Narrations

NILUS THE MONK AND HERMIT: NARRATIONS ON THE SLAUGHTER OF THE MONKS IN THE MOUNT SINAI AND THE CAPTIVITY OF HIS SON THEODULUS

TO THE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS AND MOST REVEREND PRELATE, LORD CAROLUS DE MONTCHAL, ARCHBISHOP OF TOULOUSE

Since it is established by a certain natural law, and most equitably, that rivers should return to the place from which they issued, this Nilus of yours—or, if you will allow it, ours—most illustrious Prelate, having proceeded from the most bountiful bosom of your humanity and liberality, surely possesses a legitimate and necessary return to us by that same path. Nor is this impulse of a blind river, as it were, driven to you by the inclination of nature, not by the judgment of free will. But, as it is permitted to interpret the sentiments of the dead, and to suspect the silent judgments of the saints who live for eternity in the heavens, I believe that the saint himself, Nilus, would surely choose you most of all, out of everyone, to whom he would wish this work of his, now brought to life again, to be dedicated. For indeed, to whom would he wish to offer this, whatever it may be, of service or duty, if not first, as an abbot, to an archbishop? Next, as one who was once a great admirer of Chrysostom, to whom would he offer it if not to such a great imitator of his virtues today? Then, as a man famous for Greek eloquence, to whom if not to a man most skilled in that language? Finally, as a most ancient writer, most worthy of the light, having barely emerged just now from the shipwrecks of time and barbarism by the planks you provided, to whom if not to his patron and liberator? And that the force of this last title may appear to be of great weight for the purpose of forming a conjecture regarding his grateful spirit toward you, the nature of this man—which was elegant and free in professing and returning gratitude—provides a great proof of this very fact in the History which we are now publishing. For what does this Nilus of ours not confess that he owed to that bishop of Elusa, for the fact that he had returned to him his son Theodulus, whom he had redeemed from the servitude of the barbarians with his own money, with the most lavish liberality? A truly great merit: but is the gratitude that you have initiated from that same author, by producing this and bringing this commentary to light, much inferior to it? For what? Is it not a view held by almost everyone, and especially by the Greeks, that by reason of the love and connection we have for our children, we hold books in similar esteem? And so we see that to learned men, it is almost no less ^A a matter of duty to care for books than for children. ^{B C D}

NARRATIONES. PROOEMIUM

^B The first thing I choose to note is this singular specimen of your humanity: that you have not only admitted me to those book-chests of yours, which are filled to overflowing with the most select and rare codices, sought out everywhere at great expense, and have permitted me to see many volumes—especially those in the Greek language—that have never before been printed (which certain covetous people usually do not even allow to be seen), but you have also most generously offered me their use for as long as I should like. This liberality is in itself of great value, especially in a man who, better than anyone, knows how to set a price on books; and it gains great splendor and charm from the sordidness of others in this same sort, who, placing all the profit of possession in the solace of envy, possess them for this purpose alone (as Cyprian elegantly said of a similar matter), so that they may not be possessed by others. Thus, they enjoy a single, churlish pleasure to the desires of all; and they think it of such account to perfect their one act of vanity to the public detriment of the whole world. ^C Therefore, after the barbarism of centuries and nations, these are the ultimate plague of books: those who, like pirates infested toward the shipwrecked, force these few that have been saved through all the injuries of fortune to perish in sight of land, while they suppress and frustrate all the efforts of those wretches who are as if yearning with a certain desire for the light.

But indeed, the doors of your museum, like those of the Muses, lie open without envy: ^D and you show forth in everything that you possess nothing so excellent in that abundance which you are not prepared to publish for the utility of all. And would that there were not lacking to such a great desire of yours men capable of bringing to bear, for the editing of so many books of the ancients provided by you, either the leisure for reviewing, or the labor of interpreting, or the diligence of printing: in a short time, many excellent writers of various faculties would be brought forth from your library alone! Although, why do I implore others? Would that it might be granted to you—to you, I say—to spare some space from your more serious cares for these things; and to arrange in proper order, together with the books themselves, those things which you are accustomed to annotate most learnedly by stealth during your spare moments in the margins of your codices! Now, since you consider that the sum of religion, as is fitting, should be accorded primary importance over all else, you govern yourself in all the duties of your pastoral office so that even those things which you otherwise find most delightful—the study of the most beautiful things—must be considered secondary to them.

Thus, at this very time that I write this, you, as a good shepherd, are visiting your flock, and having undertaken the visitation of your diocese according to the prescription of the sacred canons, with your great labor, the highest approval of all, and no less profit to the populace, you carry your fatherly cares and pastoral vigilance through the towns, villages, and parishes of your jurisdiction. At every other time as well, you are not accustomed to allow yourself any rest from those tasks which, from that height of pontifical dignity in which you stand, can flow to the utility of us, your inferiors. Indeed, you show yourself so assiduous in performing sacred rites, in celebrating divine offices, and in conferring the sacraments—among others, but especially those of confirmation and ordination—that no one's need remains wanting in effect or opportunity through your supreme diligence in this regard. On the occasion of which mention, it behooves me here to commemorate another, certain cause I have for observing you, which is a very great one: which has always been believed to have the force of a great bond among our ancestors, namely, that you co-opted me, however unworthy, into the sacred order of the priesthood by the imposition of your hands. Of which great benefit, never unmindful at any time, I shall strive with all care and study to manifest in deeds and in all matters that reverence and obedience which I promised you religiously in spoken words when I was duly saying the sacrament among the sacred mysteries. Farewell.

I was writing at Toulouse, the 15th of the Kalends of March, in the year 1637. Most devoted to your Illustrious Lordship, PETRUS POSSINUS, S.J. PATROL. GR. LXXIX. 19

TO THE READER

As for the work itself and this history of Nilus, you will easily understand, learned reader, what you ought to conclude from the testimonies we have set forth (above, col. 42), especially those of Nicephorus. Regarding the labor involved in this edition of ours, you must be briefly advised, if only for the sake of following custom. In the beginning, I had accepted only this much—and those who have every claim upon me, by their great merit, had negotiated only this with me—that I should revise the old interpretation of this little work, which was formerly published by Lipomanus, and compare it with the Greek. But when, after having already presented to my friends as a specimen some pages of that interpretation, which I had interpolated and revised, to those reading it, just as it had seemed to me while writing, it appeared the same: that if I were to proceed as I had begun, I would be exhausting myself in the tedious and illiberal labor of exhaustion, yet, for all my great weariness, would earn no gratitude from others. And truly, that I may quickly dispatch at least what I cannot omit—the one thing that remains for shame—I mean the rebuke of another's labor, I may affirm this as briefly as it is true: there is no kind of slip or disgrace that should be guarded against in this genre that has been omitted in that rush of a most perverse version. For the author’s meaning is obscured throughout, and not infrequently it is faked and twisted to suit the whim of the interpreter. Moreover, in almost every page, in a most miserable manner, the writer’s speech is slashed with supreme license and most foully mutilated; from beginning to end, there is no place not so covered and contaminated with the stains of a certain barbaric childishness that the work, worthy of the judgment of the ancients, seems today like something merely rustic and even more unrefined than the countryside. If anyone should consider these things said by me to be overly disparaging, I shall not, however, waste my time with him by providing a lengthy justification of my case with certain testimonies for every single matter. But if it is worth so much to him to know the whole affair and to compare those Latin renderings of the old interpreter with the author’s Greek, so that he might wink at other things, then if he has any fairness, when he observes throughout the whole work not just clauses or entire sentences, but entire pages and indeed full discourses omitted in conscious silence, he will judge both that such an interpreter, whoever he is, wrote in haste, and that my accusation is not calumnious.

And from this you understand well, excellent reader, how not lightly or impulsively, but necessarily, I took up the plan of beginning a new interpretation. Now, if it concerns anyone to know by what resources I accomplished this, let him hold it as follows: The most illustrious Lord Charles de Montchal, Archbishop of Toulouse, a man—as everyone everywhere proclaims—born to advance the cause of literature today, had received a certain part of this book, which contains roughly the first three narrations, from Claude Saumaise, who had arranged for it to be described for himself from a Palatine codex by a copyist who was not very skilled. Although, lest I impute all the error to his hand, the frequent and not inconsiderable lacunae of that Heidelberg book show that it was not exactly excellent itself. As for the rest, which for the latter half of the volume, as I said, was largely missing, the same praiseworthy archbishop had arranged, through paid labor, for it to be added from some other codex—not much purer, as far as one can understand—such that the description there gapes with many lacunae throughout and bristles with errors of every kind. This is the codex which I shall call the Tolosan in my Notes (6). It was of such a nature that it seemed it could not benefit the reader unless he were guessing, nor be endured by an interpreter unless he were an Oedipus or an Apollo. This is the place to acknowledge the principal labor of this edition, and, as follows from that, the gratitude and praise which belongs to the aforementioned prelate of Toulouse. For he amended those most depraved sheets, inscribed most ignorantly from the most corrupt codices, as accurately as he could according to an exemplar taken from the Royal Library; from which he himself even annotated variant readings in the margin by his own hand; and he rectified all the lacunae, which was of primary importance. Relying on this exemplar, though it was but one, yet thus augmented and thus interpolated, I undertook to revise the whole book and to advance the work, miserably deformed as it was, by amending and restoring it to the pristine purity of the autograph, as much as I could rely on such great support from such a distance. Finally, I offer one piece of advice regarding the method of interpreting. I have always thought this: the chief duty of an interpreter is to capture the author’s meaning in whatever way, that is, whether in more or fewer words: whether by following word-for-word, or, if the place is somewhat obscure, by using 6 Various readings in the History of St. Nilus regarding the slaughter of the monks of Mt. Sinai and the captivity of his son Theodulus, edited in Greek and Latin by Petrus Possinus, priest of the Society of Jesus, Paris, at the shop of Sebastian Cramoisy, king’s printer, A.D. 1638, in 4to. Extracted from four manuscripts: the Vatican, the Barberini, the one from Altemps (later compared with the Sfortian, which is quite ancient and contains the Lives of saints whose feast days are celebrated in the month of January), which so agree that they seem to have been copied, as it were, from a single exemplar, and differ from this edition: for they change many things, add many, and omit very many; furthermore, there is the Palatine, which was brought to the Vatican by me from the Heidelberg library, and which seems to be different from that one, from which the Tolosan copy was transcribed. Leo Allatius collected these and, as he was able, transcribed them and arranged for them to be published for the favor, honor, and benefit of that excellent and supreme man, and his very close friend, Petrus Possinus. We have placed this variety of readings, accurately collected, beneath the text, EDITOR OF THE FATHERS.

even as to an appropriate paraphrase, whatever it is that the writer ultimately intended to express, both most clearly and most elegantly. Although I am not ignorant that there is an entirely different school of certain morose persons who enslave the class of interpreters to a miserable servitude: while they order them to count word for word with the most meticulous care; and to drag Latin speech—which often rebels with a noble freedom—as if kicked by heels through all the footprints of the Greek language.

SUMMARIES AND ARGUMENTS OF THE NARRATIVES.

NARRATION I. Saint Nilus, having recently lost his son Theodulus, rejects the consolation of his friends and laments his calamity in their presence.

NARRATION II. Saint Nilus narrates his conversion from the beginning. Then, having commemorated the recent slaughter of the holy men, he discusses Providence, repeating many examples from sacred History.

NARRATION III. The customs and religions of the Arab barbarians are described. Likewise, the studies and virtues of the holy monks who lived a solitary life around Mount Sinai are declared.

NARRATION IV. Contains the sudden incursion of the barbarians upon the holy monks, the slaughter of some, the captivity of Theodulus, the solitude and laments of Saint Nilus, and the consolation of the same.

NARRATION V. An adolescent fellow-servant of Theodulus, having escaped and been brought to Nilus while he was talking with his friends, narrates at length the most cruel slaughters and the struggles of the holy men; and announces that Theodulus is to be sacrificed on the following day in the solemn sacrifice of the barbarians.

NARRATION VI. Saint Nilus, incredibly dismayed by the atrocious news concerning the danger to Theodulus, is uplifted by the example of a most generous matron, who bore the announced slaughter of her son most steadfastly. The people of Pharan designate envoys to the king of the barbarians to demand satisfaction regarding the injury of the recent attack. Nilus with his companions buries the bodies of the holy men. And soon, having received a favorable message from the king of the barbarians concerning his son, he arrives at Elusa.

NARRATION VII. Theodulus, found at Elusa, narrates his disasters to his father, and how he escaped the danger of the sacrifice. The bishop of Elusa ordains Saint Nilus a presbyter, and, having invited him in vain to stay with him, sends him off with provisions as he returns to the monastery with his son.

OF NILUS THE MONK AND EREMITE: NARRATIVES.

^A NARRATION I. Errabundus ego post incursionem Barbarorum veni in Pharan, et quidam, audiente me, solitariam inter eundum laudabant vitam, multa ejus pro se quisque in familiarem sermonem præconia conferentes, cum sic dicerent: plenam eam tranquillitatis et perturbationis omnis expertem, ab illa philosophantem, circa ea quæ videntur anima tran...

^Athat tranquility is expanded through quiet, and that the mind, having progressed along that path under its guidance, is admonished toward the knowledge of God: that this is the ultimate of things to be sought and the sum of happiness, all the wise men who have existed from the beginning of time profess with one voice. When I had looked upon them more attentively with eyes bathed in tears, having heaved a miserable groan (for I was sitting confused in spirit, afflicted by the weight of as many evils as I had endured, still openly bearing on my face and in my very appearance a manifest sign of my calamity), this sight turned the men so that they might deflect from their military cause of speaking to me: then, having taken me into their midst as they sat all around, after a short delay, when they saw that I was continuing my groans, certain that I would not occupy the conversation, they inquired of me the cause of my disturbance, dutifully indeed and with much manifestation of pity. But as I groaned more vehemently at that voice (for the pain, which had been lulled to sleep in some way, had broken out afresh at this mention of my evil; and the foul sight suddenly presented to me had dragged back my mind, which was removing itself from the bitterness of my disaster through forgetfulness, to the almost present sensing of those troubles, the mere memory of which, even when past, tortured me): "What, O Father," they say, "of those things which have been said by us seemed so alien to the truth that, at the first sound of our questioning, you have lamented as if a blasphemy had been heard, so that you seem, as one afflicted, to be mourning in this squalor, in this habit of a mourner, either because you have heard the impiety of some sacrilegious voice complaining for the sake of a violated God; or because, having understood some error of ours, you are moved by pity for it? Or is our speech joined to the secret cause of your pain by some hidden kinship, so that, stirred and struck deeply by its admonition, such a sudden abundance of tears has overflowed from you? For by this appearance of mourning in which we see you deformed, it is surely necessary that the bitterness of your pain is not moderate, the interior bite of which we suspect, from this weeping which we behold, to be how sharp and bloody."

