seeing darkness, and confusion, and trembling, and fear suddenly entering the souls of all, and they looked to flight, and not at all to battle, neither to might nor to art. For they took of that woman the cowardice, and the city was set free. And these things happened at the time of the six thousand nine hundred and thirty-third year, the twenty-fourth day of August, on a Monday, the seventh hour of the day. And of the Turks, there were wounded and killed more than a thousand; but of our own people, in truth, there were wounded fewer than a hundred, and there died no more than thirty. And rejoice, O friends, rejoice both for the freedom of the city, and for the nobility and courage of the Romans, and for the most wonderful miracle of the All-Holy Lady; and praise her, give glory to her, and send up hymns of thanksgiving for the greatest work of deliverance which we have been granted by the glorious and ever-virgin Mother of our Lord and God and Savior Jesus Christ. To Him be glory unto the ages. Amen.
ANNO DOMINI MCDXXV.
MANUEL PALEOLOGUS. HISTORICAL NOTICE.
(Henr. Warton. in supplem. ad Cave De script. eccles. pag. 52.)
Manuel II Palæologus, third-born son of the Emperor John V Palæologus, merited the empire through his rare piety toward his father. For when the father John, leaving his eldest son Andronicus as prefect in Constantinople, was setting out for the West in the year circa 1380 to seek aid from Christian princes against the increasing might of the Turks, and upon returning was detained at Venice by merchants on account of an unpaid usurious debt, Andronicus, secure in his hold on the empire, laughed in his heart at his father’s captivity. Manuel, however, having scraped together money from his prefecture of Thessalonica, hastened to Venice and, clearing the merchants’ ledgers, redeemed his father. Encarcerated by the villainy of Andronicus, the Emperor John, delivered by the piety of Manuel, disinherited him along with his son John, designated the latter as his successor in the empire after his death, and acknowledged him as an associate while he was yet alive, in the year circa 1384. Andronicus, driven to frenzy by such ignominy, fled to Bajazet, king of the Turks; and, aided by his auxiliary forces, he took Constantinople by storm, consigned his father and brother to prison, and usurped the empire. After three years spent in prison, John and his son Manuel escaped safely and, using the favor and assistance of the tyrant Bajazet—who had long since become hostile to Andronicus—they recovered the empire and committed Andronicus to the Turks to be led away into perpetual imprisonment. In the year [1391] when his father John had died, Manuel began to reign alone thenceforth: and since he steadfastly defended the majesty of the empire against the ferocity of Bajazet, he immediately suffered a ten-year siege of the royal city. Having entrusted the care and defense of the city to John, the son of his brother Andronicus, he himself sailed to the West to obtain aid from the Latins, following his father's example; he also suffered a father's misfortune. For after he had traversed Italy, Gaul, England, Germany, and Pannonia, he finally returned to Constantinople with his mission unaccomplished. When the affairs of Constantinople were almost desperate, salvation shone forth from another quarter. For with Tamerlane, prince of the Tartars, flying as an aid to Manuel with a huge army, Bajazet raised the siege in the year [1402] and, in the battle joined the following year with the Tartars, he was defeated and led away as a captive. When the tyrant was extinguished, Manuel entered into a perpetual peace with his son Mahomet; and he held the empire securely thereafter. He died, as some hold, in the year 1418, but more correctly in 1425, after having handed over the lamp of the empire in the year [1419] to his son John, being infirm with old age.
ANOTHER NOTITIA
(Fabricius, *Bibliotheca Græca*, ed. Harles, vol. XI, p. 619.)Manuel Palæologus, son of John, emperor from the year 1391, deceased in the year 1425. He wrote: 1. *Ὑποθῆκαι βασιλικῆς ἀγωγῆς*, Precepts of royal education to his son John, one hundred chapters. They appeared with the translation of Joannes Leunclavius, from the library of Joannes Sambucus (a), at Basle, 1578, 8vo, pp. 12-133. It begins: *Βίου τοῖς ἀνθρώποις διάφοροι*. Moreover, there exist in the same edition [b]:
(a) Subjoined to the Greek writings of Manuel Palæologus are the Latin works of Belisarius Aquaviva of Aragon, Duke of Nardò, on the education of princes' children, and on hunting, fowling, military affairs, and single combat, addressed to Franciscus Mediceus, Grand Duke of Tuscany, and the heroic poem of Michael Marullus on the institution of princes. [FABR.] — Matthew, Patriarch of Constantinople from the year 1395 under Manuel Palæologus, formerly Metropolitan of Cyzicus, records the departure of Manuel into Italy in his *Testament* or *Last Doctrine*, in Bodleian codex 69, n. 1, from which Lambeck (VIII, p. 1095 sqq.) extracted many things, and in note 5 he cited many who made mention of that journey. Concerning his death, on July 20, 1425, see the note in a certain codex of the Saint-Germain library, in Montfaucon, *Bibl. biblioth. mss.*, p. 1151 C. — Confer additionally Henry Wharton and Robert Geary on Cave’s *Hist. litt. SS. eccl.* II, p. 79 seq., also Saxius in *Onom. lit.* part II, p. 393 seq., at the year 1402, and what I have written in *Introd. in hist. L. Gr.* II, part 1, p. 546. [HARL.]
