書信集 第 1 章 第 1/32 段

To Eustathius the Philosopher. When I had already grown weary of the assaults of fortune — from which some obstacle has always arisen to prevent my being with you — you wonderfully recalled and comforted me by your letter.

For indeed I had already begun turning over in my own mind whether that which is commonly repeated by the many might be true — that there is a certain necessity and fate which governs both the small and the great affairs of our lives, and that we men are masters of nothing;

or, if not this, that some kind of fortune altogether drives the life of man.

And you will grant much pardon for these reasonings of mine, once you learn the causes which led me to them.

I left Athens because of the fame of your philosophy, disdaining what was there.

I passed by the city on the Hellespont as no Odysseus ever passed the songs of the Sirens.

And I admired Asia indeed, but I hastened on toward the metropolis of the good things within it.

But when I reached your homeland and, seeking you there as the great benefit I hoped for, did not find you, from that point on many and varied occasions of unexpected hindrances befell me.

For either I was bound to fall ill and so be left behind, or, when you set out for the East, I was unable to depart with you, and then, at last reaching Syria after countless toils, I found myself unable to be with the philosopher, who had set off for Egypt.

So again I had to go to Egypt, a long and grievous road, and not even there obtain what I so earnestly sought.

But so ill-starred was my love that I must either travel on to the Persians and press forward as far as possible into the land of the barbarians (for you had gone there too — so great was the spite of the demon!), or else remain seated there in the city of Alexander, which is in fact what happened.

But why need I say much more? At last, now that we are dwelling in the same country, it has still not been possible for me to be with you, hindered as I am by prolonged illnesses;

and unless these become at least somewhat milder from now on, I shall not even be able to be with your eloquence during the winter.

Are these not, as you yourself might say, the works of fate? Are these not the works of necessity? Do these not, well-nigh, surpass even the poets' myths about Tantalus? But, as I said, I have become easier in mind through your letter, and I am no longer of the same opinion.

I say that we ought to give thanks to God when He gives good things, and not to be vexed when He withholds them for a season. And so, for our part, if He should grant that we be together with you, we shall consider this both best and most delightful;

but if He should defer it, we shall bear the loss with equanimity.

For surely He governs our affairs altogether better than we ourselves could foresee.

To Gregory, my Companion. I recognized your letter, just as those who recognize the children of their friends by the resemblance that appears in them to their parents.

For to say that the arrangement of the place is not impressive enough to stir any impulse in your soul toward life with us, before you have learned something of the manner and conduct of life here — this was indeed a thought worthy of you and of your soul, which counts all things here as nothing in comparison with the blessedness laid up for us in the promises.

As for myself, I am ashamed to write of what I actually do here on this remote frontier, night and day.

For I have indeed left behind the pursuits of the city as the source of countless evils, but I have not yet been able to leave myself behind.

But I am like those at sea who, through inexperience in sailing, are overcome and made seasick;

who complain of the size of the ship as producing much rolling, and then, transferring to the ship's boat or the skiff, are seasick and helpless everywhere alike, for the nausea and the bile go along with them wherever they go.

Such, then, is also our own case.

For carrying about with us everywhere the passions that dwell within us, we are attended everywhere by the same disturbances, so that we have gained no great benefit from this solitude.

What we ought, however, to be doing, and from what source it would have been possible for us to hold fast to the footsteps of Him who has led the way to salvation —

For, as He says, "If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me" — this is what it is.

It is fitting to strive to keep the mind in stillness.

For just as an eye that is continually turning about, now roving to the sides, now shifting frequently upward and downward, cannot see clearly the object before it, but the gaze must be fixed steadily upon what is visible if it is to make its viewing distinct —

so too it is impossible for the mind of man, dragged about by countless worldly cares, to gaze clearly upon the truth.

For the one not yet bound by the fetters of marriage is troubled by raging desires and impulses hard to restrain, and certain ill-starred passions of love; while the one already yoked together with a wife has a different tumult of cares awaiting him:

in childlessness, the longing for children;

and once children are had, the care of rearing them, the guarding of one's wife, the management of the household, the oversight of servants, losses in contracts, quarrels with neighbors, litigations in the law courts, the risks of trade, the labors of farming.

Every day comes bearing its own darkening of the soul, and the nights, taking over the day's cares, deceive the mind with the same imaginings.

But there is one escape from these things: separation from the whole world.

Withdrawal from the world does not mean being bodily outside it, but rather tearing the soul away from its sympathy with the body, and becoming without city, without home, without possessions of one's own, without friends, without property, without livelihood, without business, without dealings with others, unlearned in human teachings, ready to receive in the heart the impressions that come from divine instruction.

