自傳詩 第 1 章 第 2/3 段

By which everything is shaken together and convulsed — as if the Church were otherwise running so smoothly!

How could ever a ship or a city, how could an army or the full company of a chorus, how could a beloved household ever stand firm, having the harmful element prevail over the ruling one? This, then, was what the people of Christ suffered at that time.

For before it was made firm and had gained confidence, before it was freed from its infant swaddling-bands, not yet having planted its footing securely, the noble offspring was struck, cast down, torn apart before its parents' eyes — by wolves hungering to make me childless.

For it was not to be borne that a man most poor, shriveled, stooped and shabbily clad, wasted by the bridle of the belly [fasting], by tears, and by fear of what was to come — as well as by others' misfortunes — a man not even comely in countenance, a stranger, a wanderer, hidden in the earth's obscurity, should carry more weight than those strong and fair.

For this, more or less, is what was heard from them:

'We honor sees/thrones; you honor reverence.'

'Seasoned delicacies please us, but plainness suits you; and while we savor the salt of proud luxury, you spit out its briny taste.'

'We are slaves to the times and to the desires of the people, always letting the boat go with the blowing wind, and, like chameleons and octopuses, always putting many colors on our words.'

'But to us you are an anvil that cannot be hammered out — of that pride —'

'as though, faith being ever one, you narrow the doctrine of truth exceedingly, always walking the awkward path of reasoning.'

'And where, best of men, do you get the ability, with a glib tongue, to draw the people, and to strike accurately those of ill mind wandering in manifold error — being a double sort of man to friends and to strangers, a magnet-stone to the one, a sling to the other? If these things are no evils — as indeed they are not — why do you take offense as though suffering something monstrous? But if they are evils, and this appears so to you alone, judge rightly, as God's advocate, to tear at me who have erred, but leave the people be, who have done no wrong except loving me and being won over by my teachings.'

At first, indeed, I was still able to bear it.

For even if the novelty startled me a little — like some sudden noise falling suddenly on the ears, or, to those unaccustomed, the swiftness of a lightning-flash — still I remained unshaken, having strength to bear it all.

And the hope that my circumstances would be free [of trouble], that the same suffering would not befall me again, persuaded me to bear the calamity more easily.

But the evils that came upon me again from these — oh, how could I ever express my sufferings? O purveyor of evils, envious demon, how did you have the strength to accomplish so great an evil? Not blood, nor frogs, nor a cloud of gnats, nor the dog-fly, nor any destruction of cattle, not boils, not hail, not locusts, not darkness, not the death of the firstborn — last of evils — bent me low (for these were the plagues cried out against the savage Egyptians).

{And besides, the wave of the Red Sea that overwhelmed the host.} But what pushed me down? The fickleness of Egyptians.

But how it pushed me down is worth telling:

for this would become an eternal monument to these evils.

There was once in that city a certain effeminate man, an Egyptian apparition, a rabid evil, a dog, a mongrel cur, a lackey of the street-corners, a sprat, a voiceless calamity, a monstrous sea-beast — fair-haired yet dark-haired, curly yet straight of hair: some features old, others but newly devised.

For artifice is a second creator.

The chief occupation of women — or indeed of men [like him] — is, all golden, to curl the 'philosophic' lock of hair.

Let the wise wear the cosmetics of women upon their faces!

For why should women alone be wise in unseemly and base comeliness — which is a manifesto, even in its silence, of one's character — as though men had no 'Maximuses' of their own? The shearing revealed this, hidden until then.

Such are the marvels we now have from today's 'wise men': to be double in nature, and, most wretchedly, to divide one's very form between both sexes — hair for women, [yet also] the staff for men.

He used to boast, as if he were something to the city, always shading his shoulders with his beloved flowing curls, dispatching his 'wisdom' with locks that swung like a sling, carrying his whole education in his very body.

This man, as we hear, having traveled many wicked roads — but let others concern themselves with which ones, for I have no leisure to search out everything —

yet however many the records of the magistrates attest — in the end he settled down in this city.

For he had none of his accustomed livelihood.

Seeing sharply and smelling out shrewdly — for let even a bitterly-contrived scheme be called shrewd — namely, to cast us out of our see, us who neither possessed it [for gain] nor were honored at all in it, save for the guarding and perfecting of the people —

and more cleverly still — for it is not through strangers, but from our own people, that he weaves this whole drama — as a sophist and contriver of evils [directed] against men unaccustomed to such things and utter strangers to intrigue, men who were used to honoring a different kind of skill —

the skill of saying something wise and being admired while speaking, and of drawing out the very heart of the divine Scriptures.