Such a provocation of the men barely at last freed my tongue, which was stubborn toward silence, for the duty of responding. Then, therefore, I said, "Indeed, I have nothing to say to you. Nor can I sufficiently decide to which part of your questioning I should first respond, with a certain cloud of sickness blocking from my view all judgment of what is true and proper. I am indeed of the same sect and institute as you; for the utility of solitude once struck me, and to its ^C [Greek text]...

^A παραμυθίας πάσης καταλέλοιπεν ἔρημον, καὶ ταύτην ἐπαινεῖν οὐ συγχωρεῖ τὸ πάθος τοῦ συμβάντος δεινοῦ νικήσαντος τὴν τυραννίδα τοῦ πόθου. Ὅταν γὰρ πάθος κρατήσῃ πάθους, οὐ δίδωσι χώραν ὅλως τῷ ἡττημένῳ, καθαρὰν ἔχειν τὴν ἀρχὴν πάντως βουλομένῳ, καὶ τὸ κοινωνεῖν παρακαλοῦν ὡς δυσμενὲς ἐκτρεπομένῳ. Ἀλλ’ ὢ τῆς εὐηθείας· φιλοσοφεῖν προῆγμαι, τὸν θρῆνον καταλιπὼν τοῦ παιδός. Καί μοι σχολὴν εὗρεν ὁ λογισμὸς οὐ ποτε καταδεξάμενος ἄλλο τι λογίσασθαι τῆς Θεοδούλου σφαγῆς. Διηνεκὲς γάρ μοι παραμένει τὸ εἴδωλον, ἄλλο τε ἄλλως φαντάζων ποικίλοις θανάτου τρόποις τὴν ἀναίρεσιν, καὶ τῆς φωνῆς τὸ ὀδυνηρὸν ἀκούειν δοκῶ, καὶ ἐπὶ γῆς καλινδούμενον ἀπὸ τῆς πληγῆς ὡς ἔτυχε, νομίζω ὁρᾷν· ἐκεῖνα τῷ νῷ φανταζόμενος, ἅπερ εἰκὸς ἦν παρόντα τῇ ὄψει μαθεῖν. Οἴμοι, τέκνον ἐλεεινόν, κἂν ζῇς ἔτι, κἂν τέθνηκας! ὢ τῆς πικρᾶς δουλείας, εἰ πέφευγας τὸν θάνατον! ὢ τῆς ἀτάφου ταφῆς, εἰ σὲ τὸ βαρβαρικὸν διεχειρίσατο ξίφος! Τί τῆς δουλείας θρηνήσω; τί τοῦ θανάτου δακρύσω; Εἰ μὲν γὰρ δουλεύεις περιών, (ὅπερ οὐ δίδωσι νοεῖν τὸ εἰκός· πότε γὰρ βαρβαρικὴ χεὶρ οὐ πρόχειρος εἰς ἀναίρεσιν, ὑπηρετοῦσα θυμῷ διψῶντι ἀεὶ ἀνθρωπίνου αἵματος;) ἐν οἴοις τὰ σά; Μάστιγες πάντως καθημεριναί, ἐπιταγαὶ ἀσυμπαθεῖς, ἀπειλαὶ ἀσύγγνωστοι, θηριώδης καὶ αἱμοβόρος βίος, ἔργα βαρύτατα, καὶ τὴν σὴν ὑπερβαίνοντα δύναμιν, φυλακὴ ἄφυκτος, ἐλευθερία ἀνέλπιστος, φόβος θανάτου καθημερινός, τὸ ξίφος ἐγγύς· τούτῳ γὰρ ὁ βάρβαρος μετρεῖν οἶδε τὴν ἀγανάκτησιν, οὐχ ἱμάντα πρὸς πληγάς, οὐ λόγον ἕτοιμον ἔχων· μικροῖς δὲ καὶ μεγάλοις πταίσμασιν, ἓν ἐπιτίμιον εἰδὼς τὸν θάνατον. Ὃ ποτε καὶ ἁμαρτήματος ἄνευ, ^B μέθῃ βεβακχευμένος ποτέ, ἢ ἀλόγῳ εἴξας ὁρμῇ τὴν ἑτέρων παίζειν εὐκόλως ἀπώλειαν τῇ συνηθείᾳ μεμάθηκεν.

^C Heu mihi, miserande puer, sive adhuc vivis, sive es mortuus! O tuam, si mortem effugisti, servitutem asperam! O tuam, si te barbaricus confecit gladius, funus insepultum! Ecquod servitutis malum lamentabor tuae? Quam mortis acerbitatem exsequar lacrymis? Nam si servis superstes (quod verisimile quidem non est, ^D [original-script column: see facsimile]

when the barbarian hand, rushing in an impulse of anger, is never not headlong in slaughter, ever thirsting for human blood), what is your situation? Cut by daily lashes, torn by contradictory commands, terrified by inexorable threats, with no hope of respite or pardon, you drag out your unhappy life by eating raw flesh and drinking blood like a beast; in most heavy works, beyond your strength, under vigilant guard, without hope of escape, with liberty despaired of, in constant fear of death, with the sword always threatening—which the Barbarians know as the only measure for imposing and gauging their indignation, as they have no instrument for a milder punishment in use. For them, there are no thongs for blows, no bundles of rods or osiers: but for small and great offenses alike, the punishment ordained is death. Sometimes, even without any fault, either having raved through drunkenness, or carried away by some other violent gust of lust, they have learned by custom to relax and feed their cruel spirits by playfully representing the slaughter of others. ^A If, therefore, you are dead, what part of your body has the butchery occupied to violate, from where did the stream of your blood first issue, so that you rolled in the mud which your blood had made by mixing with the dust, so that, among your final gasps, as you tossed your feet, you offered a pleasant spectacle of a funereal dance to their cruel eyes, so that you supplicated the barbarian who was attacking you, and, using many a miserable gesture as an interpreter, you tried by entreaty to win some remission and grace from his grim and threatening stubbornness? For in both of you, ignorance of the other's language broke off the exchange of mutual speech, and to you, it wrung away every defense of eloquence and the hope of turning his hostile mind—which is wont to have great power and efficacy in the suppliant's pleading of one who is suffering—from cruelty to mercy. What place has now received you as you fell? What wild beasts have torn apart your limbs? What birds have filled themselves with your flesh? What first rising star openly saw into the inmost shrines and penetralia of your vitals? And is there anything left of you, my son, that has conquered the savage teeth by its hardness, or has survived the satiation of the devouring beasts by its abundance? For if there is anything, it lies surely under the sky and the sun, helpless and unburied in the wilderness, nor deemed worthy of the touch of earth that is duly consecrated. O, if someone had brought and offered to me this [remnant], or at least had led me and set me where any part of you is cast, it would be some consolation for this calamity: I would speak to these remains, of whatever kind they were, as if they were alive and sentient; whether it were some bone, or a morsel of flesh and pulp, or if even a single hair of yours were there. For those whom some more moderate fury of angry fortune exercises by the common loss of loved ones, they indeed have a great advantage, as far as such evils go, since ^B they have the means to relieve their grief: for they have not learned the manner of the death, nor do they possess the image of the dead, such as that formed in the imagination at the time of passing. For those who fare more moderately in their misfortunes experience great enjoyment, as such things go in evils; they enjoy what is truly a second delight, nursing for a long time those who are near to them, receiving the satisfaction of seeing them over time, sitting by them as they expire, hearing their final words, accompanying them as they are carried out, and watching the final seal placed upon the tomb—all of which produces great and abundant consolation for the mourner; the funeral procession, the burial, and the sympathy of friends alleviate the despondency. But I, by what of these shall I soothe my grief, not having learned the manner of your death, nor even having the shade of the corpse, as it would have been imprinted on the imagination at your passing? For the vision of—

^A of those who are not consigned to the memory by their traits; their forms are unstable and indefinite, fashioned now in one way, now in another, and they grieve the mind, which is deceived by the shifting of their images. O the uncertainty of evils! O the desperate calamity! I know not what to weep for; I know not what to lament. Shall I mourn for the dead, or the living? For one who is bound, or one who is released from the shackles of a bitter slavery, or one who has endured the agony of slaughter? For a captive is laid open and ready for every outrage; he is subjected to torments even against his will, having his judgment under the control of his master’s decrees. O constant companion of my life until now, and the only one who has partaken of this experience of captivity! You shared in my long exile; you participated in the hardships of the desert, imitating the obedience of Isaac toward the commands of his father. ^B And how is it that the final calamity has now separated you from me, and you alone exhaust the evils of captivity? Why, alas, did it befall me to be treated more humanely, and to escape the edge of the sword? Why did the bloody hand of the barbarians not add me, too, to the other dead? Now I see that I have been reserved for yet greater disasters. And this was not mercy, but the envy of those grudging me a swift end to my troubles, by whose hope of happiness I am now thrust aside, and finding in my mourning for you, my son, some small fruit of solace. But as for you, I said, turning to those who sat by, since I see you so moved by pity for me, and affected no less gently by the mention of my calamities than I myself am, who have endured them, I will relate my affairs in detail, as they happened, not lingering out of leisure for listening—away!—and may no necessity ^C compel you to hear them.

tuli: your sentiments, which I have learned partly from the most constant attention you have shown in listening to me, and partly from your continuous weeping and lamentation, have given me the most certain proof and testimony. I shall therefore set forth the matter to you in a continuous discourse, as it stands. Not that I would use this opportunity of leisure to captivate your ears ^A or to beg for applause by displaying a fabricated and contrived narrative: such a thing is far from my circumstances and my character. If, however, your occupations allow for this delay, and no other business calls you elsewhere, for the narrative is grave, and the mind is intent on other things; and it is generally true that one holds the thought of the matter in one's care more important than any other knowledge. When they signified by their countenances and voices that they did not find this bothersome, and denied that leisure could be better spent on anything than in alleviating the malady of an ulcerated mind; and that the affliction of a grieving spirit is relieved by recounting and lamenting one’s calamity; just as a dark and dense cloud is thinned by the rain being distilled drop by drop until, with it ^B having been expressed and shed, the water in which it was swollen passes away and reveals the light, whereas grief, on the contrary, when suppressed by silence, sends its sting even deeper, just as in a swelling boil distended with burning fluid, the force of the pus within, because of the inflammation, pulsates more violently against the skin, finding no exit, and because it has no path from which it might be evacuated, it rushes forth—when they had said these things to me, and had approved of it, I approached the narrative in roughly this manner:

NARRATION II

I have had two sons, friends: this one, whose loss has brought me to this state of mourning, and another who remained with his mother. I wished for such a method of life with my wife ^C: since I had thus resolved

NARRATION II

I have had two sons, my friends: this one, in whose mourning I now sit 19, and the other who has remained with his mother 20. And besides these 21, I have dissolved my association with my wife 22; whether towards

^A the propagation of the race, or for the solace of old age, I judged these to be sufficient. For I deemed it fitting [601, 602] for every rational being not to indulge in pleasure to the point of satiety, nor to abuse the indulgence of the law to the insult of nature; but rather to recover oneself in time and to set a limit to custom as soon as each for his own part has sufficiently served the purpose of God the Creator, who instituted marriage for the increase of the race, not for the fruit of lust, lest, when nature has subsequently withered and desires have been extinguished by the spontaneous calm of old age, the praise of continence be ascribed to the natural tranquility of an exhausted life—which is necessity rather than a judgment and love of virtue. For neither does he who has not seen war ever set up a trophy, nor can a pugilist boast as though he had gained a victory if, after the games are finished, he has not succumbed because no one wrestled with him. Rather, it commends the spiritual athlete when, in the bloom and heat of youth, with ^B burning desire and inflamed disturbances of the soul, the judgment of reason governs desire and chokes and suppresses lust as it surges toward the marital connection, even if it be lawful and holds imperial testimony to its authorization. Furthermore, a certain vehement desire for these places in which I am now laid waste seized me, and my mind was entirely winged toward tranquility, so that I could neither think nor perceive anything else. For when love for anything whatsoever takes hold of a mind, it violently draws it away from everything, even from one’s most cherished things, and bears it toward the desired object, not turning away, nor grieving, nor bending, nor considering any insult. For everything willingly serves desire, being tyrannized by it of its own volition, and it gladly welcomes the yoke of submission, out of a voluntary and self-compelled ^C necessity. Since, therefore, this love commanded the departure, and it was not possible to gainsay it as it commanded so tyrannically, I took the children—they were still very young—and brought them to their mother; I delivered one to her, but kept the other with me, and I spoke of my resolution and affirmed with gravity that I would not be persuaded otherwise. But she, having been instructed even before not to gainsay me, and then seeing my face to be estranged from ^D entreaty, although she could not bear the violence of it, and not even holding back her tears, she permitted the journey, yielding to necessity more than consenting by free choice.

Narrative II

^A rather than through the desperation of being overcome, and not because she approved of so harsh a plan. But what was she to do, when she saw my determination so fixed that she could not hope to bend my will? Nor was she unaware, or failing to foresee, how bitter this future separation would be for her; yet she reasoned thus: If that which is painful to her is pleasing to me, the consideration of my will must take precedence over her own pain; and it is more honorable to be overcome voluntarily than, by setting everything in motion, to resist without any hope of victory. You know, indeed, how grave is the disjunction of those whom the bond of legitimate marriage has knit into one body by the secret providence of God, the conciliator of marriages; for the pain of such a rupture is no less than that which is felt when a limb is severed by the edge of a blade. At that time, I marveled at the power of the longing I had once conceived, when I experienced it against nature itself, and saw how a habit strengthened by long custom was overcome. How great that [longing] must have been, I estimated from the fact that it had broken ties which can be loosed by no force, or only by death. Yet even death, in that it steals away sensation, disarms, as it were, those pains whose sting is dull in a carcass bereft of sense. But in us, who are alive and sensitive, the intolerable force of desire flares up from separation, while the very memory of our association incessantly provides fuel for the flame, and fans the embers of an affection now past. Unless the surge of a more violent perturbation, falling upon us and more vehemently incited by the desire for some greater good, blunts the whole edge of that first love; and renders its precipitates and movements more languid and slow. Such was the love of quiet that snatched me ^B from the crowd of men and the abundance of things, leading me into my beloved solitude. Long did I dwell there in most sweet tranquility, while a favorable wind from the stern gently propelled me toward the blessed harbor, until—whence or how, I know not—an encroaching storm stirred up a tempest that tossed those full-laden merchant ships of the holy bodies; it tossed them, yet did not sink them, it shattered them, yet did not corrupt the wealth with which they were filled! For the helmsmen, having taken all the treasure with them, happily diverted the stern toward heaven out of the sea, leaving to the pirates only some broken planks by way of all their plunder.