And the preparation of the heart is the unlearning of the teachings that, through evil habit, had previously taken possession of it.

For it is not possible to write upon wax without first smoothing away the marks already imprinted upon it, nor is it possible to set divine doctrines before the soul without first removing from it the preconceptions arising from habit.

For this purpose solitude affords us the greatest benefit, lulling our passions to rest and giving reason the leisure to cut them out completely from the soul.

For just as wild beasts are more easily overcome once they are stroked into gentleness, so desires and wrath and fears and griefs — the venomous evils of the soul — once lulled to rest through stillness, and not driven wild by continual provocation, become more easily overcome by the power of reason.

Let the place, then, be such as ours indeed is, free from intercourse with men, so that the continuity of one's ascetic practice may not be interrupted by anything from outside.

And the ascetic practice of piety nourishes the soul with divine thoughts.

What, then, is more blessed than to imitate on earth the choir of angels —

as, the moment the day begins, one hastens to prayer to honor the Creator with hymns and songs, and then, once the sun has fully risen, turns to one's tasks, with prayer accompanying one everywhere, and seasoning one's labors with hymns as though with salt? For the consolation of hymns bestows upon the soul a cheerful and untroubled condition.

...of men, a thing which by nature is especially apt to relax the tension of the soul.

For the mind, when it is not scattered upon outward things, nor poured out through the senses upon the world, returns to itself, and through itself ascends to the contemplation of God;

and being illumined round about and within by that beauty, it comes even to forget its own nature, the soul no longer being dragged down by concern for food or anxiety for clothing, but, having leisure from earthly cares, transfers the whole of its zeal to the acquisition of eternal goods;

considering how temperance and courage may be rightly attained by him, and how justice and prudence, and all the remaining virtues, which, being subdivided under these general kinds, suggest to the earnest man the fitting performance of each of the duties of life.

And the greatest road toward the discovery of duty is the study of the God-inspired Scriptures.

For in these are found the precepts for our actions, and the lives of the blessed men, recorded and handed down, lie before us like living images of conduct according to God, set forth for the imitation of good works.

And so, in whatever matter each person perceives himself to be deficient, by dwelling upon that particular example, as though from some common infirmary, he finds the remedy suited to his own ailment.

And the lover of chastity continually unrolls the history concerning Joseph, and from him learns deeds of chastity, finding him to be not only self-controlled with regard to pleasures, but also firmly disposed toward virtue as a settled habit.

And he is taught courage by Job, who, when his life had turned to its opposite — becoming poor instead of rich, and childless instead of blessed with fine children, all in a single moment of time — nevertheless remained the same man, preserving throughout an unhumbled disposition of soul; nor, even when his friends who had come to comfort him instead trampled upon him and aggravated his sufferings, was he provoked to anger.

Such, too, was Moses, who rose up with great wrath against those who sinned against God, yet with a gentle soul bore the slanders directed against himself.

And in every case, just as painters, when they copy a portrait from another portrait, gaze frequently at the model, and strive to transfer its character into their own work of art, so too must the one who is earnestly striving to make himself perfect in every part of virtue look to the lives of the saints as though to living, moving statues, and make their goodness his own through imitation.

Prayers, in turn, succeeding the readings, receive the soul made fresher and more vigorous, stirred by longing toward God.

And prayer is good when it produces in the soul a vivid awareness of God.

And this is the indwelling of God: to have God established within oneself through remembrance.

Thus we become a temple of God, when the continuity of remembrance is not interrupted by earthly cares, when the mind is not thrown into confusion by unexpected passions, but the God-loving soul, having fled from all things, withdraws unto God and, driving away whatever summons us to wickedness, occupies itself with the pursuits that lead to virtue.

As for the pitch of the voice, the middle tone is to be preferred, so that it neither escapes the hearing through faintness, nor becomes burdensome through excessive loudness.

One should first examine within oneself what is about to be said, and only then make the word public.

Be affable in your dealings with others, gentle in conversation;

not hunting after pleasantness through jesting, but possessing gentleness through kindly encouragement.

Always rejecting harshness, even when it is necessary to rebuke.

For by first humbling yourself through lowliness of mind, you will thus become readily acceptable to the one who is in need of care.

And a humble and abased disposition of mind is followed by a downcast eye bent toward the ground, a neglected appearance, unkempt hair, soiled clothing;

so that what mourners do by deliberate practice appears in us spontaneously.