I wish to say something strange amid these evils:

it was needful that all men be of the same character — either all alike inexperienced in evil, or all alike versatile [in cunning].

For then some would suffer less harm from others, whether their characters stood opposed to one another or were alike.

But as it is, the better sort are prey to the wicked.

What is this vast confusion in our making? How very unevenly we have been yoked together by God!

Who will ever see the wickedest of men among the moderate/upright as he deceives, plots, contrives, always stealing himself away with countless twists and turns? For that which is quick to move toward wickedness watches everything and sees what is opportune;

but that which is disposed toward virtue is by nature slow and sluggish in suspecting the worse [in others].

Thus is goodness so easily ensnared.

How does he accomplish this — and observe — in how many varied ways!

You will see in him another Egyptian Proteus.

He becomes one of the well-disposed, and of those exceedingly faithful [to me].

Who was ever so much a partner of my roof, my table, my doctrines, my counsels, as Maximus was to me? No wonder —

a dog, barking, forsooth, at those of evil mind, and an eager praiser of my words.

Along with all this, having also caught, from [his time at] the [bishop's] chair, a certain sickness — a remnant of his first disease, and this was unceasing envy, an inbred evil (for wickedness is not easily bent) — judging these matters unevenly, in his own favor, employing two collaborators in his bitterness, the first and the second, both man-slayers, he at last, with difficulty, hatched forth the brood of the asp.

How shall I lament this? Darkness out of a bright, clear sky! And this fabricated evil came upon us from far away — a cloud out of Egypt.

Spies first [came] — such as the noble one [Moses] once sent forth to the chosen land of Israel.

Except not the wise Joshua nor Caleb, but rather whatever insolence there was among young and old — Ammon, Apammon, Harpocras, Stippas, Rhodon, Anubis, Hermanubis, gods of Egypt, ape-shaped and dog-like demons, wretched, rascally little sailors, utterly corrupt, cheap men who, for a small coin, would most readily have offered up many gods — if only there had been more of them.

Then, a little later, [came] those who had sent them — generals worthy of the phalanx, or, to say something more fitting for dogs, their shepherds/handlers.

For I will say no more — though I writhe within with many unspoken words, like some bound wineskin seething with new wine, or a smith's bellows full of breath — out of respect for him who sent them, light-minded though he was, and for those men themselves, who perhaps deserved some forgiveness, having been dragged along from rustic simplicity, moved wherever the wicked might carry them — men whom envy fashioned for us here.

Wise men, tell me the answer to this riddle — for it is not at all clear to me, unless some wise man could explain it —

how is it that Peter himself, the arbiter of the shepherds, formerly established me [in office] by letters so plainly free of duplicity — as the very letters addressed to us will prove — and honored [me] with tokens of my installation, yet now has sent us a deer instead of a virgin? These things are not at all evident; they require an interpreter.

...of those wickedly schooled in life? Will something even more absurd be seen? One drinking-companion said that wine prevails over all; another said woman; but the wise one said truth.

But I would say: it is gold that holds the power,

by it all things are easily maneuvered, like pieces on a board.

It would not yet be so terrible, if only the things of the world prevailed among us more than the Spirit.

But whence the dog got his gold must be asked.

A certain presbyter had come here from Thasos, bringing gold from the church there, with which to buy slabs of Proconnesian marble; this man he fawned upon and won as accomplice, and having bound the wretch with many hopes — for evil men most quickly join with evil men — he had the gold as servant for everything, a faithful co-worker, a genuine partner in trade.

For indeed those very ones who once revered me — my dearest friends — now despise me as useless, a friend without gold, and readily incline to the worse, like the swing of a scale-beam.

But they, like wolves suddenly appearing as thieves within the fold, having many hired men from the fleet — men by whom Alexandria is most readily set aflame, for clearly they riot along with the fleet — were eager to shear the dog into the see, before making it known at all to the people, before making it known to the church's own leaders, before making it known even to us ourselves — as if to dogs, at any rate.

So they say, having been ordered to do this too.

Thus does Alexandria honor labors!

So might some other, kindly disposed, judge your case!

But the clergy — for indeed they dwelt nearby — were set aflame, and most swiftly one gave the report to another.

Then a very bright flame arose.

Oh, how many officials, how many strangers and bastards streamed together!

For there was no one who was not driven mad then, seeing such wages for his labors.

