創世六日 第 5 章 第 1/3 段

"Let the earth bring forth the herb of grass, yielding seed after its kind, and the fruit tree bearing fruit after its kind, whose seed is in itself."

Consistently, after the earth had rested, having been relieved of the burden of the water, the command came to it to bring forth first the herb, then the tree;

which even now we see happening.

For the voice of that time, and that first command, became as it were a law of nature, and remained in the earth, furnishing it for the future with the power of generating and bearing fruit.

The first thing in the genesis of growing things is the sprouting;

then, when the sprouts have come up a little, it becomes a young plant;

then, when it has grown, it is grass, the growing things being articulated little by little, and advancing to their completion at the seed.

For the green and grassy is much alike in all of them.

"Let the earth bring forth the herb of grass."

Let the earth by itself put forth its growth, needing no cooperation from elsewhere.

Since some suppose the sun to be the cause of the things that grow from the earth, drawing the power from the depth up to the surface by the attraction of its heat, for this reason the ordering of things about the earth is older than the sun;

in order that the deceived may cease from worshiping the sun, as though it furnished the cause of life.

If, then, they are persuaded that before its genesis all things about the earth had been set in order, they will abate their boundless wonder concerning it, when they reflect that it is younger in genesis than grass and herb.

Was food, then, laid up beforehand for the cattle, while our own portion appeared worthy of no forethought? But surely He who laid up fodder beforehand for oxen and horses is preparing for you wealth and enjoyment.

For He who nourishes your livestock is increasing your provision for life.

Furthermore, the genesis of seeds—what else is it but a provision for your sustenance? Besides which, many of the things that are still among grasses and vegetables serve as food for men.

"Let the earth bring forth the herb of grass, yielding seed," He says, "after its kind."

So that even if some kind of herb is of use to others, even their profit accrues to us, and to us the use of the seeds has been set apart;

so that the sense of what is said is this: Let the earth bring forth the herb of grass, and seed yielding after its kind.

For thus the proper sequence of the wording will also be able to be restored—the construction now seeming to be ill-ordered—and what is necessary among the things administered by nature will be preserved.

For first there is sprouting, then verdure, then the growth of grass, then the completion of the growing things by means of the seed.

How then, they say, does the text indicate that all the things growing from the earth are seed-bearing, seeing that neither reed, nor dog's-tooth grass, nor mint, nor crocus, nor garlic, nor sweet-flag, nor countless other kinds of plants appear to bear seed? To this we say that many of the things growing from the earth have the power of the seeds in the base and the root.

Just as the reed, after its yearly growth, sends up from the root a certain shoot, having the function of a seed, for the time to come.

And countless others do this too, as many as, spreading through the ground, have their succession in their roots.

So that this is most entirely true: that for each of the growing things there is either seed, or some seminal power present within it.

And this is the meaning of "after its kind."

For the shoot of the reed is not productive of an olive, but from a reed comes another reed, and from seeds there sprout up things akin to what was sown.

And thus what was put forth by the earth in the first genesis is preserved even until now, the kind being kept by the sequence of succession.

Consider for me, from so small a voice and command so brief, the chilled and barren earth all at once travailing in birth and stirred up to fruit-bearing—as it were casting off some gloomy and mournful garment, and clothing itself anew in a more radiant one, exulting in its own ornaments, and putting forth the countless kinds of growing things.

I wish the wonder of the creation to be more firmly established in you, so that wherever you may find yourself, and beside whatever kind of growing thing you may stand, you may receive a vivid reminder of the Maker.

First, then, whenever you see the herb of grass and the flower, come to a consideration of human nature, remembering the image of the wise Isaiah: "All flesh is grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of grass."

For the brevity of life, and the short-lived gladness and cheerfulness of human prosperity, has met with a most fitting image in the prophet.

Today flourishing in body, well-fleshed from luxury, having a bloom of fair complexion from the prime of his age, vigorous and taut, irresistible in his impulse—tomorrow this same man is pitiable, either withered by time or dissolved by disease.

A certain man is admired for his abundance of riches;

and a host of flatterers surrounds him;

a bodyguard of pretended friends who court the favor from him;

a multitude of kinsmen, and that a feigned kinship;

a countless swarm of followers, both those attending him for meals and those waiting upon him for his needs, whom, dragging them along as he goes out and comes back again, he is an object of envy to those he meets.

Add to his wealth some civic dominion too, or even honors from kings;

the herald crying out loudly before him;

the lictors on either side inflicting blows of the heaviest terror upon his subjects;

the prisons, from which an unbearable fear is gathered among those under his hand.