Let the tunic be drawn close to the body by a girdle;

yet the girdle should not be worn above the hips, for that is womanish;

nor should it be loose, so that the tunic hangs slack, for that is slovenly;

and let the gait be neither sluggish, so as to betray a laxity of soul,

nor again hasty and hurried, so as to suggest that its impulses are rash.

The one purpose of clothing is to be a covering for the flesh, sufficient for both winter and summer.

Let neither brightness of color be pursued, nor fineness and softness in its make.

For to seek after fine colors in clothing is equal to womanly adornment, which women practice by dyeing their cheeks and hair with a borrowed bloom not their own.

Moreover, the tunic ought to be of such thickness as not to need a companion garment to keep the wearer warm.

Let footwear be cheap in cost, yet fully meet the need without deficiency.

And, in short, just as in clothing it is fitting to esteem what is necessary, so too in food, bread will fulfill the need and water will relieve thirst for one who is healthy, along with whatever side dishes made from grains can preserve bodily strength for the necessary needs.

One should eat without displaying rabid gluttony, but preserving everywhere what is steady and gentle, and self-controlled with regard to pleasures;

nor should the mind at that time be idle regarding the thought of God, but should make the very nature of the foods and the constitution of the body that receives them an occasion for glorifying God;

how the various kinds of food, suited to the particular nature of bodies, have been devised by him who orders all things.

Prayers before food, that we may become worthy of God's provisions, both those he gives now and those he has stored up for the future.

Prayers after food, containing thanksgiving for what has been given and petition for what has been promised.

One hour appointed for food, recurring at the same point each cycle, so that of the twenty-four hours of the day and night, this one alone is spent on the body;

and let the ascetic occupy the remaining hours in the labor of the mind.

Let sleep be light and easily shaken off, following naturally from a measured diet, and deliberately interrupted by concerns about great matters.

For to be overpowered by deep torpor, with the limbs so relaxed as to give leisure for improper fantasies, makes those who sleep in this way exist in a daily death.

But what dawn is for others, this midnight is for the ascetics of piety, since the quiet of the night especially bestows leisure upon the soul, while neither eyes nor ears convey harmful sounds or sights to the heart, but the mind alone by itself is present with God, correcting itself by the remembrance of its sins, setting for itself limits for the avoidance of evil, and seeking the cooperation of God for the perfecting of what it earnestly pursues.

I regarded it with caution, as though it were announcing some public matter, and while I was undoing the wax, I was as afraid, looking at it, as any Spartan under indictment would fear the Laconian scytale.

But when I had opened it and gone through everything point by point, I was moved to laugh;

partly out of pleasure, at having heard nothing untoward;

since you do not write to us out of your official position, but in your accustomed manner, and you relax nothing of your zeal for letters, but, as Plato says, having withdrawn as it were behind some strong wall amid the winter storm and hail of affairs, you fill your soul with no disturbance;

or rather, so far as it depends on you, you do not allow others to be disturbed either.

Such, then, are your affairs — so great and admirable to those able to perceive them, and yet again not admirable to one who judges them in light of your whole purpose of life.

But hear also our affairs, which are both extraordinary and yet happen to us as a matter of course.

A certain rustic man, one of those living near us at Annisa, when a household servant of mine had died, without saying that he had any contract with him, without coming to me, without making any accusation, without requesting to receive anything with my consent, without even threatening to use force if he did not receive it, suddenly attacked our house together with some others of like recklessness, beat and battered the women who were guarding it, broke down the doors, and carried off everything — taking some things himself, and setting the rest out for plunder to whoever wished.

In order, then, that we may not be the utmost limit of weakness and seem to everyone a fit object for attack, I beg you to bring to bear now also the zeal you have shown in all our affairs.

For only in this way could our freedom from trouble be preserved, if we were allied with your energetic action.

It would be sufficient justice for us if he were arrested through the district magistrate and shut up in prison for a short time.

For indeed we are indignant not only over what we have suffered, but we also need security for the future.

TO OLYMPIUS. What are you doing, my admirable friend, driving our beloved poverty, the nurse of philosophy, out of her remote dwelling? For I think you would even be liable to a suit of ejectment brought by her, should she ever gain the power of speech, on the ground that I chose to live with this man — one who now praises Zeno, who, having lost everything in a shipwreck, uttered nothing ignoble, but rather —

'Well done, Fortune,' he said, 'you are driving us into the philosopher's cloak!'

and now praises Cleanthes, who for hire drew water from the well, whereby he both sustained his own life and paid the fees of his teachers.

For these and similar reasons our housemate Poverty might reproach you, now that she has been evicted by your great gifts; and she might add some threat as well, saying:

'If I should catch you here again, I will make your former Sicilian or Italian luxury seem as nothing.'