Here they say: ^C "Who, then, is the meaning and order of the mournful slaughter of the saints? And how were those who served God irreprohensibly delivered to the impious for destruction, to become the sport of the bloodthirsty hands of Barbarians? And did the power of Providence sustain itself and remain sluggish, as if muttering behind a curtain, while a tragedy so cruel was being enacted, not attempting to hinder in the least—when it could most easily—the assault of the brigands? Nor striking with blindness those who consented to such a crime ^D against the holy ones?"

^A The Scriptures declare that such things have come to pass. For indeed, the Babylonians who once unjustly campaigned against Hezekiah ^B were turned back empty-handed, neither able to harm those they were plundering—having lost many of their own forces—nor, while the entire army slept, did they remain whole. A small number among the living, discovered at dawn, were one hundred and eighty-five thousand, and they could not say how they were destroyed, or by whom. For in a single night, the work of one angel brought about so great a slaughter in silence; and they lay there, appearing to be asleep, like crude images of armed men now dead, without a wound ^C from a sword, their souls snatched away, truly dead; yet, having no trace of a violent taking-off, they made the event a mystery to their own people for a long time. For each man would nudge his neighbor upon waking, and the other remained motionless; he would call out, and the other remained mute; he would examine the body, and it was without a wound; he would search for breath at the nostrils, and it was empty of what was sought—until the sun, shining forth in the morning, interpreted the tragedy, revealing in the color of the slain the tokens of death. Again, the Assyrians who came against Elisha and sought to kill the holy man, ^D and the Sodomites who stood against the house of the angels in the time of Lot, were confounded by invisibility and surrendered to ridicule by those they sought, becoming a laughingstock to those whom they intended to wrong. For the former, having become paralyzed, were groping for the door; while the latter did not know where they were being led. Having the object of their search nearby, and being able to approach it—yet not doing so—they were like the infirm and the maimed, though clothed in complete armor; as if either their strength or the members required for warlike action had been crippled by the vision that directed them—whether it had died completely or was sleeping a deep sleep. Thus, a multitude of enemies followed one unarmed man, a host that could easily have been destroyed in ravines and chasms (if the one leading them had possessed the intent).

^A, had not the mild leader, following his custom of a life of gentleness and out of wondrous mercy toward the host that provoked him, spared them. But eventually, having recovered their sight through the beneficence of the prophet, they were able to recognize the road that led home.

In another instance, when an impious king was angry at a prophet who rebuked his impiety, and raised his armed right hand against him, his hand, filled with a sword, was indeed extended to reveal the bloody will of a murderer and his impulse for vengeance. ^B Yet, it remained withered in that suspended posture of threatening, as if it lacked sinews, and as if it were not the limb of a capable man, but the rigid limb of a statue cast in bronze, and in no way changeable from that form into which it had been fashioned at the first design by the will of the craftsman. And this happened so that the prophet’s body might not suffer what the unjust hand of the powerless tyrant, serving its unbridled wrath, was about to inflict. Since such things are so, how did these men of whom you speak perish thus without help? And how did the fury of the murderers prevail so much that, with no one intervening, they could perpetrate their intended crime with impunity?

"But," I said, "what need is there now to stir up a discussion about Providence? ^C For who is capable of grasping the judgments of God, or of demonstrating, in such a difficult complexity of events, the justice of the Lord's governance? Every human reasoning is baffled before such an inquiry, and falls away, overcome by the infinity of its apprehension, not finding a reasonable cause to assign to what has occurred. For indeed, many such things have happened in the past; and the conspiracy of the wicked has reached its end, justice remaining silent for a time—postponing the vengeance of those who dared these things, and holding back the retribution, since in any case the inquiry into these matters awaits the time of judgment. ^D For how was it that Cain, out of envy, killed Abel, who was testified to by God for his piety and religion? He did not even pity his parents, whom—never having seen a corpse, and having no experience at all of death—the madman struck with the miserable spectacle of their son slain, a novelty of an unaccustomed evil. Nor did he fear God, whom the fanatic did not hesitate to provoke and violate in many ways by means of this one deed. First, by the audacity of the murder, attempted then for the first time against His prohibition; and then, by the reduction of the human race, which had scarcely begun to grow and..."

^A multiply, as commanded by God; neither regarding the bond of brotherhood, nor common upbringing and origin: finally, not even having regard for his own self, he who did not consider himself—in such a vastness of the world and in such scarcity—that by removing the society of his own brother, he would lead a sad and anxious life, without solace and not without danger. ^B Did not the wicked Jezebel also have the righteous Naboth overwhelmed with stones, because he would not yield his vineyard to her? And did not the Edomites with the sword cut down three hundred and sixty-three priests? And again, has not an innumerable multitude of the righteous been slaughtered in Jerusalem by certain enemies who, having captured the city, delivered them to wild beasts and birds, as the Psalmist lamenting complains? "They have set," says he, "the mortal remains of thy servants as food for the birds of the sky, the flesh of thy saints to the beasts of the earth. They poured out their blood like water around Jerusalem, and there was no one to bury them." ^C But even now, entire choirs of prophets and apostles have fallen, surrounded by the snares of the impious, butchered, slaughtered, stoned, although they had committed nothing worthy of death, so much so that they had even personally deserved well of those by whom they were being slaughtered. I omit to speak of the age of infants, free from guilt, some of whom were extinguished in the river, because Pharaoh’s will could not bear that the Hebrew people should grow and be strengthened by offspring increasing day by day. Others, by order of Herod, who searched the hidden places for the boy—fatal to him, as he thought—and who desired to crush the feared king in his maturity, were miserably slaughtered, forced to experience the bitterness of a violent death before they had been able to taste any of the pleasant things of life at their age. In all these cases the Judge restrained Himself and allowed the unbridled insolence of tyrants to be carried out through every crime. Because He has set the day of retribution as the limit for them, when He is to exact an accounting of all deeds, whether rightly or wrongly done, from everyone; meanwhile, He adjourns the case, putting off the final judgment to the day appointed for the hearing.

But these things, as I said just now, are neither of the present time, nor is this discussion within my power. For it would be a lengthy task to attempt to encompass the defense of Providence and the reconciliation of the permission of evils with the rectitude of divine justice with an eloquence not of moderate measure. Therefore, I will turn myself and my speech back to those things which the recent feeling of my own disaster suggests to me, and I will render the narrative you await, if only, as I hope, the force of my grief has subsided a little. For I cannot even bear the very recollection ^D of the work I have seen; how I do not know, having borne the experience, the reminder of which I refuse because it is painful. I almost feel ungrateful even to my own eyes.

of that thing which I have visually experienced in the present, so that I now wonder how I was able to endure such a force of evil, the very thought of which—most troublesome as it is—my soul even now recoils from. And it is little short of my being angry at my own eyes themselves, the artisans of those forms which, fixed by the present reality, now cling to my inmost senses, and ^A always present and force themselves upon me as I reject them, and with persistent assiduity prick me at every time: by night with insomnia, by day with most sorrowful cares and thoughts. For not even to me, as it is to many, is sleep a relief from grief; but then the horrendous sight of the slaughter occurs to me, and the bleeding images of the slain, as if from a fresh wound and as if from a lethal blow, still palpitating: by which spectacle, though it be empty, the pain breaks out afresh. ^B But since the very sequence of my discourse admonishes me that it is time to render the remainder of the narrative, it behooves me first to set forth what manner of life the holy Fathers followed in those places; then, what, on the contrary, are the rites and customs of the Barbarians by whom they were slain, so that the body of the history may appear pertinent and coherent in every part, with nothing omitted that could rightly be required by those desirous of learning it. For just as it is most troublesome to be thwarted in the effect of one's desire and any wish, so especially does the denied evidence of exact truth tend to gnaw at the soul, always increasing and distressing it until curiosity is satisfied by knowledge.

NARRATION III

The nation, therefore, which we have mentioned, inhabits the desert extending from Arabia as far as Egypt, [bounded] by the Red Sea and the Jordan River. ^C Devoted never to any art, not even to trade or agriculture, but accustomed to live by plunder, force is to them like an art, and the sword provides every opportunity of life; for they either live by hunting and eating the beasts of the desert, or they waylay travelers, and by robbery extort their necessary needs in whatever way they can, so that in whatever way they provide the sustenance necessary for themselves—whether by industry or by injury—they have no scruples. But if by chance any incident should cause the scarcity of both these modes of gain to rise, then truly they abuse their own beasts of burden (which are mostly dromedary camels) for food in a feral manner; and by families and messes slaughtering one, ^D and with the heat of a little fire making the meat flaccid, eating the flesh still bloody and half-raw—warmed only by a slight vapor of fire, by which it is softened to some lighter degree, or at least so that they do not make the labor of tearing with their teeth useless—they devour it with canine greed. Now the Barbarians have no religion, no care for God, whether handmade or known by the mind. They offer ceremonies only to the Morning Star, and, prostrate, they worship it, and sacrifice the best of their spoils whenever from a predatory raid they obtain from them anything fit for slaughter. And they are especially eager to offer up children who are preeminent in age and the prime of youth; sacrificing them upon stones heaped up around their altar. Which thing, my friends...

^A strongly distresses me and disturbs me with the fear that, perhaps, because a youth is suitable for this execrable sacrifice by recommendation of his native beauty, his body—the vessel of a chaste soul—might be immolated by the polluted hands of the impious to bloodthirsty demons; and neither does anything lovely that such an age possesses avail for mercy among these savage men, who are hardened in their conviction that a great advantage of their own is being achieved in this, namely, that the wrath of a god is averted by the destruction of one miserable person, and all the guilt is turned away upon the devoted and piacular head. Through this assurance, as they rush to their customary and daily slaughter, what delay could the tears of any innocent, no matter how great, cause to such cruel minds, even when joined with complaints and supplications softer than the song of sirens?

But if a supply of children is not at hand, they lead forward a white, spotless camel, and having bent its knees, they cause it to circle around them three times in the midst of their throng ^B. One of them, either from the chiefs of the tribe or from the priests venerable in age and gray hair, leads both the procession and the hymn that has been composed by them for the star. He, after the third circuit—and the song of the crowd not yet having ceased, but while their tongues and voices are still occupied in chanting the final refrain of the hymn—brandishing his sword, strikes the throat of the beast with a forceful blow and is the first to hasten to taste the blood. Following this, the rest run up, each with his own blade: some cut off a small piece of the skin together with the hair, while others snatch whatever limb of the victim happens to come first to hand. They do not even spare the intestines and internal organs, for the Barbarians are religiously careful that nothing should remain unconsumed or visible by the first light of the sun that is about to rise. Therefore, they do not refrain from the marrow or the bones, overcoming the hardness of the solid parts with the constancy of their labor and patience. ^C This is the manner of life and religion of the Barbarians; and living in this way in the desert, they move from place to place, setting up camp wherever there is abundant pasture for their beasts of burden and a plentiful supply of water.

A few places in the desert are frequented by a few who have chosen the monastic life, where it is possible in some fashion to satisfy the body's necessity with a ready supply of water; some, having constructed huts, and others living in caves and grottoes, pass their lives. A few, being skilled in food produced from fire, are able, by diligence, to force such barren desert to produce grain, using small mattocks to cultivate the slight and wretched earth. As for those among them who do not reject the use of bread—who are very few—they, from...

^A cultivating the land, obtain what is equal to the need imposed by necessity for living. But the many content themselves with a diet of raw vegetables and fruits, [(45)] desiring a table unseasoned and artless, having said a long farewell to the busyness of cooks and bread-makers, so that they may not, by spending much time on the care of the body, neglect their more necessary attendance upon God. But with a pure mind, they worship the Divine soberly, 30 not weighed down in their reasoning by the drunken surfeit of meats, nor flattering the stomach’s pleasure [(46)] with the scent of ^B sauces. 33 So greatly has insatiable gluttony now prevailed, that it compels even sight, smell, and taste to minister to desire, by compounding the juice and the vapors and the colors and the differences of qualities into stimulants of pleasure [(47)]. For it did not suffice for the gluttonous among men that there be difference in taste, nor the distinct aroma of the dishes, unless the variety of colors in the sauces should also irritate the appetite toward desire, feasting the sight before the experience of tasting with yellowness and whiteness and the more watery hue of blackness. For in order that the smell may be gladdened, it is necessary ^C that the most fragrant of spices be mixed into the sauces; and again, that the throat may have that which is pleasant, it is necessary to blend the qualities of sweet and pungent, astringent and salty. And the sight also must not be deprived of its enjoyment. For this reason, safflower [(48)] and rice, and saffron, and the juice-like pourings of nuts, and other wide-ranging varieties of colorings, season the dye of the food with painterly mixtures; so that, from everything, the stomach—that mistress—might possess the admitted precision of preparation, just as one convinced by expert judges who are well-trained to properly discern the perceptible qualities of these things according to those very senses. But the conduct of those mentioned is not like this, nor are they obsessed with the refinement of diet. For not only have they renounced the quality of delicious things, mocking the superfluity of need as vain and useless, but also, from the great abundance for...

^A virtue, they strive with a noble impulse toward that height of temperance, such that they defraud the spirit of the body of all things without which life can somehow be dragged on and tolerated; and they do not eat so that they may live, but so that they may not die; and they require and measure out for themselves only such an amount as is the very minimum that can keep a mortal from death, that it might be sufficient for them. This very concern to avoid death is a matter of religion, not of human fear. For they know that the right to take one's own life has not been granted to man by the Creator. And they do not wish to do a hateful thing to Him whom they strive to please by bringing death upon themselves, nor do they wish to waste the reward and merit of their good deeds, and the labor of their life, by ^B hastening the end and losing everything through a single offense. From this premise, some of them continue the week with a single fast, taking food only on the Lord's Day. Others insert one meal into this interval, and set the table twice in total during the week; others, finally, every other day. This, for them, shows a devotion that makes them content with nothing, and reveals their effort to emulate the way of life of the heavenly beings, which is in need of nothing, having no dealings in the matter of food with the lowliness of earthly things. But that they comply against their will with the laws of nature, and are only with difficulty bent by the necessity of the body, and only then at last flee to that remedy when they truly feel the power and nature of the animal to be failed and utterly weakened, so that they are no longer fit for the appointed labors of their duty. So great and so noble is the zeal for the angelic life, which is segregated from all contagion of mortality, that stirs them, that those who cannot attain this—that they might be sufficient unto themselves alone without any outside thing—at least by cutting away the superfluities of life from their daily use, content with very few things, strive to imitate as closely as possible those who are in need of nothing, and they struggle to overcome the infirmity of nature with the alacrity of their purpose.

