論童貞 第 1 章 第 1/5 段

Of Gregory, Bishop of Nyssa, On Virginity: a letter setting forth the following twenty-three chapters, which are an exhortation to the life according to virtue.

The aim of this discourse is to instill in its readers a desire for the life according to virtue;

but since, as the divine apostle called them, many distractions are inherent in the common life, the discourse necessarily proposes the life of virginity as a kind of door and entrance to the more dignified conduct, inasmuch as it is not easy for those entangled in the commonality of life to philosophize in tranquility toward the more divine life, whereas for those who have altogether renounced the tumultuous life there is great facility to attend to the loftier pursuits without distraction.

And since counsel by itself is somewhat sluggish for persuading, and one could not easily lead anyone by mere exhortation toward something beneficial unless he first extolled that toward which he urges the hearer, for this reason the discourse, beginning from the praises of virginity, thus concludes in counsel.

Moreover, since the good in each thing is made manifest also through the comparison of its opposites, mention has necessarily been made likewise of the hardships of the more common life.

Then, in due method, a certain outline of the philosophic life was introduced, and it was established that one occupied with worldly cares cannot attain to it.

And since bodily desire lies dormant in those who have renounced the world, it was consequently inquired what is the truly desirable object, for the sake of which we have also received the faculty from the creator of our nature.

And when this had been disclosed as far as was possible, it seemed fitting, consequently, also to devise some method toward the attainment of this good.

Accordingly, true virginity, which is pure from every defilement arising from sins, was found to be aptly suited to such a purpose, so that the whole intervening discourse, even though it may seem to look toward certain other matters, converges toward the praise of virginity.

As for the particular precepts of such a life, as many as have been devised for those who pursue this dignity with precision, the discourse, avoiding excess, has passed over them, and by advancing the exhortation universally through the more general precepts, has in a manner comprised within it the particulars, so as neither to overlook anything necessary nor to fall into excess.

And since it is customary for all to take up any pursuit more readily if they see certain persons who have already excelled in it, we have also necessarily made mention of the saints who have shone forth in the unmarried state.

And since the examples found in narratives are not so powerful toward the accomplishment of virtue as the living voice and the examples of good deeds actually in operation, we have necessarily, toward the end of the discourse, made mention of our most devout bishop and father, as the one alone capable of teaching such things effectively.

...not commanding this, but looking only to this — of what character it behooves the guide of such a life to be — let them choose for themselves as guides those who are ever raised up by the grace of God for the leadership of the commonwealth according to virtue;

for they will either find the one they seek, or they will not fail to know what sort of person he ought to be.

The sequence of thoughts is as follows:

That virginity is greater than any praise.

That virginity is a special achievement of the divine and incorporeal nature.

Mention of the hardships arising from marriage, and a demonstration that the writer of this discourse is not unmarried.

That all the disorders in life have their origin from marriage;

in which is also shown what sort of person the one who has truly renounced life is.

That the dispassion of the soul must precede bodily purity.

That Elijah and John took care for the exactness of this life.

That marriage, too, is not among the things condemned.

That it is difficult for the one whose soul is divided among many things to attain the goal.

That habit, in every case, is hard to change.

What is the truly desirable object? [Chapter] 11.

How might one come to a full apprehension of that which is truly good? [Chapter] 12.

That he who has purified himself will behold the divine beauty within himself;

in which also concerning the cause of evil.

That the beginning of care for oneself is release from marriage.

That virginity is greater than the dominion of death.

That true virginity is contemplated in every pursuit.

That to fall outside virtue in any manner whatsoever carries equal danger.

That whoever falls short even in one point pertaining to virtue is imperfect with respect to the good.

That all the faculties of the soul must look toward virtue.

Mention of Miriam, the sister of Aaron, as the one who first began this achievement.

That it is impossible at once to be enslaved to bodily pleasures and to reap the joy that is according to God.

That whoever has chosen to live with exactness must stand estranged from every kind of bodily pleasure.

That one must not practice self-control beyond what is fitting, and that both excessive corpulence of body and immoderate self-affliction are alike opposed to the soul's perfection.

That whoever wishes to learn the exactness of this life must be taught by one who has already achieved it.

Chapter 1. That virginity is greater than any praise.

The dignified form of virginity, which is honored by all who judge the good to consist in purity, comes to be present only in those with whom the grace of God graciously cooperates toward this good desire.