'So exactly will I take vengeance on you with my own resources.' So much, then, for that; but I was glad to hear that you have already begun your treatment, and I pray that you may benefit from it.

It would befit your holy soul to have a service of the body that is free from pain.

TO NECTARIUS, A LETTER OF CONSOLATION. Not yet had three or four days passed since I was struck by hearing of the unbearable calamity — and I was still in doubt, because the messenger of the distressing news had not been able to relate to us clearly what had happened, and because I prayed that it might not be true, being reluctant to accept what was being rumored — when I received a letter from the bishop, clearly confirming the dreaded report.

At this, what need is there even to say how much I groaned and how many tears I shed? For who is so stony-hearted, or so entirely outside human nature, as to bear what happened without feeling, or to have his soul seized by only moderate grief? The heir of a splendid house, the support of his family, the hope of his fatherland, the offshoot of pious parents reared amid countless prayers, in the very flower of his youth, has been snatched away out of his father's very arms, and is gone.

What nature of adamant would these things not be sufficient to dissolve and bring to sympathy? So it is no great wonder if this evil has touched us too to the depths, since from the beginning we have been wholly attached to you, and have made both your joys and your sorrows our own.

And yet it seemed that up until the present time you had suffered but few griefs, and that in most respects your affairs were flowing smoothly with the current;

but suddenly, through the malice of a demon, all the prosperity and brightness of that household has vanished, and we have become for the world a somber tale to tell.

If, then, we wish to lament over what has happened and to weep, the span of our life will not suffice us; and though all people should groan with us, they will not be able to make their mourning equal to our suffering;

rather, even if the very streams of rivers became tears, they would not suffice to complete a lament worthy of what has happened.

If, however, we are willing now to bring forth the gift of God which he has stored up in our hearts — I mean sound reasoning, which in times of prosperity knows how to set limits for our souls, and in gloomier circumstances knows how to bring us to remembrance of human affairs, and to suggest to us both what we have seen and what we have heard — namely, that life is full of such sufferings, and that examples of human misfortune are many, and, above all, that it is a commandment of God that those who have believed in Christ should not grieve over those who have fallen asleep, because of the hope of the resurrection, and that great crowns of glory are laid up by the Judge of the contest for great endurance —

if we allow reason to sing these things over us as a charm, perhaps we might find some measure of relief from the evil.

For he himself knows how he apportions what is beneficial to each person, and why the boundaries of our lives are unequal.

For there is a certain reason, incomprehensible to men, on account of which some are taken away from here sooner, while others are left behind to struggle longer in this painful life.

Therefore in all things we ought to worship his loving-kindness and not be resentful, remembering that great and celebrated saying which the great champion Job uttered, when he saw his ten children crushed at a single table in the brief turning of a moment;

'The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away;'

'as it seemed good to the Lord, so it has also come to pass.' Let us make this wonder our own;

for equal reward is given by the just Judge to those who display equal deeds of virtue.

We have not been deprived of the child, but have given him back to the One who lent him;

nor has his life been destroyed, but it has been changed for the better;

the earth has not hidden away our beloved one, but heaven has received him.

Let us wait a little while, and we shall be together again with the one we long for.

He has merely gone ahead and taken his lodging first, but we shall all travel this same road, and the same resting-place awaits us all.

May it only be granted us to become like him in purity through virtue, so that, through guilelessness of character, we too may attain the same rest as those who are infants in Christ.

TO THE WIFE OF NECTARIUS, A LETTER OF CONSOLATION. I was on the point of remaining silent toward your propriety, reasoning that, just as even the gentlest of soothing remedies causes pain to an inflamed eye, so also to a soul afflicted by heavy grief, even a word that brings much comfort seems somehow to be troublesome, when it is offered amid such acute pain.

But since it occurred to me that my words would be addressed to a Christian woman long instructed in divine things and well prepared to face human affairs, I did not think it right to omit what is incumbent upon me.

I know what manner of heart mothers have; and when I especially consider your own kindness and gentleness toward all, I reckon how great the pain is likely to be under the present circumstances.

You have lost a son whom, while he lived, all mothers counted blessed and prayed that their own sons might be like him, and whose death they mourned as though each had buried her own child in the earth.

His death has become a blow to two homelands — both ours and that of the Cilicians.

With him that great and illustrious family has collapsed together, shaken to the ground as though its support had been taken away.

O encounter with an evil demon — how much harm it has had the power to work!

O earth, compelled to receive so grievous a calamity!