^C No coin of Caesar has a place in their republic, since they do not even know buying and selling. For each one provides to the other what is useful, taking back in return for free that which he lacks. And the product of herbs and tree-fruits, and rare bread, is the sum of their mutual generosity, demonstrating, through small gifts—meager due to their poverty, yet not small as indicators of liberality—the most expansive and obliging goodwill. For gifts are not valued by the price of the thing offered, but by the magnificence of the affection. Furthermore, envy, which is accustomed to cling to progress, is banished from that place and kept as far away as possible; nor, if someone should excel less in noble things, does the superiority of another stir him to jealousy, as not even ^D

^A his own dignity has puffed him up into arrogance. But he who excels others in the advantages of virtue, ascribing everything to the power of God, not to his own efforts, willingly keeps himself in modesty, reflecting that he is by no means the author of the good things that are in him, but an instrument of the grace that works within. And he who is lacking in these things, perhaps because of bodily infirmity, is led—even if he is unwilling—to humble himself, attributing his deficiency to the sloth of his own purpose rather than to the weakness of his body. Thus, then, they are each and all more humble than one another, competing among themselves not as to who should hold superiority in rank or dignity, but as to who should excel in the splendor and purity of an innocent life. For this was the cause that drove them out of the cities and crowds to inhabit the desert, namely, to display their right actions and religious works to God alone—from whom the reward is hoped—and not to men, whose praise is by nature wont to dissolve the purpose of the one acting well and to frustrate the hope of reward, substituting for it the phantoms of vain glory. For whoever seeks human glory in what he does, once he has obtained that which he sought as a reward, has fallen away from the reward that is truly the reward, and has harvested the present ^B reward, no longer expecting any other. And having bartered away his tireless labors to become lower than human glory, he is also deprived of eternal and true glory. Miserable is he who, tickled by a single, most vain breath of popular air, has scattered all his labors into the wind, making them void, and has exchanged false and fleeting glory for that which is eternal and true.

Furthermore, the holy solitaries do not live in connected or joined dwellings, but live in cells separated by a proper interval, reaching nearly twenty stadia or a little more from one another. They do not do this out of inhumanity or the sadness of an uncultivated and reclusive nature (for who would suspect this of men as mutually dutiful and loving as we have said?), but they seek a space in seclusion in order to compose their habits to God’s good pleasure in quiet, and to persist in their conversations with the same God through prayer without interruption, which in a crowd and in the confusion of affairs ^C can either not be obtained at all or only with the greatest difficulty. For a tumult of this kind draws the mind away from attentive thought and admits it, wandering, into all sorts of other things, and because of nature and long-standing habit, it is prone to be snatched away more toward things that delight rather than toward things that are profitable. But on Sundays they gather into one church, and by visiting each other from time to time ^D during the week, they meet, so that total separation might not again, through the passage of time, break the bond of harmony, creating a forgetfulness, little by little, of the dues that are owed to one another. For they know that forced isolation makes the character savage.

and brings it about through long disuse that men unlearn the social community of charity, which is constituted by the equal laws of civilization. Therefore, when gathered together, they participate in the holy mysteries; then afterwards they receive one another with the spiritual banquet of divine words, taking the subject matter from the divine oracles, from which they discuss primarily those things that most fit their own institution. Here they prepare and strengthen one another through exhortations to every duty for the contests. For the life of those who profess the pursuit of virtue has the greatest need of such exhortations, exercises, and meditations for the contests, since by these conversations and the exchange of opinions, the hidden arts of the adversaries are disclosed, and all their snares and wiles are exposed—a great benefit for those who are raw in this wrestling-ground, who would easily be caught without these signals, as it were, of scouts. For so that they may indeed be safe in that solitary place from the contagion of manifest crimes, and that feeble and remiss motions of the appetites may no longer be able to push them toward notable and egregious slips—having been emaciated as if with their provender withdrawn, by the removal of the opportunities and appearances of things present—yet it is not the case that no danger remains. ^B Nay, the matter is handled within in the soul; hither it turns, hither all the force is applied; there, as a citadel of the mind, the battle is joined most fiercely, in which a lethal wound is as easily received as it lies perilously hidden from the eyes of associates looking only at the exterior, from which a death occurs, unmourned and intestate, without witnesses: since it consists in the hidden consent of a vanquished will. Wherefore the veterans in this wrestling-ground—athletes of many a palm, on account of that authority and skill which they have gathered through long exercise—admonish the new ones again and again: that they stand in guard over themselves, armed with sobriety against gluttony. For the first skirmish of this vice against the spirit is by inciting the frenzy of lust. With this adversary the business is first for the new fighters who are entering this dust for the first time; this is the first wrestler who probes their flanks. Whether they might be able to stand in the wrestling-ground, with knees not at all bent, firm and upright; or whether, girt more softly where they might be seized in the middle, they offer themselves to their adversaries for a certain fall. For he who is addicted to the pleasure of the throat is rightly believed to be easily overcome by lust, serving as an omen of a greater ruin in a lesser instance. Thus the veterans, well-taught by their long use of such warfare and the experience of many victories, admonish the young men who are sweating in this first contest of juvenile exercise, on how the thrusts of the adversaries are to be parried. ^C But the more perfect instill into one another things more perfect: that vain-glory and pride must be shunned, and that nothing is less to be guarded against by them than when, after a toilsome course, one looks toward the harbor, [they must watch out for] the rocks hidden within it, since a victorious storm

^A of thoughts and the shipwreck of unclean spirits drag the soul—which has not yet perished—into mortal danger.

For as sailors at sea, afflicted by the relentless succession of waves and the assault of winds, are compelled to be sober and watchful, fearing the dangers that are nearby, yet near the harbors, sometimes lulled into calm by a sense of security, they strike against hidden shoals; their minds weakened, they void at once—right at the very mouth of the bay—the whole cargo of goods that they had managed to save during the sea-gale. Thus, those who have not been bent by the onslaughts of temptations, but have passed through them unscathed by endurance and discipline; ^B who, after victory, have often grown confident in their own strength of accomplishment, or have become puffed up with a little disdain for those who seemed to be living more carelessly; such men, like athletes who have fallen at the very moment of victory and the winning of the crown, suffer a fall that is difficult to reverse and impossible to rectify; or like sailors who, after completing that long and fearful voyage, empty out their cargo and, through an untimely piece of negligence, lose in an instant the wealth gathered with such great labor, while receiving reproaches for the loss due to their slackness. For vainglory perhaps ^C indeed robs one of the rewards of good works and makes the labor fruitless for those who toil. But pride, in addition to the loss, also brings great danger into the self-exaltation of the man himself, by setting aside God, the co-worker of good deeds, and by attributing to itself the power behind the accomplishments. Thus, indeed, the prophet says of such men: "He who gathers wages has gathered them into a bag with holes"; ^D not yet cast in, and already flowing out; not lingering in the pouch, but swiftly passing through the binding, the yawning aperture that casts out being greater than the opening that receives what is dropped in. For such is the empty pursuit of human glory: it creates a loss by a shortcut, pouring out the wages collected by the work in the same way they were earned, through the perversity of intention. Concerning the proud, however, the holy writer of the Proverbs says: "God," he says, "resists the proud," setting Himself as a hostile enemy against those who have spurned Him, and against those who defraud Him of His own.

For this reason, those who reflect upon the citizens of that desert, Moses and Elijah, exert themselves to emulate their humility, deeming it just to imitate the virtue of those whose land they inhabit. For neither did the magnitude of his authority puff up Moses with arrogance, nor did the miracle of the sacrifice inflate Elijah with pride. They remained unchanged, preserving the same composure at all times, without allowing the change of circumstances to alter their mindset. In this desert, Moses, while fleeing the treacherous designs of the Egyptians and tending the sheep of Jethro, became a spectator to that wondrous vision: the all-consuming fire; at that time, he learned to perceive the brush of the bush as being more intense, and he saw the grass blooming in the midst of the flames. Later, when leading the people [out of Egypt], he served as a legislator on that very mountain—at the time, for the Jewish people alone, but now, by the grace that has spread through all, he constitutes himself a legislator for all nations in accordance with the kinship of nature that has passed to the entire race. For the laws of the commonwealth shone forth, set upon the lampstand, even if they had once been hidden under the bushel of the letter before they were made clear. ^B Elijah, too, came here fleeing Jezebel, and having slept on this ground, he awoke and found the bread baked on ashes and the cruse of water; he also dwelt in this cave, clothed in a sheepskin, the ancient garment of the first parents, replicated after such a long interval. And here he saw God in a gentle breeze and heard a voice proclaiming what was pleasing. The first and final proof of the patience and endurance of these men is this: they inhabit that desert for their whole life—a desert which the Israelites, when they passed through it, did nothing but murmur, though they fed on ambrosial food provided from heaven, only to grow weary of the table. Forty days they could not endure the absence of their leader, nor did they know how to properly manage the free will of their liberty, but they fell away quickly, abusing their freedom for impiety. Yet these [monks] spend all their time philosophizing in the desert, lacking even basic necessities, being to themselves the teachers of piety. ^C

NARRATIO IV.

With those thus disposed, and thus serving the Divine, suddenly, as expected as a storm—

^D

^A a barbarian horde fell upon us. And about the deep dawn, just when the holy Fathers had finished the service of the nightly hymns, the godless ones came upon these pious men. I myself happened to be there with my son, ^B having just come down from the holy mountain to visit the saints who were in the Bush, as I had long been accustomed to do. Like mad dogs, they rushed in, shouting meaninglessly, and gathered up all the winter provisions that had been prepared for food (for they freeze 62 the usable fruits of the trees, keeping them for such needs because they are able to last for a long time), and compelled us to carry these things ourselves. They drove us out of the church, and stripping us of our garments, they ordered those who were advanced in age to stand in a row, naked for slaughter. Then, standing around us, they drew their swords, savage with fury, their eyes 63 flashing with bloodlust, and turning their heads sideways, they first ordered the priest of the holy place to stretch out his neck. When this was done, another of those standing by inflicted a deep wound on his neck from behind. A second, imitating his companion, immediately redoubled the blow with a similar one; meanwhile, the saint did not cry out in such great pain, nor did he turn away his face, nor manifest any trace or indication of feeling, except by marking himself and whispering with his mouth, "Blessed be the Lord." One wound went from his shoulder blade to his jaw, passing through his ear, while the other went from his shoulder and reached his breast. And thus the blessed man ^C gently trembled 64 and fell, in a seemly manner, showing nothing unseemly neither in his execution nor in his nakedness. 65 And there was a certain grace blooming upon his body, covering the ugliness of his nakedness. The saint had predicted this almost to the hour, both by his deeds and by his words, having treated those present to a meal, contrary to custom, and saying, "For what do we know if, before death, the Lord gathers us all again to one hearth and table?" Then, having taken them, they put them to death, including the one living with the elder, and even him, who was aged in time and not a little worn ^D by the toils of asceticism.

^A And again, regarding the boy who served them, it happened in this way. One of the barbarians commanded him to gather for him some of the fruits which had been spilled. And he, having sat down quickly to please the one who had commanded him, spread out the fold of his garment, drawing the things lying near with his hands, as had been ordered (60), showing every diligence so as to appear apt for service, thinking that if he appeared diligent he might purchase his life. But this profited him nothing, nor did it soften the barbarian cruelty (67) toward the mildness of the reasoning which was far from what he expected. For another, standing behind, drew the sword from its sheath secretly. And he, whether sensing it being drawn, or even suspecting ^B the killing, as if terrified by the commotion, turned himself slightly backward, his face troubled with fear. And the one standing over him terrified him with a barbaric shout and with the distortion of his countenance; and thus the one who had set the sword upon the collarbone (68) drove it straight down with great force, from the hepatic suspensory ligament to the chest. But the other, before this was drawn out, fell over and lay dead, whether having died beforehand through cowardice, or else through the timeliness of the wound (69), not having had time to perceive death.

^A And the soul, having been quickly drawn out from the vessels of the body, was suddenly released from the bonds, with which it had with difficulty departed, being bound by violent knots. But as for us, I know not what the others suffered, but they drove us away, signaling with a gesture of the hand to flee; they were still holding their bloodied swords, and some of the others were running through the ravines, hastening to reach the mountain. For they do not advance upon that ^B (70), due to the belief that the Lord once stood upon it and spoke to the people. But I stood fast, paralyzed, overcome by helplessness, and being bound in my heart to the youth, I could not depart, nor was I pleased to be saved, being fettered by the bonds of nature, until the boy, beckoning with his eyes and signaling me to depart, with difficulty persuaded me to leave. And my feet indeed were going forward, and I know not how the whole body followed, ^C but the heart did not want to leave, constantly turning its gaze toward the boy, and in no way able to gather the cast of its eyes to itself, neither being occupied with walking, but turning piteously toward the back. I then went on toward the mountain, following those leading, and from a lookout point I watched the wretched boy being led away, and even he was not seen boldly, but was stealing toward those carrying him a sidelong glance in my direction (71). For such is the bond of nature; it is not loosed by the separation of bodies, but is intensified to something stronger. For when the soul does not have near it what it desires, it is excited all the more toward it, bringing it ^D and occupying the entire memory continuously, not having the object present to be able to satisfy the desire. And as for how great and how vast the pain of those thus separated is, those who have suffered it well know the experience; but let those who have not suffered it learn from the example of the irrational animals, in whom a self-taught, natural sympathy is deeply embedded.