Why do I dwell on this at length? At once they depart from us in anger, grieved at missing their aim.

But so that they might not be evil in vain, they fulfill the remaining task in a tent.

For having been led into the wretched dwelling of a flute-player, these solemn ones, dear to god, having as their "people" some of the castoff dogs, they fashion the most wicked shepherd — shearing him, not binding him, nor by force.

for he was a dog only too willing for advancement.

The shearing came upon his Euphorbus-like curls, effortlessly loosing the great toil of many hands, having given him only this much: to strip bare the mystery of the hairs — of hairs in which lay all his strength, just as they say of Samson the judge once, whom his shorn hair betrayed — of hairs, an untimely, wind-ravaged harvest, which a woman cut for the sake of enemies.

Though declared a shepherd from among dogs, from a shepherd he has again turned out to be a dog.

A destitute dog, having neither the beauty of his hair any longer, nor tending a flock, but again running after bones from the meat-market.

So what will you do about your fine hair? Will you labor to grow it out again? Or will you remain such a laughingstock? For both are shameful, and there is nothing whatever to be found between the two — except the noose.

Where then will you put my hair, tell me, and where will you send it? To the stages of theaters, tell me, or to maidens? And to which of these, in turn? To your Corinthian women, with whom once you practiced divine things alone, communing most wisely with them alone? In return for which I shall rather set you as the Dog of heaven.

So at once the city was so grieved by the evils that had then occurred, that everyone gnashed their teeth.

And everyone poured out harsh words, accusations against his conduct, wrath giving voice to what the mind had been forging.

Each contributed his share, one thing from one, another from another, toward the complete harmony, from every side, of a single tale of wickedness.

For just as in the body the small afflictions rise up together with the great illnesses, even if till then they happened to lie quiet through its strength, so this final uprising exposed to public shame all his former evils.

But these things would never come forth from me.

But out of shame I bite back what I might say of the past, though I have been wronged.

What then? Did you not, just yesterday, hold this man among your friends and deem him worthy of the greatest praises? So someone might quickly answer, one of those who know these things and who blame that former facility of mine, by which I honored even the worse of dogs.

My ignorance was one deserving of hatred.

I was deceived, like Adam, by an evil taste.

The bitter tree was beautiful to look upon.

The outward appearance deceived me — a faith and words seen genuine only so far as the face.

too easily persuaded, readily inclined toward piety, whether real or only apparent — oh, what a well-meaning failing!

For what each one wishes, that he believes.

What ought I to have done? Tell me, O wisest ones.

And what else does any of you think he might have done, when the church was then still so straitened that one had even to gather stubble? For the narrow circumstance does not grant as much scope as a season full of abundance grants.

It was the greatest thing to me that even a dog trod my courtyard, revering Christ instead of Heracles.

I took his flight amid most shameful circumstances as a pledge of faith, believing that he was suffering for God's sake.

He was a scoundrel deserving the lash, but to me a victor.

If this is terrible, I know I have often, many times, erred in such ways.

Will you then forgive me, gentlemen judges, for my noble error? He was most wicked, but I honored him as good.

Shall I say something even bolder still? Behold, I put forth my ill-timed, talkative tongue.

let whoever wishes cut it out, without mercy.

Why has it not been cut? Or does it indeed seem so to you — this tongue that has long been silent and will be silent still more, perhaps paying the penalty for its ill-timedness, so that it may learn not to be pleasing to everyone? And that too, what a thing:

Truly, wickedness is without reason.

For what else could he ever do, whom kindness itself did not make gentle? And as for him for whom honor itself becomes reproach, what will you say his character is? A great evil, surely? If these things are trustworthy, seek no further;

but if they are not true, do not accept the former things either.

What could be harder to contend against than this? Thus, on the one hand, an evil man was driven out from here in disgrace; but to speak the truth more exactly, an evil man was driven out rightly.

But when the eastern emperor, bringing harm to the tribes of the barbarians, held Thessalonica as his base of operations, what does the all-wicked dog contrive at that time? Watch with me again:

having taken up the motley rabble of Egypt — I mean those who had shorn him so improperly — as though to fix the see for himself by imperial decree, he runs to the camp.

And from there again, cast out like a dog with much wrath and dreadful oaths — for as yet no one's ears had been ill-disposed against us, but they were still sound — he slinks off ruined once more to Alexandria, doing this rightly, and this alone wisely.