And what after this? One night, or one fever, or a pleurisy, or a pneumonia, carrying off the man, snatched away from among men, departs—stripping bare all at once the whole stage-show that was his, and that glory was refuted like a dream.

So that the prophet's likening of human glory to the most frail flower has hit the mark.

"Let the earth bring forth the herb of grass, yielding seed after its kind and after its likeness."

Even now the order of the growing things bears witness to the first ordering.

For the sprouting leads the way before every herb and every plant.

For whether something is sent up from a root, from a shoot below, like crocus and dog's-tooth grass, it must sprout and peep forth to the outside;

or from seed, and in this case too it is necessary that first there be sprouting, then the becoming of a herb, then green grass, then the fruit ripening upon a stalk now dry and thick.

"Let the earth bring forth the herb of grass."

Whenever the seed falls into earth that has moisture and warmth in due measure, becoming loose and porous, it lays hold of the surrounding earth and draws to itself what is akin and of like kind to itself.

And the finest particles of the earth, entering into the pores and slipping in, expand its bulk further, so that it takes root downward, while peeping upward, the reeds put forth being equal in number to the roots;

and as the sprout is ever warmed, the moisture, drawn along through the roots, draws up with it, by the attraction of the heat, as much of the nourishing part of the earth as is moderate, and apportions this into stalk and husk and the cases of the grain, and the grain itself, and the awns;

and thus, the growth coming about little by little, each of the growing things is restored to its proper measure, whether it happens to be one of the grain-plants, or of the legumes, or of the vegetables or shrubby kinds.

One blade of grass and one herb suffices to occupy your whole mind in the contemplation of the art that wrought them;

how the stalk of grain is girt with joints, so that, like certain bonds, they may easily bear the weight of the ears when, being full of fruit, they bend toward the earth.

For this reason the wild oat is empty throughout, inasmuch as its head is weighed down by nothing;

but nature has secured the grain with these bonds.

And having stored the kernel in a case, so as not to be easily snatched away by the seed-eating birds;

and further, by the projection of the awns, as it were with barbs, it keeps off the harm coming from the small creatures.

What shall I say? What shall I pass over in silence? Amid the rich treasures of creation, the finding of the more precious is difficult, and most grievous is the loss of what is passed by.

"Let the earth bring forth the herb of grass."

And straightway, together with the nourishing plants, the poisonous ones too were brought forth;

with the grain, the hemlock;

with the rest of the nourishing plants, hellebore, and aconite, and mandrake, and the juice of the poppy.

What then? Letting go of confessing our thanks for the useful things, shall we bring a charge against the Creator on account of those destructive to our life? Shall we not consider this—that not all things have been created for the sake of our belly? Rather, the foods appointed for us are ready at hand and well known to all;

but each of the things that have come to be fulfills some peculiar function of its own in the creation.

For surely, because bull's blood is poison to you, was it for this reason necessary either that the animal should not have been produced, or, having been produced, should be bloodless—the animal upon whose strength our life depends for so many things? But for you, indeed, the reason that dwells within is sufficient for guarding against the deadly things.

For surely sheep and goats know how to flee from the things that harm their life, distinguishing the noxious by sense alone;

but for you, to whom reason is present, and the art of medicine that supplies what is useful, and the experience of those who have gone before that suggests the avoidance of harmful things—is it hard, tell me, to turn aside from the poisons? But of these there is nothing that has come to be idly, nothing uselessly.

For either it provides food to some one of the irrational creatures;

or even for us ourselves it has been discovered, by the art of medicine, for the relief of certain ailments.

For starlings feed on hemlock, escaping the harm from the poison by reason of the constitution of their body.

For, having fine passages about the heart, they succeed in digesting what is swallowed before the chilling from it can fasten upon the vital parts.

And hellebore is food for quails, which escape the harm by the peculiarity of their temperament.

And these very things are sometimes useful even to us, in due season.

For by means of mandrake, physicians induce sleep;

and with opium they lull to rest the severe pains of bodies.

And ere now some have by hemlock quenched the raging of the appetites;

and by hellebore have dislodged many chronic diseases.

So that what you supposed you had as a charge against the Creator, this has turned out for you as an addition to your thanksgiving.

"Let the earth bring forth the herb of grass."

How much spontaneous food does He speak of in these words—that in the roots, and that in the herb itself, and that already in the fruits! And how much that comes to us from care and husbandry! He did not at once command seed and fruit to be given forth, but the earth to sprout and grow green, and only then to be perfected into seed, so that that first command might become a school for nature in the sequence that follows.