^A For this force of nature of a settled relationship is such that it is not dissolved by separation, but is even intensified and strengthened; for when that which one loves is not present to the mind, the desire is irritated and moves more incitedly toward following, so that the memory of the beloved thing always besets and occupies the mind, while desire, frustrated in its vow, always solicits and reminds the spirit of that complaint, that it lacks that by which it can never be filled or satisfied if it does not attain it. How great, then, and what sort of pain that desire is, those who have experienced it know. But those who have not experienced it may take an argument to suspect it from the examples of brute animals of this kind; for in them a sense of affection for those of the same blood, participating in their evils, is so great and so imperial—not prescribed by any instruction, but infused by nature itself—that it has become deeply ingrained, as is manifestly understood from the mutual indications of the affection of offspring toward mothers and in turn when they are separated by force. For indeed, when a cow is led away and the calf is left behind, she bellows in a complaining manner, and returns a mutual voice to the one responding, constantly turned toward it, and by her very habit and the species of her eyes, she abundantly declares the magnitude of her pain. For since the young, by the nature of cattle, lacks an articulate voice with which to testify to its pain, it bears and displays manifest indications of hidden sadness fixed in its eyes, which, for the sake of lamenting its calamity, are to it in the place of a voice, because it is on that condition that it has no other interpreter of its innermost feelings and secret affection. But the steer, when it is torn away with great force, resisting with all its might and not enduring to be led away by force, either flees to the mother's udders as to a sacred asylum, and, since it lacks hands, clings to them at least with its lips and mouth. Or it circles the parent with an anxious run, declaring by that movement the annoyance of an offensive necessity, since nature denied it the use of language and voice with which it might announce its calamity by complaining. ^C When, therefore, I was on the top of the mountain, I do not know how (for my sense and reason were not with me, but I was following the boy with intent eyes, and my whole mind and thought, forgetful of self, was occupied in estimating his calamity), when, lo, he is withdrawn from my sight by too great an interval, already frustrating my vision. And when I now understood that there remained no hope of seeing him further, I turned to prayer and addressed God, following the captivity of my son and the slaughter of the saints with tears and lamentations, saying, "O blessed, and thrice blessed, where at last now are your labors of abstinence? Where are the toils of your patience? Have you received this crown of a long struggle? Are these the prizes that awaited you from your long asceticism? Is there, perhaps,"

^A a vain path for justice? Is it for nothing that one labors for virtue? Since divine providence left you to be slaughtered, being unable to help, and justice did not stand against those who were killing, but lawless hands prevailed against holy bodies, and impiety, exulting as if it had utterly defeated the truth, boasted of its victory over piety—how is it that the bush did not kindle the ancient flame [(76)]? How did it not burn up the attackers with its conflagration? Or why did the earth not open wide and swallow them, as it once swallowed the tents and families of the entire assembly of Core? And why did the terrifying prodigies of Mount Sinai grow quiet, with the sound of thunders, the gloom of darkness, and the flashes of boundless lightnings [(78)], which did not strike terror into the lawless? ^B But the defending power remained idle, neither punishing the wrongdoers with extraordinary thunderbolts and storms, nor stretching out a mighty hand to protect those being wronged, so that they too might have had the experience of a miracle, having learned the paradoxical power of the unconquerable force. But they fell at the very bush, and at the mountain of the giving of the Law, like brute beasts slaughtered, the pious left without help [(30)]. Where indeed was the power that submerged the Egyptians and fashioned the depths as a single tomb for them all at once? Where was the power that once struck down those foreigners fighting against the Israelites with an unusual hailstorm from above, granting a victory won without effort or blood to its own people? Or the power that, once again, threw them into a daze when they attacked the holy land, and turned them against one another in battle, so that they, blinded, did not realize they were killing each other and failed to recognize that they were slaughtering their own kinsmen? Where, then, did it hide its own alliance ^C and not cover those who were being plotted against? But it bridled the wild rages of the lions [(77)] that had been brought in, and the unconquerable power of the fire, honoring the reverence of the way of life, and proclaimed the children in their piety with a brilliant proclamation; how then did it make the virtue of these...

^A whom it left without any testimony, and gave an opportunity for the suspicion that they were unworthy to be so destitute of the care and aid of God?

But these things, indeed, up to this point, have been expressed by despondency and grief, which compel even those who struggle to be sober-minded in their calamities to turn to unseemly speech. And the passion has a tyrannical power, persuading the one who is suffering to say many things contrary to his better judgment, overcome perhaps by the magnitude of the circumstances. For often aid has left even the righteous, ^B handing them over to the torment of various tortures and unholy murder, so that the tried quality of the endurance of those who struggle may be shown, and the far-shining power of their faith may gleam, not lowering its boldness until death, but in the very act of suffering, entirely overcoming the madness of those acting against them. For they who remained did not wish to leave the desert, choosing the indifferent way of life in the cities; rather they chose death. So also, it was determined for those who were slaughtered to die ^C rather than to endure the wickedness practiced in the inhabited world. For they knew that the death of the soul is more grievous than the death of the body, and the one incurred through sin more dangerous than that by the sword; because the one has a small and temporary pain, but the other has long and lasting punishment.

When the Barbarians had killed many others throughout the desert and had wasted it, they departed a sufficient distance, and the night gave ^D us permission at last to proceed. Getting down, we turned to the burial of the bodies; some we found already dead, but the holy one still breathing and able to speak in some way. Sitting by him, we lamented the events and [related them]...

spending the night in tears, while the elder exhorted us not to be unsettled by such ^A trials. For he used to say that it is customary for Satan to request from God that those who are being tempted be tested. For how many, he said, did Job lose—some by fire, some by the sword, others he destroyed by the collapse of their house! But, he says, do not let these events shake you! For the trainer knows with what judgment he delivers his athletes to the adversary, having set forth bright prizes and rewards for those who patiently accept their wounds. And such things as the great Job shows, having received everything double, what seemed to have been lost—or rather, and by much greater and incomparably ^B superior things. For "what eye has not seen, and ear has not heard, and has not ascended into the heart of man, these things has God prepared for those who contend for His sake," the contests of piety surpassing both perception and the mind. For so it was fitting for God, the giver of great gifts, to surpass labors with rewards, and to conquer struggles with crowns, providing to those who fight things which hope did not have, nor were the things being given in expectation, so that He might both pay back the wages that are owed, and show grace in that very thing by crowning the merits with such an excess of glory. ^C When he said these things, he was kissing those present and greeting them so long as his strength provided him the ability to speak and move his tongue; until, when he passed away, we wept and committed him to the earth with the others. Having performed this duty, the darkness of night had not yet passed, so that we were able to arrive here to you unobserved and safely. Of those who were killed, two were named Paul and John, and the presbyter was Theodulus. They died having been brought to perfection after the Theophany on the ^D seventh day, which is the fourteenth of the month of January. For in any case, the learning of both the time and the names is eagerly sought by the pious, for they desire to share in the commemorations of the saints. Others also were killed many years before (82), whose commemoration they also perform on the same day, because of the length of the road and the multitude of those who have gathered.

phania, on the fourteenth day of the month of January. For in such matters, all pious and religious men are studious to keep the moments of time and the names of persons. But also, many years ago, others were similarly killed, whose memory they celebrate on this very same day, lest the great multitude be wearied by more frequent gatherings over such a long interval.

NARRATIVE V

^A During this exchange of words between us, it is announced that someone had escaped from the camp, and soon the same man was present, with the traces of fear not yet wiped from his mouth, nor his breath recovered from the vehement disturbance of his mind, whether from the intense running or from the anxiety of his spirit, still panting heavily, so miserably anxious as if the Barbarians were already pressing his heels and about to seize him from behind. This man, being asked later how he had escaped, said: "The Barbarians had agreed among the stars that they would sacrifice me and your son, who were talking over supper yesterday, and they had even raised an altar with wood placed upon it, while we were ignorant of why those things were being done; but one of my fellow captives, who had been able to understand what they were saying through some skill in the language, revealed the whole matter to me in secret. I, however, declared to your son what plan the Barbarians had taken, and added that unless we looked to our safety by flight, the sun would by no means rise for us the next day while we were alive, nor would any sight of light be enjoyed by our eyes thereafter. Although he heard these things, he remained, however, out of fear that if he were caught ^B he would be dragged back, delayed from executing the plan of flight. He answered, therefore, that if anything seemed good to God concerning him, or if he were to hide in the depths of the earth, he would not escape it, whatever that evil might be that was to happen, since He had so decreed it. But I, as I sensed that all were oppressed by a deeper sleep through the darkness, as they were drenched with much wine, crawling first in a very low path, lest, if anyone happened to be awake, the straight shadow of my body might betray me, thus having progressed a little from the camp, I seized the course toward this place, most rapidly, with fear adding wings, as happens, and I leaned into the flight with my whole mind fixed, weighing nothing; since I decided thus: either I would escape the designated slaughter, which I wished and hoped for; or if there were no outcome to my attempts, nothing more serious was to be suffered from flight than what was known to be prepared for me if I remained ^C in certain destruction, I decided to prefer a hope, however uncertain. For what I had discovered, if I remained...

^A in those I have trusted after God, I have been saved, and I am here among you, unharmed by anything, as you see, and sound. Yet I still have in my eyes the fear of the cruelty of the Barbarians, and I am struck with horror at their lawless deeds, and I am filled with shuddering at what was dared. For they seized my master—who, having finished his service with the military tribune, was returning to us through the desert—along with all his property, and they hacked limb from limb the other man who resisted, along with the domestics, and they led away my master, following them with his child (a boy, as you know, still quite young). When the sun was finally approaching the western horizon, they pitched their tents where dusk overtook them. And having made a great feast ^B from our spoils, they took this master of mine, along with the lad, to sup with them, bidding them to be of good cheer and not to fear in the least; for—as they lied—he would return home safe and unharmed with the child, the others being sufficient as a ransom for the two souls. And before long they seemed to fulfill their promise, allowing them to go off by themselves, and to carry water and to collect bread for provisions, for the sake of the plausibility of their ruse—so that the hope of life, based on the supplies, might make the deception credible, and the tent and the barbaric roof might seem to be truly a help, utterly unsuspected of the artifice of a plot.

^C They designated two robust youths as escorts, ostensibly for the safety of their journey, whom they commanded secretly to slaughter them once they had led them a little apart from the camp. So, these "noble" escorts, rising up against those they were leading aside, began the slaughter with the boy, so that by both the cruel sight and the sad experience of a death not his own, and by the death of the one, the father's wretched senses might be doubled in suffering—which they immediately likewise...

^A killed him with many wounds, as he lamented his betrayal and the ambush with loud cries. For I heard the one wailing pitifully, and the other shouting in pain, and at each blow he uttered a groan in a ^B wretched voice, and was marking the wounds by the rhythmic sound of his cries. This man, then, having been deceived by fair promises, suffered a miserable destruction. For he ought to have divined his own fate from the evils of others, from which it was no longer possible to escape death, but he might have endured calmly what he had long anticipated. For an unexpected evil disturbs everything when it arrives, whereas an expected evil, finding the mind prepared for the trial, makes the hardship lighter, having been pondered beforehand in thought many times, and does not startle the one who is prepared by its presence. ^C For on the evening at the supper, during which they were vying with each other in toasts, wishing to play a game customary and friendly to them—and the future entertainment was to be murder and the slaughter of a man—they sent a cup to be drunk by one of his own servants ^D (having already slaughtered another just before). He received it most unwillingly, his appetite having died before his body through fear, yet he did receive it, compelled by the same fear that held him back. But as he drank, he easily showed how unwillingly he did it, so harshly did the murmur escape, as the liquid struggled to flow through his throat as if over jagged rocks, then as if stalling on the obstructed way of his gullet, and from there even overflowing onto his chin and beard, while the water, through such difficult passage amid the unpleasant sounds of noisy swallowing as if over a rough descent, was sent down into his vitals, with his appetite now nearly dead and no longer serving, as it usually did, to facilitate the passage of the desired drink. This

^A youth, having performed his job, was sent away; for they are accustomed to use youths for such slaughters, so that from their earliest years they might accustom them to cruelty. But he, exulting and triumphing with joy, hastened to the inhuman deed; and soon, as he did the work, he grinned, showing by his laughter how gladly he was doing it. Then, standing over the one cast down, he first inflicted a wound upon the vertebrae of the neck, which was not deep because of the hardness of the bones; wherefore, having drawn the sword upwards again, he pierced him on both sides through the ribs; and testing his weapon again in the same spot where he had struck before, he jumped back, brandishing the blade. But the wretch, agonizing for a long time and groaning from the pain, wallowed in his blood. Finally, when he had coiled himself into a heap, with his head bent toward his stomach and his feet drawn up to it, just as though he intended by this curling to rise, he tumbled down upon the nearby, larger bed of burning coals; and as was to be expected, sensing the pain of the fire, he struggled again with his hands and feet more violently, of necessity, like a fish, lifting the part of his body that was being roasted. But being no longer able to help himself, his strength having ebbed away with his blood, he was consumed and died, having been tortured by the two-fold punishment ^B of the sword and the fire.

The next day, after this tragedy had played out, they were wandering as in a desert, with an uncertain path, and as every impassable place appeared, they turned their march now one way, now another, often avoiding the roughness of the mountains by making a circuit, and with modest care to find a shortcut, they sought the ease of the way as much as they could by avoiding steep and rugged places, mostly in vain; for as in a vast wilderness where there were no paths trodden by the feet of anyone before, they were compelled to traverse on foot the bristling forests and rocky chasms. Thus, I say, having progressed a little, they saw in the distance a verdant place, not indeed overly luxuriant, but conspicuous far and wide with a certain abundance and joy of grass. It was not seen in vain; conjecturing that it would be suitable for pitching camp, they suddenly designated it as their station, with the added hope, plausible enough, that some followers of the monastic life would be found there. Therefore, they turned their sign, by which they marked their path in the vast sea of the wilderness, just as one might mark a port at sea, directing the way for their pack animals, which were even themselves accustomed to following it. When they arrived, they found nothing less than they had hoped for. There was a large quantity of most limpid water, delighting the eyes with its crystalline appearance even before the taste. Nor did it disappoint their expectation: it was no less sweet to those drinking it than it was clear to those looking upon it. ^C

As for the boy, from the pain—he kicked about—he rolled about in the blood. ^D

^A They surrounded the cave. This dwelling was built of a few ^B stones, so that it might not provide an easy entrance for the beasts into the void. Then, a few of them running in one by one (for it did not hold many), they lead out a man who was venerable both in his appearance and his way of life. And they led him along, dragging him, not having been disturbed or having grown pale, and having placed him upon a certain rock (for they did not have their swords), they kill him, laughing and singing victory songs with their voices. Then, having come a short distance from there, they seize another youth, pale, wasted, and bearing on his face the traces of his way of life. And they dispatched him ^C in like manner with a sword, he uttering words of thanksgiving and expressing gratitude to them, because they were leading him out of life while he was still holding fast to virtue; for he kept saying that he feared not a little the uncertainty of the end, lest there be a turning of his judgment, or some necessity from without might incline his resolve to the contrary by being persuaded or compelled to think things other than what he had confessed to God. We had not proceeded far from there, and already a certain place appears, grassy; and there were trees, plants ^D that displayed such an appearance of the place. And again, a rush of the Barbarians upon it, and with the swiftness of feet they hurried.