For he fastens himself upon Peter — whose pen was once cloven in two, writing all things readily as their opposites — with a hired band of vagrants, and harasses the old man, either demanding the see he had hoped for, or declaring he would not relinquish the one he presently held — until the prefect, fearing, as was natural, that the kindled flame might be added to the old calamities, sends him away.

And now he seems to be quiet, but I fear lest somewhere the terrible cloud, pregnant with hail, driven together by a violent wind, may pour out its hail upon those who do not expect it.

For wickedness will never think anything peaceable, even if restrained for the moment.

Such is the "philosophy" the dogs of today practise — barking dogs, this and this alone are they dogs.

O Socrates, up to now you still bear away the prize.

Shall I utter something more trustworthy than the Pythia? "Of all men, Maximus is wisest." But I — if any mortal ever was — was long-suffering from the beginning, and am more so now: through toils on land, through perils at sea, from which I was saved — and great thanks are owed even to my fears.

These trials have clearly delivered me up to the things above, having risen above all who go astray.

Nevertheless, not bearing the disgrace of that time, and having gladly seized the occasion, when I perceived that the most wicked one had been shorn — while all our friends pressed upon me, who even kept me within a secret guard, watching my comings, goings, movements, and while all watched the struggle of our enemies, who thought the cutting to be the dissolution of my case — seeing these things, then, and not enduring to bear them, I did something of a rather too-simple man, I will not deny it, rather than of a wiser one.

For at once, as they say, I put about — though not in a way easily grasped.

Now some parting speech broke forth, which I sent out with a father's inward anguish.

At once, as if from smoke, a violent swarm of bees arose, and was maddened with cries.

Men, women, maidens, youths, children, old men, nobles, commoners, magistrates, quiet folk, some from the army — each one seething equally with anger and longing, with anger against the enemies and longing for the shepherd.

But it was not mine to bend the knee to violence, nor to embrace the unlawful installation — I who did not even gladly bear the lawful one.

They turn their longing to this other path instead.

Employing many oaths and entreaties, they demanded that I at least remain and help, and not abandon the flock to the wolves.

How could I hold back my tears? Anastasia — you whose very name is "Resurrection" — most honored of shrines, who raised up faith that lay prostrate on the ground; ark of Noah, you who alone escaped the flood that overwhelmed the world, bearing in your seed a second world, the orthodox one — to you a vast people streams from every side, as though the gravest of dangers stood before us: whether the victory should be ours, or that of their longing.

But I, voiceless, filled with darkness in the midst of it, having neither the power to still their cries, nor to promise anything of what was asked.

For the one thing could not be, and fear lay beneath the other.

Thirst pressed hard upon them, yet their bodies were drenched with sweat.

Voices failed; the women were seized with fear, and there was the wailing of the children of those who were most truly mothers; and the day was declining.

Each one swore that he would not relax his toil before either being nobly entombed within the temple itself, or bringing out some word of those he longed for.

Such a thing was one man forced by anguish to utter — alas for the ear that was not stopped up at once that moment!

"For you will cast out the Trinity along with yourself," he said to me — until, fearing lest some danger should arise, he pressed for an oath; yet not even so did I swear — for indeed I am one who takes no oaths, that I too might boast a little in God, from the gift of the Spirit by which I have been washed — but I gave my word, made trustworthy by my character, that I would remain, until some of the watchmen should appear (for indeed they were then expected), hoping then to free myself from cares not my own.

So we parted from one another with difficulty, both of us conquering by the mere shadow of hope.

For they supposed, as it were, that they still possessed me, while I thought I would remain but a little while longer.

And once more the divine word flashed forth, when the stricken part of the people was very swiftly massed together, like a palisade or a phalanx, through speed of generalship and multitude of hands.

For those who before were bound captives to their doctrines, having only this — to stand united together — when they saw what they were suffering, loved the truth all the more.

For some were drawn by the Trinity now being proclaimed — having journeyed far away from that teaching for a long time (I hesitate to say, as though long entombed) — the ancestral preaching, become as it were a new convert.

For it once was, then it ceased, then it came again, confirming the resurrection from the tombs.

To some it was, perhaps, but a report of my own words; others ran to me as to a steadfast athlete; others gladly claimed it as their own achievement.

Some say, "Learn these things from those who know them well"; others, "Relate them fully to those who do not know" — if indeed any of you are so far off, or beyond the dominion the Italians now hold — so that this too may be told to those who come after, as one more of the new evils of life, of which the vain procession of days brings ever more, weaving the worse together with the better.