Of itself, it already has fitting praise from the appellation which is jointly named with it;

for 'incorrupt,' which by common usage is said of virginity, signifies the purity present in it, so that through this equivalent name one can recognize the surpassing worth of this honored grace, seeing that, although many things are accomplished according to virtue, this alone has been honored with the designation of the incorruptible;

but if it is indeed necessary to extol also with encomia this great gift of God, it suffices for its praise that the divine apostle, in a few words, has outdone every excess of praise, in that he called her who is adorned by this grace 'holy and blameless';

as having partaken of her pure mysteries, so that they might become sharers of the glory of him who alone is truly holy and blameless — God — being made akin to him through purity and incorruption. But as many as strain out long praises in prolix discourses, thinking thereby to add something to the wonder of virginity, unwittingly — in my judgment at least — oppose their own purpose, and by the very means through which they exalt it to greatness, render the praise itself suspect through their encomia.

For whatever possesses greatness by nature carries its wonder with it from its own resources, needing no advocacy from words — as, for instance, the heaven, or the sun, or any other of the world's wonders; but for the more lowly of pursuits, discourse, becoming as it were a pedestal, adds through the elaboration of praises a certain semblance of greatness;

whence often the wonder constructed out of encomia comes to be suspected by people as something artfully contrived.

But the only praise sufficient for virginity is to declare that this virtue is greater than all praises, and to admire its purity through life rather than through discourse.

He who, out of ambition, makes this the subject of his encomia seems to suppose that the drop of his own sweat will be a worthy addition to the boundless sea, if indeed he has come to believe that it is possible for human speech to extol so great a grace;

for either he is ignorant of his own capacity, or he does not understand what it is he praises.

Chapter 2. That virginity is a special achievement of the divine and incorporeal nature.

For we have need of much understanding, by which we may come to know the surpassing greatness of this grace, which is conceived together with the incorruptible Father;

which is indeed paradoxical — that virginity should be found in a Father who both has a Son and has begotten him without passion.

And it is likewise comprehended together with the only-begotten God, the dispenser of incorruption, having shone forth together with the purity and passionlessness of his begetting;

and again, equally paradoxical, is the Son who is conceived through virginity.

It is likewise also contemplated in the natural and incorruptible purity of the Holy Spirit;

for in naming him 'pure and incorruptible,' you have signified virginity by another name.

And it lives as a fellow-citizen with the whole supramundane nature, being present, through dispassion, with the transcendent powers, neither separated from anything divine nor touching anything of the contrary order;

for everything that, whether by nature or by choice, has inclined toward virtue is altogether beautified by the purity of incorruption, and everything that has been sorted into the opposite order is, by its falling away from purity, of that character and so named.

What power of words, then, will suffice to be made equal to so great a grace? Or how ought one not to fear lest, through eagerness for praise, one might do harm to the greatness of its dignity, producing in the hearers a lesser opinion of it than they had previously held? It is therefore well to leave encomiastic discourses concerning it aside, since it is impossible for speech to rise together with the excesses of the subject; but rather, so far as is possible, always to be mindful of this divine gift and to have the good ever on one's tongue — a good which is, indeed, the special and preeminent property of the incorporeal nature, but which, through God's love for humankind, has been graciously given also to those whose life is allotted through flesh and blood, in order that human nature, cast down by its passionate disposition, might, through the offering of a share in purity — as it were a hand held out — be set upright again and be led by the hand to look toward the things above.

...that our Lord Jesus Christ himself, the fountain of incorruption, did not enter into the world through marriage, in order that he might demonstrate, through the manner of his incarnation, this great mystery: that only purity is sufficient to receive the presence and entrance of God — a purity which cannot otherwise be brought to perfect exactness unless one wholly estranges oneself from the passions of the flesh.

For that which occurred bodily in the undefiled Mary, when the fullness of the Godhead shone forth in Christ through virginity, this also comes to pass in every soul that lives virginally according to reason, though the Lord no longer makes his presence bodily;

'For we no longer know Christ according to the flesh,' as he says, but he dwells spiritually, taking up his abode within, and bringing the Father in together with himself, even as the Gospel somewhere says.

Since, then, the power of virginity is so great as to abide in the heavens with the Father of spirits, and to dance together with the transcendent powers, and to lay hold of human salvation — bringing God down, through herself, into communion with human life, and giving wings, within herself, to man toward the desire of heavenly things, and becoming, as it were, a certain bond of kinship between humanity and God, leading into harmony things so far distant from one another in nature by her own mediation — what power of words could ever be found capable of rising together with this wonder? But since it is altogether absurd to appear like the voiceless or the senseless — either of these two alternatives: either to seem not to have recognized the beauties of virginity, or to be shown unaffected and unmoved with respect to the perception of what is beautiful — we have been eager to say a few things concerning it, because of the need to obey in all things the authority of him who has enjoined this task upon us.