^A And the Barbarians, having approached, found a small dwelling, and within it a youth whose nobility and magnanimity were a marvel even to the Barbarians themselves. For he would not consent to reveal the hidden monasteries, even though the condition of his own safety was offered if he should do so; nor did he choose to come out of his cell or to cast off his tunic, saying that to disclose those who were able to remain hidden would be treachery, and that to yield to those who were using force and injury in anything whatsoever would be a mark of pusillanimity and cowardice. For he said that it is not right for those who practice magnanimity to yield to fear, even though the threat may seem to contain no small danger. For habit becomes a path toward greater things; and cowardice, once it has learned to rule, dictates contempt, and orders one to betray even great goods, and teaches one to betray virtue itself, whenever the fear of terrible things discovers the mind already fallen before it. ^B For if I should now easily surrender the autonomy and self-determination of my reasoning, fearing a quick death, how, when tortures lie ahead and rackings are threatened, shall I not play the deserter to impiety, accustomed to prefer the painless to what is advantageous? Wherefore, having despaired of obtaining what you hoped for from me, I think you should not hesitate to do whatever you please to determine concerning me; for not only would I not indicate to you the places in which the lovers of God dwell, even if I knew them, but I will not stir a foot ^C from here at your command; nor will I take off my garment, nor will I permit anyone, while I am conscious and in control of myself, to see my body naked, which I have not permitted even my own eyes to look upon until now. But after my death, let every man deal with me as he wishes in accordance with his own lust; for those things, whatever they may turn out to be, are no concern of mine. Nor can any reproach be laid against me here, as if I had been conquered by weakness or led away from my purpose, for I would not be judged by the will; but all the odium is poured out upon necessity and upon the patience that is stripped of the power of choice and virtue, and upon a corpse devoid of reason and sense. ^D For what is lifeless is entirely insensible; and what lacks sensation is unable to experience or judge what it is suffering; and finally, what does not have judgment and sense of the evil that it suffers is, by every judgment, absolved of crime in the things it suffers, being deprived, of course, of the liberty of suffering or not suffering. Therefore, I shall die here inside, clothed as I am, in accordance with this practice which I profess; nor shall surrendered liberty—

allow me to do anything other than what my conscience and my own judgment dictate. And in this very stadium in which I have wrestled, this hut, which was the dwelling of the living, shall also be the tomb of the dead; and this soil, which has drunk up the sweats of my labors, shall likewise, upon the path of endurance now set before me for the sake of virtue, swallow my blood." ^A Since they could endure no longer that he should proclaim this freely and gloriously, the sacrilegious men, goaded to fury by his nobility, struck him down with as many blows as his body could receive, like men driven mad and possessed by an evil spirit. For since each of them desired to vent all his own anger upon him, and no one thought the wounds already inflicted by the swords of others were sufficient for his revenge, unless he too might dip his own blade in the hated blood and somehow assuage, by his own hand, the retribution for the indignation conceived from his magnificent words, they all wanted to imbue themselves in the blood of the magnanimous martyr, and many even wounded him when he was already dead. Thus, at last, they withdrew, still sick with rage and dissatisfied with themselves because they felt they had by no means been able to exact enough punishment from a body that was capable of receiving only a few wounds.

^B After he had been killed, three men occurred to us ^C traveling through the desert, providing a timely solace to the Barbarians’ anger, which was not yet satisfied, and which, still seething from the recent disturbance, they poured out in its entirety upon the wretches, raging with such fury that they seemed to have completely exhausted the remnants of their cruelty and indignation in tearing them to pieces. For with as great and savage an impulse as wild beasts or voracious hunting dogs, once they have lost the prey that was once clearly seen at a suitable distance, are snatched back toward it when it appears again, following it with the most intense agitation and leaving nothing undone—so that they might compensate for the harm or disgrace of the previous failed opportunity with a later success, if they could—with just as much and no less sharp a struggle did these bloodthirsty men run toward the wretched travelers as soon as they appeared, having already drawn their swords from afar. Having caught up with them soon after, they slaughtered them with such cruelty that, if the man who had provoked their fury with his noble words had been offered to them again, they could have added nothing to the atrocity with which they raged against these new victims. They had not yet returned their swords to their scabbards, but were still holding them—bare and stained with warm and indeed steaming blood—in their hands, when they saw two huts, the dwellings of as many monks, not directly opposite to those walking along the path, but transversely on either side, situated at an interval of thirty stadia from each other; we were in the exact middle of this space.

we were holding, so that from where we stood to either side, towards the small houses, as if from a center to a circumference, equal lines could be drawn to a length of fifteen stadia on either side. Therefore, having divided the company, we hastened in different directions, leaving all the spoils they had gathered in that same place where they were with the beasts of burden. Now, in what way the one who was to the south was killed, or who or what sort he was, I could not know. Regarding him who was distant from us towards the north, because I approached closer, I have something to say about him. When he, from the sound of the arrows and quivers of the Barbarians running toward him—a collision that signaled his imminent danger—had understood the situation and taken to flight, the Barbarians, drawing their bows, pierced him through with many javelins. When he had fallen on his face, they did not permit him to die from the wounds he had already received (though these were lethal both in gravity and in number), but having turned him over while he was still breathing and trailing his soul with difficulty in his final gasps, they cut him from the groin up to the breast, and with poles they stirred up his still-breathing viscera, recently opened, and whatever entrails or chest organs were surrounding his sides on either side, turning and mixing them. And they did not withdraw until they had torn them out and shredded them. Content to have seen only this far, at this critical turn of events I took to flight, as I have already mentioned; counting it as gain, as was likely, that I would suffer from their great cruelty. But as for your son who remained, I do not know what happened to him. I left him alive and safe, but by no means with firm hope for the future, on account of the report of his destined slaughter, which had reached our ears secretly and by a whisper of the hidden counsel of the Barbarians.

NARRATIVE VI.

^B When I had heard this, and furthermore had the image of the nocturnal vision recently presented to my senses fixed upon me (for I had seemed in my sleep to be reading a letter recently handed to me by one of my acquaintances, which, before I could unfold it, held me in wonder because of the title inscribed on the outer fold, which read thus: "To my master after God and father, Theodulus, who has departed from the miseries of mortality"), what then do you think I suffered, or with what spirit do you think I received these things ^C (if any part of my soul still remained in one so struck by such a report)? Surely the force of the pain was wounding my heart, tearing my viscera, and the strength and vigor of my body had languished as if my sinews were loosed, and all my limbs were melting away in pouring sweat. For no longer was there any room for the soul to occupy itself with even a doubt, or a wavering suspicion concerning his death, now that it was confirmed by the trustworthy testimony of two witnesses. And as if thunderstruck by the sudden noise of a thundercloud, I did not weep anymore, nor did I lament, but I gazed fixedly at him with unblinking eyes.

For that power which governs the eyelids had become completely numb within, and remained inactive, leaving behind as dead the senses which are naturally steered by skill. For such is the overwhelming grief that it makes men vacant and more insensible than stones, and it freezes the moisture of tears below, preventing it from reaching the eyes through the thickness of the spirit. And by divine providence, a certain woman from that place, whose son was that lad who had been slain (for the names of those who were killed were finally declared by those who had been able to escape notice), with difficulty roused me from that numbness. ^A For when she learned that her son had been slaughtered, and that he had contended bravely against those who killed him—thereby demonstrating by his deed the kinship he had with her, showing herself indeed to be his true mother—she put on bright clothing, and, having completely changed her demeanor to a more cheerful one, she lifted her hands to heaven, sending up such words to God the Savior: "I entrusted the boy to you, Lord, and he is saved for me both now and to the ages; I have entrusted the lad to you, and he has been kept safe, ^B truly and uninjured. For I do not consider that he has died, nor how he has ended his life, but that he has escaped the trial of all sin; I contemplate, not that his body was pierced and he endured a bitter death, but that he brought his soul pure and blameless there, and committed his spirit unstained to your hands. I count the wounds as prizes. I measure the injuries as crowns. ^C Would that your body could have contained even more, my child, so that the rewards might have become more numerous for you! From this, pay me the wages of my pregnancy! From this, provide the recompense for my pangs of labor! From this, offer the honors for my nursing! Share with me the prizes of your toils; for the struggle was common to both of us. You fought, and I cherished the wounds of the struggle; you contended, and I rejoice with you in the contest. You stood against barbarian wrath, and I against the tyranny of nature... ^D and I share in the struggle with you. You have fought, and I have held your wounds in high regard; you have contended, and I have your struggle.

^A for I have engaged in battle with the barbarian’s unbridled fury. You despised death, and I despised the bowels of a mother. You bore the pain of your deadly wounds with patience, while I constantly endure the far sharper torment of my own bowels being torn asunder at this very moment. And if someone should judge that my evils do not seem more bearable than yours, realize that while you may surpass me in the sting and sharpness of pain, I, in turn, surpass you in the greater length and endurance of my suffering. For although a cruel death, conjoined with the most acute torments, was dealt to you, it was nevertheless quickly concluded. But for me, this slow, idle pain twists and consumes. Yet if I spurn it with reason, it does not mean that I do not feel it; rather, I suppress the feeling of nature with the judgment of virtue. The pain stings, indeed, and because I bear it lightly, it is not due to a numbness of feeling, but to constancy. I feel, I say, the torments of a convulsive womb, and now in your death, as once in your birth, the bonds and wrappings of nature are broken. But the authority of wisdom, rising higher, treads down and crushes the perturbation that swells and surges from this, and asserts its rights over the mind. For what, I ask, is the fruit of mad and rabid mourning, which, however much it tears itself apart, can never restore the loss for which it rages? Therefore, I have not imitated common mothers, who in such circumstances conduct themselves so flabbily and dissolutely, causing such great commotions and tragedies, that they appear to remember themselves as mothers only of flesh and bodies, and not of souls, and to have fixed all the reasons for their hope in this one sorrowful life. It is not surprising, then, that in their ignorance of a future, happier life, they bear the departure of their loved ones so heavily. But I have not rent my tunic, nor have I beaten my bared breast with my hands. I have not torn my hair, nor disfigured my face with my nails, fortified by this conviction: that you live, and that you are enjoying an immortal and true life, and that I, in not much time—as my age is already on the decline—will have you there as the guardian of my old age, whenever and by whatever chance this earthen vessel of mine shall be shattered. O happy me among mothers, who have produced such a fierce combatant for God! Happy, and thrice happy! For now, at last, I truly dare to glory, since you, whom alone I feared, have been removed to a place where you are far beyond any risk of that danger which alone kept me anxious: that some envy of sinister fortune might divert my hopes concerning you, and that the snares laid for your innocence might bring your soul into peril of its salvation. But now, go secure, O son, journey on this most beautiful pilgrimage: go; for it is for me a sufficiently great consolation to have the conscience of such great praise of my own, that I will either concede the primacy of this glory to the patriarch Abraham, or I will consider myself next after him in place of dignity. For that man indeed stood ready with a prompt mind and brought his son to the altar, as God ordered it so. But it remains uncertain whether, after the holocaust was consumed, he would have persisted. ^{B C}

^A But I now, as I stand with the greatest fortitude of soul after the devastation, transform all the grief of my bereavement and my misguided laments into virtuous words. For it happens that even for those who were previously invincible, time, by prolonged duration, gradually wears away the tension of their resolve, and they give in to distress; and memory, by renewing the image of the past evil, offers to the mind—intent upon the conflict itself—a harmful capacity and leisure to reflect carefully on how heavy and bitter that calamity was. It is, in fact, difficult and most arduous from the outset to sustain for a long time a judgment of reason that is upright and, as it were, confirmed, so that it never inclines; for the soul, being by nature fickle, is free even to decide upon things contrary to what it had established before.

There was a time when I lamented my widowhood, and I groaned as one helpless at the desolation caused by the loss of your father's care. But now, what need is there to weep or to lament, when I have such a patron before God, one so gracious and powerful, that it is easiest for you to drive away all evil from me from that place; and since you have there the greatest capacity ^B to provide me with all that abundance which will be needed to cherish and bless my old age, being moved to the eternal and perennial fountain of graces, with the greatest power to draw from it as generously as you wish and to channel it to me, or rather to pour it forth more liberally than if you were still alive and administering the royal treasuries? For from the resources of these, whatever little is taken is certainly missing from the total, as those things have a limited measure, but for those who are in heaven, the supply that gushes forth will never fail. ^C

To these things I was bowed down, having been thus softened ignobly by the suffering of my child, and having shown myself weaker than a woman in courage. I was ashamed before those present; I marveled at her, I mocked myself, having received the blows of that noble woman’s words, and having judged my own sanity to be madness compared to her wisdom. For having thought it just to complain to God about what I had suffered, I only then understood that I had sinned when, by the example of the woman, I learned that the assault of every terrible thing is endurable. For the conscience, having fallen into despondency at what is considered insufferable, is often roused to cheerfulness by the vigilance ^D of one who has suffered the same, having easily learned from one who has overcome this that one should not easily yield to suffering.

It seemed good, therefore, to the counsel of those inhabiting Pharan, after hearing the reports, not to be silent about what had been dared, but to make this known to the king of the barbarians. And so they send to him two

^A runners—those whom they themselves call *hemerodromoi*—to complain of the injury of the broken treaty. These are young men, slightly older than adolescents, with the first down of youth upon them, who publicly offer their services for this task, carrying nothing more than their bows and arrows, javelins, and stones for throwing. For these things are useful for their sustenance on the journey: some for hunting, and others for providing fire for cooking. For wood is abundant in every place for them, and there is a great supply of brushwood, since no one in the desert cuts down what grows there. While these men were finishing that journey, we set out to collect the bodies, and arriving on the fifth day, we found the slain having suffered nothing of what the nature of corpses left dead for many days usually inflicts: no foul odor, no unpleasant appearance such as is usual for bodies that are decomposing and wasting away, and not even defiled by any bite of carnivorous birds or wild beasts. ^B And the slave of Magadon had told us how much time had passed since they were killed; for that was the name of the senator whom we said above had been slaughtered by the barbarians. Now these are the names of the slain (99): At Bethrambe, Proclus; Hypatius in the mansion of Salael; Macarius and Marcus were killed outside the mansions in the desert, and Benjamin in the outer desert of Elim. Eusebius was at Thola, and Elias at Aze, of whom we found one of the two pierced with many wounds, yet still drawing breath. We lifted him from the ground and carried him into the cell, and having composed him there somehow for burial, we turned ^C to the others. [alt-version omitted]

[index: entries preserved]

NOTES OF PETRUS POSSINUS

(99) These names of places and men were very mangled in the codices. Nor did the former interpreter read them as we have them now. Moreover, it will perhaps not be unwelcome to read here what the Greeks relate about these Fathers in their Menologium on the 14th of January: These, desiring the ascetic life, having said farewell to all things of the world, dwelt in the desert. With whom was the blessed Nilus, having been prefect of Constantinople, who both by the power of his discourse and by the grace of the Holy Spirit, set down most excellent writings inciting to asceticism, and described the conduct, captivity, and slaughter of these holy Fathers. For these were slain by the barbarians called Blemmyes, who were spread out along the desert from Arabia to Egypt and the Red Sea. And many years before, during the reign of Diocletian the emperor, and when Peter was archbishop of Alexandria, others were also slain—those who were also situated on Mount Sinai. Having gone forth—they send to Sparta a herald, Phidippides, a man of Athens, but otherwise a *hemerodromos*, who studies this . ^D

^A exactly as he promised, that we might care for him while he was still alive after fulfilling our duty to the dead. But his death cut short our return; for on returning, we found him lifeless and lying near the water-jar; because of the inflammation from his wounds, he had suffered a great thirst, and overcome by his need for a drink, he had fallen forward onto his knees, and in that posture, his soul had departed from him. We performed the funeral rites for him as we had for the others, and from there we withdrew, intending to learn if any news had been reported in the meantime by the ruler of the Barbarians.