How then, he says, does the earth bring forth seeds after their kind, when, having often sown wheat, we gather in this black grain? But this is not a change into another kind, but as it were a kind of disease and infirmity of the seed.

For it did not lay aside being wheat, but was blackened through scorching, as one may learn even from the name itself.

For, scorched by the excess of cold, it passed over into a different color and taste.

And moreover it is also said that, whenever it gets suitable soil and temperate air, it returns to its original form.

So that you would find nothing being accomplished among the growing things contrary to the command.

But the so-called darnel, and whatever other spurious seeds are mingled in among the nourishing ones—which Scripture is wont to call tares—do not come about from a change of the wheat, but have arisen from their own proper origin, having a kind of their own.

These fulfill the image of those who falsify the teachings of the Lord, and who, not being genuinely instructed in the word, but corrupted by the teaching of the evil one, mingle themselves into the healthy body of the Church, in order that from concealment they may cast their own harms upon the more guileless.

Indeed the Lord too likens the perfecting of those who have believed in Him to the growth of seeds, saying:

"As when a man casts seed upon the earth, and sleeps and rises night and day, and the seed springs up and grows, he himself knows not how."

For the earth bears fruit of itself, first the blade, then the ear, then the full grain in the ear.

And in a brief moment of time, beginning from the sprouting, the earth—in order that it might keep the laws of the Creator—having passed through every form of growth, straightway brought the sprouts to perfection.

And the meadows were deep with the abundance of the grass, while the fertile portions of the plains, bristling with the standing crops, preserved the image of a billowing sea in the movement of the ears of grain.

And every herb and every kind of vegetable, and whatever is among the shrubs, and whatever among the legumes, then overspread the earth in all abundance.

For there was no failure at all among the things then brought forth—neither of the husbandmen's inexperience, nor of the air's bad temperature, nor of any other cause marring the things that came to be.

Nor, indeed, did the sentence of condemnation impede the abundance of the earth.

For these things are older than the sin on account of which we were condemned to eat our bread in the sweat of our face.

But "the fruit tree also," He says, "bearing fruit, whose seed is in itself, after its kind and after its likeness upon the earth."

At this word, all the thickets grew dense;

all the trees shot up—both those naturally disposed to rise to the greatest height, firs and cedars, and cypresses and pines;

and all the shrubs at once were leafy on every side and bushy;

and the plants called garland-plants—the rose-bushes and myrtles and laurels—all in one moment of time, not being before upon the earth, came into being, each with its own peculiarity, distinguished by the clearest differences from those of other kinds, and each recognized by its own proper character.

Except that the rose was then without thorns, but afterward the thorn was yoked to the beauty of the flower, that we might have sorrow set close beside the delight of enjoyment, remembering the sin on account of which the earth was condemned to bring forth for us thorns and thistles.

But it was commanded, He says, that the earth bring forth "the fruit tree, bearing fruit upon the earth, whose seed is in itself";

yet we see many of the trees making use neither of fruits nor of seed.

What then shall we say? That the things more honorable in nature obtained the precedence of mention;

and then, that to one observing accurately, all will appear either to make use of seed, or to have things equivalent in power to seeds.

For black poplars, and willows, and elms, and white poplars, and all such, seem manifestly to bear no fruit at all, yet one investigating accurately would find each of these to have seed.

For the kernel lying beneath the leaf, which some of those who busy themselves with coining names call the "leaf-stalk," has the power of a seed.

For all those things that are naturally generated from branches, from there for the most part put forth their roots.

And perhaps the offshoots of the roots also hold the rank of a seed, which the gardeners tear off and so increase the kind.

First, however, as we said, those things were deemed worthy of mention which are more sustaining of our life, as many as were destined, welcoming man with their proper fruits, to furnish him with an abundant sustenance;

the vine, producing wine that would gladden the heart of man;

and the olive, furnishing fruit able to make the face cheerful with oil.

How many things ran together at the same time, urged forth in haste by nature? The root of the vine;

the tendrils, flourishing in a circle and spread out large above the ground;

the shoot, the curling tendrils, the unripe grape, the clusters.

Even the vine alone, intelligently beheld, suffices to create in you, by sight, a reminder of nature.

For you surely remember the image of the Lord, that He calls Himself a vine, and the Father the husbandman, and each one of us, grafted by faith into the Church, He named branches;

and He calls us to abundant fruit-bearing, that we may not, being condemned for uselessness, be delivered over to the fire;

and He does not cease everywhere likening the souls of men to vines.