But let no one seek from us more pompous words;

for such a thing is perhaps not even possible for us, even were we willing, being unpracticed in such diction;

but even if the ability for grandiloquence were present, we would not have preferred to gain approval among the few rather than what is profitable in common.

For I think that anyone possessed of sense ought to seek, in all things, not those things by which he will be admired above the rest, but those by which he might benefit both himself and the rest.

Chapter 3. Mention of the hardships arising from marriage, and demonstration that the writer of this discourse is not unmarried.

Would that it were somehow possible for me too to gain something more from such zeal.

For I would have undertaken the labor concerning these things with far greater eagerness, if, according to what is written, I were laboring over this discourse in hope of sharing in the fruits of the plow and the threshing floor.

But as it is, in a certain way my knowledge of the excellences of virginity is vain and unprofitable to me, like the harvest to the ox that treads the threshing floor wearing a muzzle, or like the water flowing beneath the cliff to the thirsty man, when it is unreachable.

Blessed are those for whom the choice of the better things lies within their power, and who have not been forestalled and walled off by the common life, as we are, who are separated as if by some chasm from the boast of virginity — to which it is no longer possible to return for one who has once planted his footstep in the worldly life.

And even if we conceive something fitting concerning virginity, we suffer the same thing as cooks and servants, who season the table-luxury of the rich for others, while themselves partaking of none of what has been prepared.

How blessed indeed it would have been, if it were not so, and we had not come to know the good only by afterthought.

...those truly performing beyond every prayer and desire, for whom the capacity to enjoy these good things has not been shut off.

But we, just as those who, by comparing their own poverty with the lavish wealth of others, are grieved and vexed all the more at their present state, in the same way — the more we come to recognize the wealth of virginity, the more we pity the other life, learning through comparison with the better things how many and what sort of things it lacks.

I do not speak only of what is stored up for the future for those who have lived according to virtue, but also of what belongs to the present life.

For if one should wish to examine accurately how this life differs from virginity, one will find the difference to be as great, roughly, as that between earthly things and heavenly things;

and it is possible to know the truth of this statement by examining the facts themselves.

From where might one begin to depict this burdensome life worthily, as though in tragedy? Or how might one bring before the eyes the common evils of life, which all men know through experience, yet I do not know how nature has contrived that they escape notice even among those who know them — men willingly ignorant of the very things in which they live? Do you wish that we begin from the most pleasant things? Well then: the chief thing sought after in marriage is to attain a gratifying companionship in life.

And indeed, let this be so, and let marriage be described throughout as altogether blessed;

a distinguished lineage, sufficient wealth, well-matched age, the very flower of youthful bloom, abundant affection, and in each of the two a sense of surpassing the other, that sweet rivalry whereby each wishes to outdo the other in love.

Let there be added to these glory and power and distinction and whatever else you wish.

But observe the grief that necessarily accompanies and smolders beneath these enumerated good things.

I do not speak of the envy that grows up against the distinguished, and of how ready men are to plot against whatever seems to prosper in life, and that everyone who does not share equally in the better lot has by nature a certain hatred toward the one who surpasses him;

and for this reason life is lived amid suspicion for those who seem to be cheerful, providing them more grief than pleasure.

I pass over these things, as though envy too were idle against them;

and yet it is not easy to find anyone to whom these two things have come together at once: to be prosperous beyond the many, and to escape envy.

Nevertheless, if you please, let us suppose their life free from all such things, and let us see whether it is possible for those who pass their days in such prosperity to be cheerful.

What then, you will say, will be the cause of grief, if not even envy will touch the prosperous? This very thing, I say — that life is sweetened for them in every respect — this is the kindling of grief.

For as long as they are human beings — this mortal and precarious thing — and see the graves of those from whom they were born, they have grief inseparable and yoked together with life, even if they partake but little in reasoning.

For the continual expectation of death, not recognized by any definite signs, but through the uncertainty of the future always terrifying as though imminent, confounds the ever-present joy, troubling their cheerfulness with fear for what is hoped for.

