ki kell békülni, ki kell békülni,
akkor nem kell se doktor, se patika.
Olga értetlenül nézi a rettenetes embert, aki mosolyogva, sőt
közbe nevetve tud így beszélni. Aztán hideg borzongás járja át a
testét és visszahanyatlik.
– Maradj itten – rebegi még és fejére húzza a takarót.
– Most már jó – véli az orvos – el fog aludni és az a fő. A
nyugalom.
HETEDIK FEJEZET.
JANI.
1.
A Dermák-családban megint olyan volt a hangulat, mintha halott

volna a háznál. Baljóslatú csönd, rideg némaság, az egyik nem
akart, a másik nem mert szólani. Sárika eltünése volt a bevallott ok,
de nyilván mindegyiknek volt külön-külön is baja, melyet a másik
nem sejtett. Dermákné, akit az utóbbi hónapok jóléte kissé felvidított,
most ismét borúsan ül az ablak mellett és hímez. Adja a szigorút, aki
ha szóra nyitja száját, csak Sáriról beszél, mondván:
– Miattam felfordulhat, semmi közöm többé hozzá, ha ma
visszajönne, kirúgnám. Szégyent hozott a családra.
Éva ilyenkor elhúzza száját, de nem szól. Dermákné pedig
sokszor ejt sirató könnyet a kisebbik leányáért s vígasztalgatja
magát: hátha szerencsét csinált! És hímzés közben, meg mikor nem
tud elaludni, képzeleg, hogy majd csak egyszer megáll a négylovas
hintó a kapu előtt s bejön Sári és azt mondja, hogy ő hercegnő.
Megesett már ilyesmi.
Jani egészen megvadult. A szegény fiúnak kettős baja van. Beállt
a vakáció és elvesztette leckéit is, Bellágnét is. A szép asszony
megcsókolta, aztán hátba vágta és azt mondta:
– Kedves Jani, most már eléggé ki vagyok művelve, ezentul
mulatni fogok és nem tanulni. Holnapután utazom.
És Jani, aki ennél az asszonynál hagyta a lelkét, a hitét, meg az
ártatlanságát, nem tudott semmit se szólani, ment, mint az
elbocsájtott cseléd. Semmi jogát nem érezte, semmi hitványságot
nem vetett az asszony szemére. Az egész csak arra való volt, hogy
a tanulás mulatságosabb legyen. Nem csoda! Bellágné hány helyet
hagyott így ott, tizennégy napi felmondással, ahol ugyanazt a
szerepet játszotta, mint őnála ez a szegény diák.
Kant nem került többé elő. Nem bírta el az otthoni levegőt. Dolga
nem volt, egész nap kódorgott és későn jött csak haza. Nem törődött
vele senki. Barangolásaiban mindegyre csak Sárira gondolt. Ami
keserűség Bellágné miatt benne összegyűlt, azt mind Sárira
fordította. Rá kell akadni erre a teremtésre, a vérével lemosni a
család szégyenét. Naphosszat barangolt az utcákon, a
városligetben, este pedig végigjárt mindazokon a helyeken, ahol
Évával járt az éjszakai hajszánál. Megállt a fényes ablakok mellett és
belekémlelt a tivornya-helyekre, ahol sok különös dolgot látott, ami
első ízben megijesztette, aztán megundorította, végül pedig
gyűlöletet keltett benne minden iránt, aki szoknyában járt.
Sárikát sehol sem találta. Nem is kereste úgy, hogy ráakadjon,
csak kereste. Úgy érezte, mintha ezentúl ez volna rendes
foglalkozása: ezért született, ebben fog meghalni. Tanulmányaira,
jövőére már nem igen gondolt. A bizonyítványán különben
meglátszott már mindez: az eddig legjobb tanuló az utolsó félévben
a negyedik helyre sülyedt. Majd jövőre még lejebb fog sülyedni, az
érettségin pedig, – megdobbant a szíve, mikor erre a legsúlyosabb
próbára gondolt – meg fog bukni.
Utcai barangolásaiban sokszor találkozott Évával is, aki mintha
nem vette volna észre. Hogy szerette, hogy imádta ezt a felséges,
bánatos Évát! Mégis olyan szúrást érzett a szíve tájékán, mikor
figyelme az Éva társaságára fordult. Olyan kifestett és kiöltözködött
hölgyekkel járt, mint aminőket az éjjeli kávéházakban szokott látni.
Sőt egyikben, másikban rá is ismert az Éva barátnőjére. Micsoda

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Paul s Large Letters Paul s Autographic

Subscription in the Light of Ancient

Adam s Dust and Adam s Glory in the Hodayot and the

Divination and Philosophy in the Letters of Paul 1st

Studies in Spinoza S. Paul Kashap (Editor)

Pharaoh s Land and Beyond Ancient Egypt and Its

DeGroot s Endocrinology R Paul Robertson Editor In

Shakespeare s Military World Paul A. Jorgensen

Blood in the Tracks The Minnesota Musicians behind

Ancient Lamps in the J Paul Getty Museum 1st Edition

Paul’s Autographic Subscriptions in the

BLOOMSBURY, T&T CLARK and the T&T Clark logo are

First published in Great Britain 2017

Copyright © Steve Reece, 2017

Steve Reece has asserted his right under the Copyright,

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

ISBN: HB: 978-0-5676-6906-3

Series: Library of New Testament Studies, volume 561

Typeset by Deanta Global Publishing Services, Chennai, India

To ﬁnd out more about our authors and books visit

In my examination of the actual handwriting on ancient letters from around

P aul ’ s A utographic S ubscriptions

Figure 1 “Engrossed Copy” or “Parchment Copy” of the Declaration of Independence,

body of American myth. The Declaration of Independence was not addressed to

Figure 2 Facsimile of the “Engrossed Copy” of the Declaration of Independence made by

I offer this account of John Hancock’s signature on the Declaration because

Others commentators have shied away from such hypothetical biographical

3. Autographic subscriptions regularly served this function in letters and contracts in

4. The authorizing and legitimizing function of autographic subscriptions is a regular

Answers to these questions can best be discovered by examining the conventions

T he L aboriousness of L etter W riting

Writing in the ancient world was a laborious process performed primarily by

ὡV ἡdὺV toῖV plέousin ὁ eὔdioV limήn·

Similar colophons by weary scribes abound in medieval manuscripts. “Though

about them—unless you consider it a glorious thing to have transcribed by your

accurately, probably in a form of shorthand,6 by incising a wax tablet with a metal

11. So W. V. Harris (1989, 194–196).

to dictate to a professional scribe rather than put reed to papyrus themselves.13

T he G reek L iterary L etter- W riting T radition

correspondence (so “Demetrius” On Style 223)—but these archives have not

13. Cf. Herodotus 3.40—Amasis to Polycrates; Xenophon Cyropaedia 4.5.27–33—the

addressed to a group are usually read aloud (e.g., Thucydides 7.11–15—Nicias to

secrecy (grάϕei kaq’ ἑautὸn tὰ pepragmέna Ὀlumpiάdi tῇ mhtrὶ ἐn ἰdίᾳ

T he L atin L iterary L etter- W riting T radition

9. Ad Quintum Fratrem 2.16 is sometimes numbered 2.15. Also ad Quintum Fratrem

But although dictating to a scribe was a normal Roman epistolary practice,

Caesarum 17.1–2 (regarding Julius Caesar’s handwritten letter [chirographum] to Catiline);

18. Cf. ad Atticum 12.32.1; 13.28.4; 15.20.4.

A legnagyobb izgalomban járt fel-alá szobájában és hiába

A Dermák-családban megint olyan volt a hangulat, mintha halott

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