"For my beloved had a vineyard," He says, "on a horn, in a fruitful place."

And, "I planted a vineyard, and set a hedge about it."

He calls human souls the vineyard, clearly, about which He set as a hedge the security that comes from the commandments, and the guard of the angels.

"For the angel of the Lord shall encamp round about those that fear Him."

Then too He fixed firmly beside us, as it were stakes, having set in the Church first apostles, secondly prophets, thirdly teachers.

And lifting up our minds to a height by the examples of the men of old and the blessed, He did not leave them flung down on the ground and worthy to be trodden underfoot.

And He wills that we too, as it were by certain tendrils, lay hold on the embraces of love toward our neighbors, and rest upon them, so that, ever having our impulse directed upward, we may, like certain vines climbing up trees, raise ourselves to the summits of the loftiest.

And He requires of us also that we submit to being dug about.

And the soul is dug about in the laying aside of the cares of the world, which are a burden to our hearts.

So that he who has laid aside fleshly love, and friendship with riches, or who has deemed the wretched craving after this paltry bit of glory a thing to be spat upon and despised, is as it were dug about and has taken breath, having rid himself of the vain burden of the earthly mind.

And one must, according to the word of the proverb, not run riot in foliage either—that is, not to live ostentatiously, nor to hunt after the praise from those outside, but to be fruitful, reserving the display of one's works for the true husbandman.

And you, be "like a fruitful olive in the house of God," never being stripped of hope, but ever keeping flourishing about you the salvation that comes through faith.

For thus you will imitate the evergreen quality of the plant, and you will also emulate its fruitfulness, furnishing abundant almsgiving at every season.

But let us return to the investigation of the artful arrangements.

How many kinds of plants then ran up—some fruit-bearing, some good for roofing, others suitable for shipbuilding, others for burning? Among these, again, varied is the arrangement of its parts in each tree, and hard to attain is both the discovery of the peculiarity of each, and the contemplation of its difference from each of the other kinds.

How some of them are deep-rooted, others shallow-rooted;

and some are upright-growing and single-stemmed, while others are low-lying and divided right from the root into many shoots.

How those whose branches are long, stretched far out into the air, have also deep roots, distributed very widely in a circle, nature placing them beneath as it were certain foundations proportioned to the weight of the parts above.

How many are the differences of the barks? For some of the plants are smooth-barked, others rough-barked;

and some of them are single-coated, others many-layered.

And what is marvelous: you would find, even in plants, symptoms much like those of human youth and old age.

For around the young and flourishing the bark is stretched tight;

but on those growing old it becomes, as it were, wrinkled and roughened.

And some, when cut, sprout again;

but others remain without succession, as it were having undergone in the cutting a kind of death.

And ere now some have observed pines, when cut down or even burned over, changing into oak-thickets.

And we have learned that some, even their natural defect, are remedied by the care of husbandmen;

for instance, the sour pomegranates, and the more bitter of the almonds, when, being bored through at the stem near the root, they receive a wedge of resinous pine driven through the middle of the pith, they then change the harshness of their juice into usefulness.

Let no one, then, who lives in vice despair of himself, knowing that, if husbandry changes the qualities of plants, the soul's care for virtue is able to gain mastery over ailments of every sort.

And the difference among the fruit-bearing plants as regards their fruit-production is so great that no one could even traverse it in discourse.

For not only are there differences of fruits among the various kinds, but already even within the very same species of tree there is much variation;

inasmuch as one character of fruit belongs to the male trees, another to the female, as has been distinguished by the cultivators, who indeed divide even the date-palms into male and female.

And you may sometimes see what they call the female letting down its branches, as it were in heat and longing for union with the male; and the tenders of the plants throwing in among its branches, as it were certain seeds of the males—the so-called caprifig-gnats—and thus the branches, as if in a sense of enjoyment, becoming reanimated and straightening up again, and the foliage being restored to the proper figure of the plant.

And they say these very same things also concerning the fig-trees.

Whence some plant wild fig-trees beside the cultivated ones;

while others, binding on the wild figs, heal the weakness of the fruitful and cultivated fig-trees, checking with the wild figs the fruit that was already running off and being scattered.

What does this riddle from nature mean for you? That we must often take on a certain vigor, even from those alien to the faith, for the display of good works.

For if you see one living in a heathen manner, or one cut off from the Church by some perverse heresy, yet taking care for a temperate life and for the rest of good order in his conduct, intensify your own zeal beyond his, that you may become like the fruitful fig-tree, which gathers strength from the presence of the wild ones, and, checking the running-off, more carefully nourishes its fruit.