Perhaps even the sun, if it has any perception, shuddered at that grim spectacle.

And what could anyone say that would equal what the soul's helplessness suggests? But indeed our affairs are not without providence, as we have learned in the Gospel, that not even a sparrow falls apart from the will of our Father; so that, if anything has happened, it has happened by the will of him who created us.

But who has ever resisted the will of God? Let us accept what has happened;

for by being resentful we neither correct what has happened, and we destroy ourselves as well.

Let us not accuse the just judgment of God.

We are too ignorant to test his ineffable judgments.

Now the Lord is taking from you the proof of your love toward him.

Now the time is present for you, through endurance, to receive the portion of the martyrs.

The mother of the Maccabees saw the death of her seven children and did not groan nor let fall an ignoble tear, but giving thanks to God because she saw them being released from the bonds of the flesh by fire and sword and the most grievous torments, she was judged well-approved before God, and celebrated in song among men.

Great is the suffering, I too say; but great also are the rewards laid up from the Lord for those who endure.

When you became a mother, and saw the child, and gave thanks to God, you certainly knew that, being mortal yourself, you had begotten a mortal.

What then is strange, if the mortal one has died? But what grieves us is that it happened before its proper time.

It is unclear whether this was in fact untimely, since we do not know how to choose what is beneficial for souls, nor how to set the appointed limits of human life.

Look around at the whole world in which you dwell, and consider that all things seen are mortal, and all are subject to decay.

Look up to the heaven —

even this, too, shall one day be dissolved.

All the stars together, land animals and creatures of the water, the beauties that surround the earth, the earth itself — all are corruptible, all a little while later will no longer exist.

Let the contemplation of these things be a consolation for what has befallen you.

Do not measure the suffering by itself alone —

for so it will appear unbearable to you —

but by comparing it with all human affairs, from this you will find its consolation.

But above all, I have this strong word to say: spare your husband;

do not make the calamity more grievous for him by consuming yourself with grief.

that there is need of it in view of the present circumstances.

I pray, then, that the Lord himself, touching your heart with his ineffable power, may produce light in your soul through good thoughts, so that you may have from within yourself the resources for consolation.

TO GREGORY, HIS FRIEND. Not even then, when I was writing to your eloquence, was I unaware that every theological utterance falls short both of the thought of the one speaking and of the desire of the one inquiring, because speech is by nature somehow too weak to serve the things conceived in the mind.

If, then, our understanding is weak, and our tongue is inferior even to that, what else ought we to expect regarding what has been said, except to be charged with poverty of words? Yet on this account it was not possible to pass over in silence the matter under inquiry.

For there is a danger of betrayal in not readily giving answers concerning God to those who love the Lord.

As for those things, then — whether they seem to be sufficient, or whether they need some more precise addition — they require their own proper occasion for correction.

But for the present we urge you, as we have already urged before, to devote yourself wholly to the advocacy of the truth and to the impulses that come from God upon your mind for the establishment of the good, being content with these and seeking nothing further from us, who, being far inferior to what is supposed of us, harm the argument by our own weakness rather than add any strength to the truth through our advocacy.

TO THE CAESAREANS, AN APOLOGY CONCERNING HIS WITHDRAWAL. Often have I wondered what feeling you have come to have toward us, and from what cause you have become so captivated by our littleness — small and slight, and perhaps possessing nothing lovable — that you urge us with words, reminding us of friendship and of our homeland, as though endeavoring, with a father's tender affection, to turn certain fugitives back again to yourselves.

For my part, I confess that I have become a fugitive, and I would not deny it; but the reason you may now learn, since you are indeed eager to know it.

At first, indeed, struck by the unexpected event, like those who are suddenly and utterly dismayed by sudden noises, I did not keep hold of my reasoning, but fled far off and lodged for a considerable time away from you; then afterward a certain longing for the divine doctrines, and for the philosophy concerning them, stole in upon me.

'For how,' I said to myself, 'could I master the vice that dwells within me? And who could become for me a Laban, to deliver me from Esau and to train me toward the loftiest philosophy?' But since, with God's help, we have to the best of our ability attained our aim, having found a vessel of election and a deep well — I mean Gregory, the mouth of Christ — grant us, I beseech you, a little, a little time, we ask; not because we are enamored of a sojourn in the cities (for the evil one's contrivance of deceit for men by such means has not escaped us), but because we judge our meeting with holy men to be of the greatest benefit.

For in speaking of, and hearing more frequently about, the divine doctrines, we acquire a habit of contemplation not easily cast off.

And such, then, are matters concerning us.