For if it were possible, before experience, to learn the things known by those who have experienced them —

For if it were possible, by some other device, while still within this life, to survey the matter clearly, how great would be the rush of those deserting to virginity from marriage!

...to learn this with precision, without having come within the snares —

For you would have seen, had it been possible to see without danger, a great confusion of opposites — laughter mingled with tears, and grief mixed with joys — death everywhere present alongside what happens, through the hopes of men, touching upon each of the pleasant things.

Whenever the bridegroom beholds the beloved face, straightway, without fail, the fear of separation enters in along with it;

and if he hears the sweetest voice, he will also think of the time when he will never hear it again;

and whenever he delights in the sight of her beauty, then most of all he shudders at the expectation of mourning;

if he considers the things prized by youth, and whatever the foolish so eagerly pursue — such as an eye gleaming beneath its lids, an eyebrow arched gracefully over it, a cheek with its sweet and delicate dimpling smile, a lip blossoming with its natural redness, hair mingled with gold and thick, gleaming about the head with the varied pattern of its braiding, and all that transient splendor — then, by all means, even if but a little reasoning attends him, he also conceives this in his soul: that this beauty of such a kind will one day depart, dissolving away and passing into non-being, becoming loathsome and hideous bones instead of what now appears, bearing no trace, no memorial, no remnant of the present bloom.

If he should ponder these and such things, will he then live in joy? Will he trust the good things now present to him as though they would always remain? Or is it not clear from this that, just as in the deceptions of dreams, he will be at a loss and hold an unbelieving attitude toward life, attending to appearances as to things alien to him — understanding fully, if indeed he has any contemplation of realities, that nothing that appears in life appears as it truly is, but that, according to deceptive fantasies, life shows us one thing in place of another, mocking with hopes those who gape after it, and concealing itself through the deception of appearances, until at last, amid its sudden changes, it is exposed as something altogether other than the human hope which deception breeds in the foolish?

Of what pleasure, then, will the pleasant things of life appear worthy to one who reasons thus? When will he who thinks this way truly rejoice and be gladdened by the good things that seem present to him? Is he not always disturbed by fear of change, and so has no real perception of the enjoyment of what is present? I pass over omens and dreams and rumors and such nonsense, all observed by a vain custom and suspected as portents of the worse.

But the time of birth-pangs overtakes the young wife, and the event is reckoned not as the birth of a child but as the presence of death, and through the very delivery the death of the one bearing the child is anticipated.

And often men were not deceived in this evil divination, but before they could celebrate the birthday feast, before they could taste any of the good things hoped for, they at once turned their joy into lamentation.

Still burning with affection, only just flourishing in their longings, not yet having attained the perception of the sweetest things of life, as though by the phantasm of some dream they were suddenly torn from everything that had been in their hands.

And what follows upon these things? The bridal chamber is ravaged by her own household as though by enemies, and death, through the tomb, is adorned in place of the bridal chamber.

Accusations, a battle against oneself, war against those who admonish, no hesitation at the most improper of things, whether words or deeds.

And often, in those where the passion has risen up beyond measure and reason has been more thoroughly swallowed up by grief, the tragedy has come to a more bitter end, the survivor not even being able to outlive the calamity.

But is it not always so? Let us suppose, then, the better outcome — that she escaped the danger of the birth-pangs, and a child was born to them, the very image of the bloom of those who begot it.

What then? Has the occasion for grief been diminished through this, or has it not rather received additions? For they still have their former fears, and they have taken on, in addition, the fear for the child — lest something unpleasant happen concerning its upbringing, lest some evil mischance, lest some unwanted misfortune bring on some affliction, or maiming, or danger.

These things, then, are common to both; but who could enumerate what belongs peculiarly to the wife? For, to leave aside these obvious things known to all — the burden of pregnancy, the danger in the birth-pangs, the toil of child-rearing — there is the fact that her heart is torn apart together with the child that is born, and, should she become mother of several children, that her soul is cut into as many pieces as the number of her children, so that she receives in her own inward parts the perception of whatever happens to them.

And why should one speak of all such things, since they are known to everyone? But since, according to the divine oracle, she is not her own mistress, but has her recourse toward him who has become her lord through marriage, even if she is separated from him for a little while, as though severed from her head, she cannot bear the isolation, but takes it as a kind of rehearsal for the life of widowhood, and treats her husband's brief absence as an ill omen.

