and that which remains. Therefore, we too, though affected by many calamities, namely, solitude, the siege, and the constant incursions of robbers, are nonetheless not the less fervent in our love toward you: for we preserve our benevolence toward you perpetually flourishing. Wherefore we ask that you inform us of the state of your health more frequently by letter. For you yourselves know how great a consolation we receive from this, even while sitting in this solitude.
[CXXX] To Castus, Valerius, Diophantus, and Cyriacus, presbyters of Antioch.
Love is a vehement and violent thing, and more violent than any exacting creditor. For those who are owed money do not so press and demand payment from their debtors as you, having cast the chain of love around us, urge us to the payment of letters, even though we have often discharged this debt. But such is the nature of this debt: it is always being paid, and it is always owed. For this reason, you likewise, although you often receive letters, are never satisfied. For this is the advantage of love, and it imitates the sea, which, though myriads of rivers flow into it from everywhere, is never filled. Such is also the breadth of your hearing; for this reason, the more we cast into it, the more we kindle the flame of your disposition. Do not, therefore, suppose that we have remained silent for this brief time because we suspected your friendship. For we would have suffered the exact opposite of this had we suspected it, and we would have written more often. For just as those who are strong have no need of a physician, so those who are neglectful and dejected have great need of treatment. If, then, we had sensed that your disposition was failing, we would not have neglected to contribute what we could, so as to inflame it even more. But by trusting you greatly, and knowing clearly that, whether you receive letters or not, you consistently preserve your disposition toward us as firm, immovable, permanent, unswerving, constant, and perpetually flourishing, we deemed that our letters were not necessary for that purpose, but merely to pay the debt of disposition. For even now, we write not out of need, but out of friendship. For as to the fact that even if many storms arise from many places, and myriads of waves are raised on high, nothing can harm you or cast you into the whirlpool of despondency, the past time has sufficiently shown. We do not, therefore, write as though you were in need of consolation from this source, but to declare that we rejoice, leap for joy, and are gladdened by the pleasure of enjoying, from so great a distance, such love from your diligence. And since I know well that it brings you great joy to learn in what state our affairs are, know that we have been delivered from the ailment of the stomach, we are in good health, and nothing—neither sieges, nor incursions of robbers, nor the desolation of this place, nor the multitude of myriads of tribulations, nor anything else of this kind—constricts or disturbs B us, but we enjoy security, freedom from business, and great tranquility each day, mindful of your affairs, and discussing them before those who visit us. For such is the habit of genuine love: it prepares one to have those who are longed for always upon the tongue. This we also do, since we love you vehemently, and this you yourselves know. Considering all these things, then, do not think that we have become sluggish, nor that we have grown neglectful of your disposition over time. For love never falls away; but even if a long time passes, and even if the difficulties of circumstances increase, and even if we are separated by a greater length of road, it is not broken by any of these things, nor does it become faded, but it blooms more greatly and increases.
[CXXXI] To Elpidius, Bishop.
We did not remain silent during the previous time out of neglect or indifference toward your love, but the terrible things that surround us caused this long silence. For we are not situated in one place, but now in Cucusus, now in Arabissus, now in valleys; and all places are filled with noise and turbulence, and fire encompasses the ravines and the deserts. Thus, iron consumes all things, both bodies and buildings. Cities have already been uprooted, foundation and all, and every day, struck by constant rumors, we become wanderers, enduring a harsh and novel manner of exile, and daily, as if now shut up in a prison, we expect death. For there is no confidence even in the fortress, because the Isaurians do not hesitate to besiege even such places as these. To this, a grievous sickness has also been added, the worst of which we have now barely escaped, though we still carry its remnants; and as if relegated to some island surrounded by an unnavigable sea, we can see no one easily, all paths being walled off by the fear of these disturbances. I beg you, therefore, to forgive us, my most honorable and pious master; for you know the love which we have shown from above and from the beginning toward your piety, and do not cease to pray for us. For if you should easily find those to assist with letters, you will have no need of a reminder to write to us frequently concerning your health. And we, if these terrible things should subside, and we should be able to look out from this prison and breathe a little from the siege that constrains us, we shall not cease to write continuously to your honor. For in doing this, we ourselves gain the greatest favors.
[CXXXII] To Gemellus.
Wow, how great is a noble and manly soul, which derives its pleasure and security not from anywhere outside, but from within and of itself, and, wonder of wonders, from circumstances that seem to the many to be fearful and dangerous. For not only not to be disturbed, nor to be pained while being hated by D