I do not yet speak of the people upright in faith, the noble offspring of my travail, of whom it may be said that, though none like-minded had yet appeared, they hastened to the one at hand, as the parched to waters newly sprung, making the word their help against famine, or as those deep in darkness to a small light.

And what could one say of those strangers to the faith, remembering how they rejoiced in the word? Very many indeed are the by-paths leading astray from the unerring and ordered way, all bearing down to the depths of perdition, into which the Destroyer has divided the image of God, that thereby he might gain some secret entrance, cleaving opinions — not the tongue, as God did of old.

From this arise the diseases of doctrines.

those who know nothing divine but mere flux, by which all this universe came to be and is carried along.

those who introduce a multitude of gods instead of one, and have fallen prostrate before their own fabrications.

those who deny providence to the things below, and ascribe everything to the interweavings of the stars.

and as many as, being God's chosen people, crucified the Son in honor of the Father.

and denied both the Spirit and the resurrection, and those who deny the writings of the prophets.

and as many as worship Christ still in the shadows of the Law.

those who honor Bythos the Deep and Sige the Silence as pre-temporal natures, and the male-female Aeons — the venom of Simon Magus — whose offshoots are those who compose the Godhead out of numerical letters.

those who allotted the Old and the New Testaments to two gods, one harsh and one most good.

those who posit three immovable natures: that of the spirit, that of matter, and that midway between the two.

those who delight in the primal darkness of Mani.

those who wrongly honor the spirit of Montanus.

those who honor the empty pride of Novatus's brow.

those who compress together the undivided Trinity, those who divide the uncut nature.

And again of these, as if many necks of impiety had grown from a single hydra — the one who ranks the Spirit alone with creation, and the one who also adds the Son to the Spirit.

and those who introduce a god who is a mere contemporary of Caesar.

those who monstrously introduce the doctrine of mere semblance.

those who call the one below a second son.

those who hold that the one who was saved was not complete, but without mind.

For these are, to speak in outline, the cuttings of orthodoxy, and mothers of monstrosities.

Of these, who then was so unmoved as not to incline his ear to my words? For some were captured by the force of the doctrines, others were tamed by the manner of the speech.

For it was not with hatred, nor more with reviling than with solicitous care, that I brought forth my words — grieving, not striking, nor puffed up by the fleeting and errant occasion as some are (for what fellowship is there between reason and force?), nor making boldness a screen for irrationality (for this is a terribly cunning and cuttlefish-like thing, to vomit blackness from the depths, so as to escape refutation by the murk) — but meeting my hearers gently and fittingly with words, as advocates of a reason that is compassionate and mild and strikes no one.

Whence even to be worsted is still a reasoned thing, and to prevail is far more honorable, winning souls for God through a persuasion mighty in its own power.

Such things were inscribed upon my tablets.

This is another law of my upbringing, wisely and well written.

not to know only one way of piety — the easy and wicked glibness of tongue — nor, laughing together in theaters and marketplaces and at drinking-parties, made loose and giddy by songs, before the tongue has even been washed clean of shameful words, nor to cast the mystic words recklessly before profane ears and those strange to Christ, playing with the very things that are hunted down only through toil.

but rather to be pious, above all, by the commandments — feeding the poor, entertaining strangers, tending to the sick, enduring hardship — and by psalm-singing, prayers, groanings, tears, sleeping on the bare ground, subduing the belly, restraining the senses, and by the good order of anger, laughter, and lips, lulling the flesh to sleep through the strength of the spirit.

For many are the paths of salvation, all leading toward communion with God.

which you must travel — not the way of speech alone.

For speech suffices even for bare faith alone, with which, quite simply, God saves the greater part of mankind.

But if faith fell to the wise alone, nothing would be poorer among us than God.

But if you are one fond of speech, or full of zeal, and it seems terrible to you should speech not flow freely for you (for even here I make a human allowance for you)—

then speak — but in fear, and not at all times; not everything, nor to everyone, nor everywhere, but to some, and how much, and where, and when is fitting.

For there is a season for every matter, as you have heard it said.

and "measure is best" — the word of one among the wise.

Separate are the boundary-marks of the Mysians and the Phrygians; separate are the concerns of those outside and of my own discourses.

For the words of the former are for display, amid gatherings of young lads and fictions, in which it matters little whether one fails or succeeds — mere shadow, for they are nothing stronger than a shadow.

But for us — since our aim is to speak the truth — it is a matter fraught with dread whether the matter stands so or not.