Immediately fear produces despair of the more favorable hopes, and for this reason her eye is fixed upon the entrance, full of confusion and terror, and her hearing anxiously scrutinizes those murmuring nearby, and her heart convulses, scourged by fear, and, before any news is even reported, the mere sound before the doors — whether merely suspected or actually occurring — like some messenger of evils, suddenly shakes her soul to its depths.

And though what is outside may perhaps be favorable and worthy of no fear at all, the fainting comes before the news arrives and turns her mind from what is pleasant to its opposite.

Such is the life of those who seem to be cheerful.

For it does not bear comparison with the freedom of virginity.

And yet the discourse, running quickly over these matters, has passed over many of the gloomier things.

For often that woman too, still young in body, still gleaming with bridal splendor, perhaps still blushing at the entrance of the bridegroom and glancing shyly with modesty — at a time when her longings happen to be all the more ardent precisely because shame prevents their being openly displayed — suddenly becomes 'widow' and 'wretched' and 'desolate,' and takes on every name one flees from; and the calamity, falling upon her all at once, darkens the one who until then was radiant, clothed in white, and admired by all, and, stripping away the bridal adornment, clothes her instead in mourning.

Then darkness instead of the brightness of the bridal chamber, and mourning-women intensifying their wailing, and hatred against those who attempt to soothe her sufferings, aversion to food, the wasting of the body, the dejection of soul, the desire for death — a desire which has often prevailed even unto death itself.

And even if the calamity is somehow mellowed by time, yet another calamity arises in turn, whether there are children or not.

For if there are children, they are altogether orphans, and for this reason pitiable, and by their very selves they renew the suffering;

but if there are none, the memorial of the deceased perishes utterly, root and all, and the evil is beyond all consolation.

I pass over the other things peculiar to widowhood.

For who could enumerate everything with precision? The enemies, the household — some trampling upon the calamity, others brightening at her desolation and looking with pleasure, with a bitter eye, upon the household falling into ruin; the servants growing contemptuous; and all the other things abundantly to be seen in such circumstances — on account of which many women, a second time, were compelled by necessity to venture again into the experience of similar evils, unable to bear the bitterness of those who mocked them, as though warding off those who had grieved them by inflicting new misfortunes upon themselves;

but many, by the memory of what had happened, endured absolutely anything rather than fall a second time into the likeness of the same calamities.

And if you wish to learn the hardships of this more common life, hear what those women say who have come to know life by experience — how they call blessed the life of those who from the beginning chose the life of virginity and did not have to learn the better course through calamity, since virginity is not susceptible to any of such evils;

it does not lament orphanhood, it does not bewail widowhood;

it is always united with the incorruptible bridegroom, it always exults in the offspring of piety;

and it sees its truly own household continually flourishing in all that is most beautiful, because the Master of the house is ever present and dwelling within it — in whose case death effects not separation, but union with the one desired;

for when she departs this life, then, as the apostle says, she is with Christ.

But it would now be time, since the affairs of the prosperous have been examined in part, to survey with our discourse the other kinds of lives as well — those to which poverty and misfortune and the remaining calamities of human suffering are attached, such as disabilities and diseases and all such things as are allotted along with human life.

In all these things, the one who lives by himself either escapes the trial altogether or bears the calamity more easily, having his mind concentrated around himself and not being dragged by cares toward anything else;

but the one who is divided in concern toward wife and children often does not even have leisure to groan over his own troubles, since concern for his dearest ones keeps resounding around his heart.

Or perhaps it is superfluous to dwell in discourse upon what is already generally admitted? For if so much toil and hardship is yoked together with what seem to be good things, what might one conjecture concerning their opposites? Surely every sketch of an account falls short of the truth in attempting to bring their life before the eyes; but it may perhaps be possible, in a few words, to indicate the greater part of the unpleasantness of such a life — namely, that those allotted a life contrary to that of those who seem to prosper likewise have their griefs from opposite causes.

For those who are cheerful, life is disturbed by death, whether expected or actually arriving; but for these others, the delay of death is itself a calamity;

and their lives stand diametrically opposed to one another, and yet the despondency of both converges upon the same end.

So manifold and varied is the supply of evils that spring from marriage.

For children cause grief alike whether they are born or not born, and again whether they live or die.

For the one prospers with children yet does not have sufficient food, while the other has no heir to the estate for all that he toiled for, and counts the other's misfortune as a blessing, each wishing to have for himself that very thing at which he sees the other distressed.

For the one has had his beloved child die, while for the other the prodigal son has lived on.

Both are pitiable: the one lamenting the death of his child, the other lamenting his life.