^B Just as we were entering Pharan, the envoys arrived, carrying letters from him which both confirmed peace and ordered the injured parties—especially the relatives of those captives who were still alive—to come to him. He also declared that if anyone wished to seek justice for those who had been murdered, he was prepared to hand over the guilty to be punished, and he confessed that he would return all the spoils to those who had been plundered. For, as he indicated, he did not wish to break the terms of peace, cherishing his covenant with them because of the consolation he received from them; for the intercourse with them brings them no small profit, as they are aided in the stresses of their scarcity by their abundance. Having therefore prepared gifts and appointed envoys for the renewal of the peace that had been broken, they sent them off the next day, along with us, who were following, truly, in a bright hope.

On the eighth day of our journey (for the path to him was twelve days in total), we were set in a scarcity of water, and there was great distress from thirst; and finally death, which always lies in wait for those in need, was expected. Those who were experienced in the region said that there was a spring nearby; and this comforted the many who were exhausted, easing their present plight with expectation of what was to come. For hope, dreaming of truth, nourishes the soul no less than the complete despair [which it] beguiles with expectation, raising up again that which had fallen from strength with the hand of hope. Many, therefore, ran ahead, striving to reach the object of their search before the crowd, and longing to enjoy in safety that which they— ^C For the Saracens who themselves dwelt on Mount Sinai, upon the death of their own chieftain, murdered many of the ascetics. When the rest fled to the fortress, a flame of fire appeared to the Saracens through the night, burning the whole mountain; and the flame rose up as far as the sky. Seeing this, the Saracens were terrified, and throwing down their weapons, they fled. Those who were first slaughtered were thirty-eight, bearing various wounds upon their bodies. Of these, two were taken alive, Sabbas and Esaias; but as for those who were murdered, some were completely beheaded, while on others [the head] was not completely severed, but was still attached to the body on one side by the skin. Others were cut in the middle, whom the two monks buried, having related what happened regarding them. ^D Those whom we call Blemmyes. Who possess the wilderness widely from Arabia as far as Egypt and the Red Sea. Furthermore, long before these times, in the reign of Diocletian, and while Peter was ruling the Church of Alexandria, others also who were solitaries, themselves students of the tranquil life on Mount Sinai, had been slain. For the Saracens, who themselves inhabit Mount Sinai, making an excursion upon the death of their ruler, killed many monks. But as the rest had been received in flight into a fortified place, a flame of fire appeared by night to the Saracens, burning the whole mountain, and from there reaching up to the sky: having seen which, the Barbarians were terrified, and throwing away their arms, they gave themselves to flight. But those who were first slain were numbered at thirty-eight, cut by various wounds. From them, two furthermore were taken alive, Sabbas and Esaias. But as for those who were killed, for some the head was entirely cut off. For some, it was not entirely, but still hung by the skin on one side to the body. For some, the wound reached half the depth of the neck. These the two monks buried, who also recounted what we said about them. This [from the] Menologium.

^A Since the hope of success led them, they kept searching from afar with intent gaze, as if scrutinizing the hidden thing with their eyes as with a lamp. I, for my part, followed at a slow and leisurely pace behind those who had run ahead; as another might perhaps say, hindered by the weakness of old age and unequal to those who were stronger through youth; but as I say, because I did not wish to affront the dignity of my station with an unseemly dash. For I still possessed strength enough, and I was not so afflicted by total impotence that I was unequal to the necessity itself, which, as we know, often urges on an effort beyond one’s strength, and imparts to the body, however oppressed, the impetus for any strenuous haste, and sometimes excites one to rush forward even more than the powers of healthy men could promise. ^B And I, walking in this way, kept to the path that led straight to the spring, of which an intervening hill intercepted the view from the opposite side, so that my cleverness was not in vain when I persisted in following the middle way while my companions ran off to either side. I reckoned that by so doing I would not stray, and would reach more directly the spring which we were all seeking; but as I surmounted the slope of the hill and looked down from the summit at the regions below, I was the first of all to see the spring and the Barbarians swarming around it. Yet at that sight I was not disturbed, as it was natural for one to be who had fallen unexpectedly upon most savage enemies. ^C But I felt neither great fear nor a complete absence of it, but rather something in between, and I consoled myself in such a predicament with the following thought: for I told myself that I would either find the boy among them, and would willingly serve as a slave together with him, while enjoying the sight of the one I longed for, and tempering the bitterness of slavery with the pleasure of seeing him; or I would be killed, and thus find at last an end to my unending grief. ^D But they, immediately leaping up, all ran toward me in a pack. And as I was begging for nothing but was lost in thought, fixed to the spot in a keen and attentive silence, they harassed and dragged me in the manner of Barbarians; but those others who were with me, having been sent ahead to search for water, when they saw them—and not having been seen by them in turn—quietly and quickly made their retreat, creeping along the ground in snake-like fashion to steal away their flight, rather cautiously than boldly, with great care not to reveal themselves by any sound. I, meanwhile, being dragged and hauled and suffering every kind of cruel and violent treatment, was so composed that I neither exercised my reason, nor indeed perceived any sensation... [index: entries preserved]

^A with regard to the objects of my fancy. For whatever the mind has imprinted upon its imagination, this it seems to see with the eyes, fashioning it for itself, casting upon all things the form of what it desires, because of its longing for the story. And not much time had passed ^B after these things were accomplished, when lo, the fighting men of our power were present; and appearing aloft upon the hill, they caused great consternation among the Barbarians. For as they signaled their presence with a shout, there was no one who remained in his place; and the space which, a short time before, was teeming with bodies, was suddenly shown to be bare. For each one, hastening to save himself, fled—unable to take anything with him—and ran in haste, as if pursued by a panic terror. So great a fear of those who had appeared fell upon them, from such great security, that they did not even turn to look back at the pursuit, nor did they suspect the possibility of being overtaken; rather, they imagined that those who were following them were always at their heels with drawn swords, and were striking some, and had killed many, and they deemed their own panic-stricken noise to be the presence of the enemies. Until the distance of their flight ^C barely gave them time to breathe, affording them the opportunity to look aside and see their pursuers. For fear makes one imagine the pressing dangers to be greater, and prepares the mind to fancy things more numerous than the truth, as cowardice increases the reality of the situation. Having arrived, therefore, they found what had been left behind by those who fled, and these men made for themselves great rejoicing from those abandoned supplies, remaining there for the rest of the day.

Having traveled for four other days, we arrived at the camp. And having been announced, the envoys were summoned ^C to meet with Ammanes (for this was the name of the king of the Barbarians), to whom, having presented the gifts, they received a favorable response. A royal tent was prepared for them nearby, for the sake of honor, and they were treated with the utmost kindness and hospitality. Meanwhile, until a careful investigation should bring to light what things these were, and whose...

^A heart of mine was heaving with vigorous [(4)] palpitations, and I was trembling at the news. Every sound from any quarter seemed to me to be whispering the information concerning the one for whom I was anxious; my ears were alert to the resonances of their voices, and my mind interpreted them like messengers, looking to see if perhaps they might bring word of the child's life or his death. For he who is left in uncertainty regarding the object of his intense concern, and is torn by doubt, is tossed about unsteadily until a clear revelation of the truth dissolves the knot of doubt and secures the otherwise wandering [(5)] [(6)] mind. But when they arrived with faces not at all cheerful, as I surmised from their downcast look that they were the messengers of gloomy tidings, "You have no need," I said, "of speech; for the countenance itself describes the calamity by its very appearance, and the emotion ^B proclaims what is about to be announced in words, having arrived before the tongue with its expression." I shall not be deceived by plausible apologies, nor shall I be outwitted by words contrived for the sake of reasonableness [(20)]. "Perhaps a clever excuse has been concocted for my consolation, wishing to hide for a while behind a seemly lie the painful truth. But I do not pay attention to words that can be deceptively framed for plausibility; I look at the emotion of the soul in the face. For this is an image of that emotion, clearly characterizing the disposition hidden within, and not being of such a nature that it can show on the surface a state of mind different from what it keeps concealed in its depth. For speech can announce even painful things with the elegance ^C of utterance, and can, whenever it wishes, put on a [(7)] demeanor ^D of cheerfulness.

VARIOUS READINGS FROM THE ALLATIAN CODICES

PETRUS POSSINUS' NOTES

^A nor does it, like a harlot covering her natural beauty with artistic adornment, transform the truth with deceptive colors. The face, however, cannot endure to conceal the passions of the soul, but becomes an incorruptible accuser of what is hidden, revealing the inner state through an outward manifestation, and is unable to deceive the sorrowful with a forced smile; just as a mirror cannot show a bright and blooming face when it is cast down with gloom, for it is its nature to shadow forth whatever expression is bent over it. Therefore, either speak the truth to me plainly as I entreat you, or know that you have expressed it with your countenances, as I have already said. For what profit is there in soothing the sufferer for a little while with a false consolation, only to wound him more grievously later when the grievous truth is discovered? ^B By many oaths, therefore, they assured me he was not dead, but was alive and sold to one of the people in the city of Elusa, and they advised me to depart, saying I would find the lad there. They did not, however, fully heal the grief, though they did so in part. For I reasoned, if he is alive, and the fear of death—which is greater than anything—has been lifted, yet he is enslaved, having been sold, and is prevented from enjoying my company; for necessity, hindering the impulses of the will and restraining the freedom of the mind by an alien command, does not make the pain purely clear. Since the soul naturally wishes to luxuriate in its autonomy and to unreservedly enjoy its own inclinations as it wills, it is in no way forced to serve against its will. ^C Nevertheless, I later proceeded to the promised city with the two guides they had given me, and along the way a young man met us, following some pack animals. This man had seen me in the camp, and was fully convinced of my situation, knowing that he had certainly been in Elusa and had learned of the matters regarding the boy, how he had been taken by the Bar- ^D barians, and he explained to me the things concerning me, and carried letters...

which he brought as good tidings from him to me. ^B Seeing me from afar, he began to approach with a smile; and I, in my memory, recognized that his expression was neither unknown nor strange to me upon first encounter. And when he drew near, as if he were not a stranger, he greeted me with a cheerful face, and raising his right hand, he bent it backward, and resting his palm upon his shoulder, with his fingertips he drew a letter from the quiver hanging behind him and delivered it to me, bringing me the good news that the son was alive, exhorting me to be of good cheer and not to lose hope, as if [the boy] were a slave deprived of good things; for he who had purchased him was a priest of the divine mysteries of Christ. And it was said that the boy was already serving in the priestly order, having been entrusted with the first duties of the sextons. And he showed high hopes for his progress due to his zeal, as he had provided great proof of virtue in a short time, and had convinced everyone to vote in favor of this, having guided them toward it by his goodness of character. I, for my part, being destitute and homeless, repaid him with words of praise, and I uttered a prayer for many good things for him, since I had nothing with which to honor him for his fair service; but I entrusted the whole matter of providence to God, and to Him I offered thanksgiving ^C for this unexpected joy, as He had begun to loosen the misfortune that seemed so impossible to escape, and to restore to us our ancient prosperity. When I arrived in the city, I first sought out the holy temple as the cause of my blessings, and I paid it the honor that was due, watering the floor with my tears and filling the house of God with the cries of my lamentation (9). Guided from there, I came to the house where the boy was staying, many having preceded me and hastened to arrive before my arrival with the good news. For everyone knew from the preceding report that I was the frequently talked-of father of the boy who had been sold to them, and there was no one who did not show the proofs of joy in their demeanor. Each one, seeing a person who had been given up as lost as if he were their own, manifested the congratulatory nature of their character with a cheerful face, leaping for joy. So when we drew near to the door, many called out to him, and having told him that I had arrived, they brought him out to meet me ^D.

VARIÆ LECTIONES EX CODD. ALLATIANIS. (9) *Cries of lamentation.* What is this, tears in joy and thanksgiving? Doubtless there are also tears of joy. Elegantly, Saint Jerome, in his Epistle to Lucinius, when weeping for joy: "I suffer," he says, "the pain of sorrow from the magnitude of my joy; and whatever words are uttered amid tears, even if they are otherwise signs of congratulation rather than of sorrow, can yet be called cries of lamentation."