For it is a road with precipices on either side, and to fall outside it is manifestly to fall into the gates of Hades.

Wherefore one must guard one's words above all — speaking some things wisely, and hearing others wisely, and there are times when one must withdraw from both equally, using fear as a just measuring-line.

For the ear brings less danger than the tongue.

and less than even hearing is to flee altogether from the midst.

Having thus been taught by the oracles of Scripture, on which we were nourished before our mind had come to maturity, and thus guiding both citizens and strangers, I was already counted among the wealthy farmers, even though my harvest was not to be gathered all at once.

For some I was just then clearing of thorns.

others were being leveled; in others the seed was being cast; others were still in the milk, others' growth had only just risen above the ground; others were turning green, others were being bound into sheaves, others were ripening, and others stood white, ready for harvest.

a threshing-floor held some, and a friendly stack held others.

others were being winnowed, others were within the granaries, and others had already become bread — the end of the whole labor of farming — bread that now does not feed the farmer who toiled for it, but feeds those who poured out none of that labor's sweat.

I wished to halt my discourse here, and say nothing of what is unworthy of mention.

But now what lies ahead in these events does not permit me to stop.

Of these things, some turned out favorably, but others I do not know how I ought to speak of, or to what lot I should assign them.

While we stood in this condition, an emperor suddenly set upon us, having raised up out of Macedonia a cloud of barbarians, whetted keen by their great numbers and boldness.

A man not evil, as regards faith in God, so far as to hold sway over the simpler natures, and marvelously overcome by the Trinity — for this is, indeed, the reckoning of the inmost heart and of all things, when they stand securely fixed upon a firm foundation.

Yet not so great in the fervor of his spirit as to make the present equal to what had gone before, healing the failures of that season by good timing.

Or was he equal in fervor, yet not equal — what shall I call it? — in courage, or in rashness? Teach me!

But perhaps it is better to call it forethought.

For I deemed it lawful not to compel but to persuade, and this more to our advantage, and to that of those whom we shall bring to God — for that which is unwilling, mastered by force, like an arrow bound by bowstring and hands, or a stream constricted on every side in its channel, when opportunity offers, scorns the force that held it;

but that which is voluntary remains firm for all time, bound tight by the unbreakable bonds of longing. Pondering this, it seemed best to me, restraining fear for a time, to draw all men gently, setting up 'willingness' as the unwritten law of persuasion.

So when he came, himself rejoicing, to a people thrice-rejoicing — with what honors he honored me at our first meeting, with what he said and what he heard, both most graciously — what need is there for me to tell? For indeed it would be shameful, if, being such as I am, I should seem to take pride in such things — I, for whom this alone is precious: God.

'God gives,' he said, 'the church through us to you and to your labors' — a saying unbelievable before it came to its fulfillment.

For thus the city stood fast in violence — so great and terrible was the ferment — that even if something untoward should occur, they would not yield, but would hold fast to what they controlled;

but if they were forced out, they would still unleash their heavy wrath upon us, over whom it was easiest to prevail.

As for me, a throbbing of pleasure mingled with trembling held me.

O my Christ, who by what you have suffered call us to suffering, you were then the judge of my labors; be now for me a comforter in my troubles.

But a sword-bearing army held the church, secretly stationed in battle order.

And the whole populace surged forth against them, like the sand of the seas, or falling snow, or the heaving movements of waves, mingling wrath and entreaty — wrath against us, but entreaty toward the imperial power.

Full were the marketplaces, the streets, the broad avenues, every place, and the two-storied and three-storied buildings, with men, women, infants, and the very aged leaning down to look.

Toil, groaning, tears, roaring — the image of a city taken by storm.

But I, the valiant one, the general — and this while sick and enfeebled, this flesh of mine scarcely breathing — caught between commander and army, looking upward, went on with hope as my helper, until, I know not how, I found myself standing in the church.

For to many it seemed to be, of all that happened then, a thing beyond words — to those for whom nothing seen is ever simple, especially at the greatest turning points of the times.

But I cannot disbelieve those who say it, although, if anyone is averse to strange things, it is I.

For worse than readily wishing to believe everything is to resist all things equally.

For the one is levity, the other is rashness.

O my book, proclaim it to life, so that so great a grace may not escape the notice of those who come after.

A thing befitting that time.

For nothing loves the open air as a festive assembly does.

This gave pleasure to our enemies, as though God were displeased with what was being done, but to us hidden grief in our hearts.