Such, then, are the differences concerning the manner of their generation—to say very little out of very much.

But of the fruits themselves, who could go through their variety—the shapes, the colors, the peculiarity of the juices, the usefulness derived from each? How some are ripened bare by the sun, while others are brought to fullness shrouded in husks? And of those whose fruit is tender, the leaf is a thick covering, as in the case of the fig; while of those whose fruits are more weatherproof, the projection of the leaves is slight, as in the case of the walnut? Because the former, by reason of weakness, needed more protection, while for the latter the thicker covering would have been harmful from the shade cast by it.

How is the leaf of the vine slit, so that both the cluster may hold out against the harms from the air, and may abundantly receive the ray of the sun through its openness? Nothing is without cause;

all things have a certain ineffable wisdom.

What discourse could attain it? How could the human mind go through all things with precision, so as both to discern the peculiarities, and clearly to distinguish the differences with respect to each, and without deficiency to set forth the hidden causes? One water, drawn up through the root, nourishes the root itself in one way, the bark of the stem in another, the wood in yet another, and the pith differently again.

The same thing becomes a leaf, and is divided into twigs and branches, and gives growth to the fruits, and the tree's tear-gum and sap come forth from the same cause;

how great the difference is among these in relation to one another, no discourse could reach.

For different is the tear-gum of the mastic, and different the sap of the balsam;

and certain giant-fennels in Egypt and Libya weep forth yet another kind of sap.

There is also an account that amber is the sap of trees, congealed into the nature of stone.

Witness to this account are the bits of straw and the tiniest of creatures that appear within it, which, while the sap was still soft, were caught and held fast inside.

And in general, whoever has not been taught by experience the difference in the qualities of saps will find no rational account that explains their operation.

Again, how is it that from the same moisture wine is formed in the vine, but oil in the olive? And the marvel is not only that here the liquid is made sweet, there it becomes oily, but that even among sweet fruits the variation of quality is beyond telling.

For the sweetness in the vine is one thing, that in the apple another, and another again in the fig and the date.

I wish you to apply your skill further to this inquiry: how the same water is now smooth to the taste, when, having entered into certain plants, it is made sweet;

but now it strikes the taste sharply, when, borne through other plants, it turns sour.

And again, changing into the extreme of bitterness, it roughens the sense, when it comes to be in wormwood or scammony.

In acorns, or in the fruit of the cornel tree, it changes toward an astringent and harsh quality;

but in the terebinths and the walnuts it passes over to a soft and oily nature.

And why speak of things far apart, when on the very same fig tree it passes into the most opposite qualities? For it is most bitter in the sap, yet most sweet in the fruit itself.

And in the vine it is most astringent in the tendrils, yet most delightful in the clusters.

And the differences in colours—how many they are! In a meadow you may see the same water reddened in this flower, purple in another, blue in this one, and white in yet another;

and, more abundant still than the variety in colours, it furnishes the difference among scents.

But indeed I see my discourse, in its insatiable longing for contemplation, falling into excess; and unless I bind it by necessity and lead it away from the creation, the day will fail me as I set before you the great wisdom drawn from the very smallest things.

"Let the earth bring forth the fruitful tree, yielding fruit upon the earth."

And at once the summits of the mountains were covered with foliage;

gardens were skilfully laid out, and the banks of rivers were beautified with countless kinds of plants.

Some plants were made ready to adorn the human table;

others prepared food for the grazing herds, from their leaves, from their fruits.

Others procured for us the benefits that come from medicine;

the juices, the saps, the bits of fibre, the barks, the fruit;

and in a word, all that long experience has discovered useful for us, gathering up the profitable from individual encounters—all this the keen providence of the Creator, foreseeing it from the beginning, brought into being.

But you, when you see the cultivated and the wild, the water-loving and the land-dwelling, the flower-bearing or the flowerless, recognizing the Great One in the small, ever add to your wonder, and increase in me your love for the Creator.

Examine how He made some plants evergreen, others stripped bare;

and of the evergreens, some shedding their leaves, others ever-leaved.

For both the olive and the pine do shed their leaves, though they exchange them imperceptibly, so that they never seem to be stripped bare of their foliage.

But the date palm is ever-leaved, keeping the same leaf from its first sprouting to the end.

Then consider this too: how the tamarisk is, as it were, amphibious, both reckoned among the water-loving plants and multiplying throughout the deserts.