^A When we saw one another, neither he nor I showed any signs of joy; rather, we both began to lament, bathing our faces and the tunics upon our chests with tears. He ran toward me, not recognizing me right away—for my head was disheveled and my clothing filthy, so that I could not easily be identified—but he trusted in those who had informed ^B him more than his own eyes, it would seem, extending his arms to me as if to embrace me eagerly. I, however, even with a crowd around him, recognized him quickly, for he still bore the same features of his countenance, which were clearly imprinted on my memory through my constant meditation. Unable to contain my joy, I suddenly felt the muscles of my body give way, and I collapsed, lying motionless on the ground, so that in the eyes of many I appeared to be dead. And indeed, for a long time I had differed from a corpse in nothing at all, save for seeing and breathing, while I was dead in spirit. Then, embracing and clasping me, he with difficulty made me recover from my faintness, so that I might know who I was, where I happened to be, and whom I was looking upon with my eyes. I, in turn, grabbed him, and returning his kisses, I embraced him in the same way, satiating myself beyond measure with a long-held desire. Then, turning to speech, I excused myself and convinced him that I had been the cause of all the evils he had suffered, by leading him out of his homeland and causing him to live in a region that was being constantly pillaged. And as I spoke, it was the truth: for once, living in the land that had reared me, and dwelling in the land of my birth, he had experienced nothing unseemly, nor was there any fear of such treachery from any quarter. Away with those who imagine that destiny is inescapable, and who say that a certain necessity drags those who suffer toward what is fated. Finally, I urged him to recount his experiences during the time he had been among the barbarians. For indeed, the telling was no longer painful, with the ordeal having passed. For just as health after sickness, and healing after wounds, brings joy and not sorrow, so too does the narration of dismal things after ^C their expiration bring a certain pleasure, and perhaps as much as the ordeal itself had brought pain.

changes has much pleasure, and perhaps as much as the trial had pain. ^B

NARRATION VII

Then he, drawing a heavy sigh from the depths and filling his eyes with tears, said: "What fruit, Father, is there in the recollection of troubles? For memory is wont to irritate and aggravate the wounds of him who has finished with his distress. And even if the narrative, by reason of the love of stories, charms the ears of the listener and creates a pleasure otherwise in others' sufferings, it nevertheless does not leave him who has experienced them free from pain, for it moves the sympathetic [feeling] toward past suffering just as if it were a scar not yet well healed, giving pain at the touch. But since I know that you will not leave off from this bothering until you learn what you desire (for you seek to have a subject for a doxology from the wondrous nature of my salvation, and you are accustomed to praise God for any benefits that occur), hear with a manly spirit, and do not, by sympathizing with fatherly bowels at the harshness of the ^C misfortunes that have befallen me, break me down with your wailings or lamentations, nor interrupt the delivery of my account so that my voice is hidden by the sounds of weeping. Much of what happened after the flight of the Magadonian servant you heard already; and to repeat those things in speech is both tedious and perhaps burdensome to a hearing that desires the necessary things, and often nauseating because of the repetition, because of its offensiveness and tediousness. But the things that happened after his flight, it is necessary to tell, since you command it. It had been decided by the Barbarians (as he said—for he certainly said it) that we were to be slaughtered, and as for the matters ^D

^A of the sacrifice, everything was ready from the evening: the altar, the knife, the libation, the vial, the incense, and it was agreed upon for the early dawn, if God were not going to prevent it—which death did prevent. Now, as that man did not hide his flight from me, and since the interval of the road and the impasse of the pursuit made his arrival 14 uncertain, ^B not only was the time from evening until dawn a sufficient two-hour period for one fleeing, but the uncertainty of the journey also made the method of pursuit impossible. For who is so skillful a tracker and capable of guessing those things that are hidden, as to track across such a breadth of wilderness, finding no sign of the journey at all? For everything is rugged and full of ravines, showing no footprint that it had received. I was lying prone on the ground, my face pressed downward, and having lifted my mind upward on the wings 59 of tribulation, I was saying these things in the secret place to God, having my intellect wholly in prayer, nowhere distracted, as death was lying right before me. For when there is safety, this intellect wanders in those who are not watchful, imagining commerce, navigation, buildings, plantations, betrothals, marriages, child-rearing, military service, earnings, lawsuits, courts, official seats, thrones, heralds, rulers, revenges upon enemies, encounters with friends, ^C and shared meals, magistracies, leaderships, administrations, and even the royal dignity itself. But whenever a circumstance gathers him 15 by the fear of danger, shrinking him away from those things upon which he is accustomed to wander when he is secure and free, he becomes all of the one who is grieving, and he beseeches God, supplicating the one who alone brings about the solution to the impossible by the movement of a nod, in an easy instant. Master, I was saying, Creator of all creation, both visible and intelligible, and having 61 the hearts of your creatures in your hand, and turning to pity the wildness of irrational rage when you wish—by a reasonable judgment—to save those betrayed by the vote of authority to death, O you who have tamed the rages of wild beasts, calming them from the devouring of human bodies; O you who have 62 curbed the rushing flash of fire, and with a friendly nod 63 placed numbness in the blooming flame, and kept unharmed those condemned to destruction, and shown hair and skin to be more powerful than fire 64 by an ineffable and paradoxical power!

Save me, who have hope of help from nowhere, and who am all but snatched from life by the judgment of my enemies, 114 ^B and who am already dead by all human reckoning. Do not allow my blood to become a libation to demons, nor let evil spirits rejoice in the scent of my flesh. They have determined to sacrifice me to the star that bears the name of the passion of lust. Let not the body that has been pure until this day become a victim and sacrifice to a demon named after obscenity; but change the savage and bloodthirsty heart of these violent men to some sense of gentleness and placability—you who changed the inflamed wrath of the Medean king Ahasuerus towards Esther into sympathetic mercy, and softened the rigor of his cruel mind into most obliging pity. Save the soul that has long since spontaneously dedicated itself to your service; restore to his aged father and to your servant his son, as yet untutored and of a teachable age, so that, by his father's religious admonitions, he may advance in the discipline of your worship to the extent that can be hoped for from the purpose with which he has taken up this way of life. For it is not the case that fear has now finally extorted this proclamation of your power which I make, nor has fear suddenly forced me to call upon you—a thing I have not been accustomed to do—so that what I promise you for the future might seem to be a kind of transaction or a price to be paid for my salvation. The alacrity of my voluntary offering had already occupied this necessity; nor does my religion now begin late at the moment of danger. Show by the events themselves that faith is swifter than feet, and that hope in your help is safer than any flight. My fellow captive has escaped death—he who was marked out as another victim for this morning's sacrifice—and has secured his safety through flight. But I have remained, certain to endure whatever might seem good to you; and, lo, here I am, held only by confidence in your aid, in the hands of men.

^C Save me, who have no other hope of help, who am all but snatched from living by the judgment of my enemies, who am already as good as dead. Do not let my blood become a sacrifice to demons, nor let evil spirits take pleasure in the savor of my flesh. They have prepared to sacrifice me to the star whose name is associated with the passion of lust. May this body, pure even until today, not become a victim and oblation to a demon of profligacy. Rather, turn their savage hearts from cruelty to kindness and mercy, just as you turned the burning wrath of Ahasuerus, king of the Medes, toward Esther, and changed his harsh temper into compassionate mercy. Save a soul that has set itself to serve you; return to his aged father and your servant a son who is as yet ignorant of evil, and who, as far as intent is concerned, is one who will fear God. For I am not beginning this confession now out of fear of danger, so that this intention might be thought of as a prize for salvation; for my faculty of reason has anticipated the necessity of this struggle. Show that faith in your salvation is swifter than feet, and that hope in you is a safer refuge than flight. He who was about to be sacrificed with me tomorrow morning has fled, and has attained his salvation through flight. But I have remained, waiting for what seems good to you, and I am in the hands of your enemies, relying upon your help. He trusted in his feet, but I have trusted in your power. Do not let the expectation of this bodily hope be weaker. He has been saved by using the darkness for flight, and well has he been saved; but behold, the light has overtaken me, the light that provides for the living the opportunity to perform your commandments. While I was praying thus with bitter tears, the sleepless dawn overtook me; and looking up, I saw the morning star just now bowing towards the horizon. Having therefore risen from my prostration, I sat down, clasping my knees with my hands and bowing my face upon them, filling my lap with tears. And again I cried out in my heart to the One able to deliver...

me with the intense power of the Spirit: "Work a miracle, O Lord, ^B you who have the power of life and death, and show your mercy toward me, just as you have worked miracles with the saints who were placed in need and were delivered from every tribulation, so that we might have boldness to call upon you and to be confident that we will be delivered from whatever evils we are in, having those saints as a pattern of your help. You forbade the slaughter of Isaac, who lay upon the altar, and by the sound of your voice you turned back the impending blow of the father’s sword, now ready to be dyed in the throat of his son. You delivered Joseph from the murderous hand of his brothers, and again you saved him from unjust bonds and prison after his schemes, and after long mourning you restored him to his father as a king. You delivered his father, Jacob, from similar necessity, freeing him from the fear of his father and the madness of the brutal-minded Esau, and saving him in Mesopotamia, in the land between the rivers, where you also guarded Moses as he fled the tyranny of the Egyptians (17). You raised two dead boys from their beds by prophetic prayer and restored them living to their widowed mothers. You are the same, O Lord, unchanged in that same power, working wonders then and now. Render me also to my father, who hopes for your mercy, O Potentate, and dissolve my inconsolable mourning by your help, and grant to those who do not know your name the ability to marvel at the force of your strength, O King of all power, worthy of all praise!" ^C

VARIOUS READINGS FROM THE COLLECTED MANUSCRIPTS

NOTES OF PETRUS POSSINUS

^A While I was thus employed, the barbarians rose up in confusion, because the lawful time for sacrifice had now passed; for the sun was already shining upon the earth. And when they had found the other one, they asked me what could have happened to him, and when they heard from me that I, who was with them, could know nothing about him who did not appear, they rested content, neither threatening anything nor showing any signs of indignation. Then my spirit was quieted, and I blessed God, who had not despised the prayer of the humble; a certain access of new confidence also fortified my soul, God in any case granting me this grace, so that when they ordered me to eat things not permitted to me, I refused, and when they ordered me to jest with the women, I did not obey: this struggle continued until we came close to the limits of the desert, toward land that was already cultivated and inhabited. Then, I know not what they consulted among themselves, they brought me into a village named Suca, and offered me for sale to the inhabitants of that place. But when they had returned many times, their effort having failed, as no one of them was willing to buy me for more than two gold pieces, at last they followed their customary path of forcing me upon someone: they brought me to the gate of the village and, as they were accustomed to do, stood me there naked and held a drawn sword to my throat, declaring to everyone straightway that if no one bought me at the price they ^B set, they would strike off my head. I, for my part, stretched out both hands to those who had come to the market, beseeching them to give what the barbarians asked, not wishing them to appear too sparing in the price of human blood, saying that I would repay them whatever they had laid out, or I would serve the buyer eagerly if he so preferred: indeed, even when I should have paid him back the price expended in my ransom, I would still acknowledge him as my master. Compassionating me as I begged and wept in such a miserable way, someone finally transacted the business with difficulty, and an agreement was made regarding me. From there, as ^C you see, I was sold again in this place for another market and trade, so that, to sum up many things briefly—for I see you are moved and are close to tears, and are about to disturb our common joy with untimely lamentation—this is what I have suffered, Father, and having ended these things, with the help of God, I have been restored to liberty. As for what remains, give glory to God, the author of salvation, for my salvation received unexpectedly out of the depths of despair.

"But you indeed, my son," I said, "have drained countless dangers, suffering many hardships, and in your certain expectation you have endured many deaths, even though the beneficent help of God always ^D kept the actual sensation and experience from you. For it is the same thing, in truth, to expect death and to experience it. I would say it is even more wretched; for the cutting is not so great as that which expectation produces beforehand, extending the pain with long (20) fear, according to the proverb. For just as a physician does not apply the cautery at the very first moment of preparation, but waits for the opportune time, so fear, running ahead of the event, itself performs the operation of pain in the soul.

^A by extending the sense of sorrow with long-drawn-out fear, and causing the expected pain to appear real for a long time. For my part, during that time of affliction, I opened my mouth to the Master, and I promised a harsh servitude of abstinence and of other such hardships, if only I might receive you back alive. And I heard a voice in a dream saying: *The Lord will establish the word that has gone forth from your mouth.* And it is necessary, my child, not to set aside this confession, nor to deceive Him who confirmed the promise by a divine answer, thus bringing the prayer to its end, Christ ^B. And I, he said, “O father, will eagerly assist in the labor, and will share in the vow, since I also shared in the grace, and I harvested the greater part of the benefit. For you fled from mourning, but I fled from the experience of death. Since, moreover, the whole gift of God was for your sake, it was necessary for a father to be grateful to God and to take the benefit and the reward as his own, even if it were necessary to suffer something terrible for the sake of that grace. For if the daughter of Jephthah, for the sake of the victory in war ^C for which he had prayed, served by her own slaughter, and accepted to become both a sacrifice and an offering for the sake of her father’s prosperity, who would I be, not to be a swift payer ^D of a father’s debt? And this, intending to return the debt to God, who knows how to reward the payment once again with a second grace, and who receives the paid debt not as a debt, but as one borrowing it, and confesses that he owes the payment—as if He were making the subsequent gift as another loan in exchange for the intent of the debtor—always anticipating with graces, and always writing a hand-receipt of owing graces to those who borrow the benefits, and considering the return of all these things as liberality, so that He may always be the beginning of graces, and, as a debtor, may pay back the graces, because of the bounty and generosity of His nature. Therefore, having a willing co-founder, father, begin the payment. For God, knowing our strength, will require the debt according to this, and will not falsely accuse the weakness of our nature by demanding labors greater than our strength.”

^A I received these words of his with this prayer: “Would that it might be granted, my son, to arrive at the matter and set about the present undertaking with action, so that the promise may have the result that is fitting, and the vow may be proven effective, and a reward may follow the labors!” For this is the end and goal of every work done according to God: that actions should be sealed by rewards, and the crowns should bear witness to the struggle. Since it is natural that the trustworthiness of the rewards serves as proof of the testing of the works, and that the prizes are an irrefutable testament of the striving.

The God-loving bishop of that place, having cared for us for a long time and having restored us not a little from the previous affliction of our calamity, invited us to remain with him, promising in a most kindly manner that we would live there in all tranquility and quiet, if it should please us. Yet, as he saw that we were unwilling, he set a limit to the duty, so that he might not seem to be calling to mind the price spent in redeeming the boy, nor to be wanting to retain us like a slave by right of a master. For this reason, he left it to our own choice which we preferred, persevering in this one thing alone in a friendly way, with a gentle tyranny, that he imposed upon us the yoke of the priestly office, even though we were refusing. For we, considering the burden of the ministry, were distressed and wept at this ^B counsel of his, and we could not easily bear that such a weight of office should be laid upon us, which demands so refined and sublime a manner of heavenly life, such as even saints would scarcely dare to presume for themselves. For indeed, even to them this is a heavy ^C matter, and to those who are called, it seemed to exceed their worthiness. And they argued with God at length, putting forward their unworthiness, and declined the ordination by pleading their weakness ^D—and this, even though they were more fit than any of the people of the present time for the work, and from the exercise of good things had boldness in their...

^A approach to the Master. But he said that the reward belonged to the labors, and to the toils of the struggle, and, as he thought, bestowed the office as a wage for them. When, therefore, we wished to depart from there and to set out for home, having been provided liberally with provisions for the journey, which was long and of considerable length, and having prayed that the grace of God might accompany us and that peace might reign thereafter, he thus dismissed us—not boasting clumsily of his authority as perhaps someone else might have done, bragging of the power over him whom he had bought, but rather alleviating the misfortune which seemed to have occurred with much consolation, and avoiding the glory of arrogance with a gentle and modest frame of mind.

For me, let my account cease here, where the experience of difficult things has also ceased, offering me an opportunity, by the grace of God, after many sufferings, to begin a more cheerful life. ^B The End with God.

VARIOUS READINGS FROM THE ALLATIAN CODICES

NOTES OF PETER POSSINUS

TO THE READER