(b) In Paris, in the public library, codex 1253 of Manuel Palæologus, with a certain Persian, containing twenty-six dialogues (1), by which the truth of the Christian religion is asserted. According to Montfaucon, *Bibl. biblioth. mss.* ib. bis, n. vol. II, p. 732 A, n. 2414, it is a dialogue on the Christian religion; and p. 778 F, n. 49, it refers to twenty-six dialogues. The same are inscribed: *Of the Emperor Manuel Palæologus, a dialogue to his brother Theodorus Palæologus, which he held with a certain Persian, of the rank of Muteriza in Ancyra of Galatia*. It begins: *Καὶ τὸ πείθειν σπουδὴν ποιεῖσθαι*. In the Coislin codex, n. 130. V. Montfaucon, *Bibl. Coisl.* p. 201. In the same library, according to Montfaucon, *Bibl. mss.* p. 1042 B, among the Slavic codices. Only six dialogues are in the Ambrosian library, Milan. V. Montfaucon, *Bibl. biblioth. mss.* p. 496 B, and 528 E. Vienna in codex Cæsareus 188, n. 14, one hundred parænetic chapters to his son John Palæologus. V. Lambeck IV, p. 455 Kollar. The same chapters are therein in codex 88, n. 2, with an epistle prefixed: in that same codex and codex 89, there are n. 3, seven ethico-political orations of the same Manuel to the same son; — n. 4, his short parænetic oration to his own benevolent subjects; n. 5, his prayer of glorification to God with confession and thanksgiving; n. 6, a dialogue (still inedited) with his mother concerning his marriage (2), which is missing in codex 89; but in this latter codex there exist besides n. 6, his *Carmen calanycticum* or compunctory poem on the six precepts of Christ; n. 7, his canon parænetic to the Blessed Virgin Theotokos concerning the calamities of his own times (3) (which canon is also attributed to Manuel in Moscow in the synodal typography, codex 13, V. Matthæi, *Notit.* cited a little later, p. 309) — n. 8, his *Description of the True Image*, in purple textile; n. 9, his rhetorical meditation, in what words Temires, i.e., Tamerlane, Emperor of the Persians and Scythians, could have addressed Bajazet, Emperor of the Turks, once defeated by him; n. 10, his own act of thanksgiving to God like unto a psalm for the destruction of Bajazet: concerning all of which Lambeck discourses more copiously (VII, p. 330-343, ed. Kollar, whose note A, p. 337, you may consult). — Perhaps some things mentioned are within the Escorial codex, which are indicated by Montfaucon in *Bibl. biblioth. mss.* p. 621 C, as: *Opuscula of Manuel and other Greeks, and various poems of Manuel’s son for various subjects*. Precepts to his son John, in Moscow in the synodal typography, codex 13. V. Matthæi, *Notit. codd. gr. Mosq.*, p. 309. At Rome in the codex of the Vatican library. V. Montfaucon, *Bibl. biblioth. mss.* p. 7. [HARL.]
(1) Of these dialogues, two, the first and second, were edited by D. Hasius in *Notitiæ mss.* vol. VIII.
(2) Title and beginnings: *On marriage. Emperor. O Mother, if I ever held opinions otherwise regarding the matter, and if I feigned to hold others while conversing with you, did I, indeed, wishing to grant me everything, also feign a certain ignorance and you did not reprove me, or did I truly escape your notice? Lady. I neither perceived it, O dearest one, nor once I perceived it was I granting it, etc.*
Manuel’s epistle, inscribed to Demetrius Cydones, which precedes the *Dialogue*, was edited by Boissonade from the Royal Paris codex 3041. The *Dialogue* itself, says that learned man, after many erasures and attempts at correction, was at last from beginning to end wholly cancelled by the hand—who would doubt?—of the most august author himself; yet so that it can still be read. The epistle is as follows: «The customary things come to you, O father of discourses; this is our labor, which the difficulties currently pressing upon us have made a goad and have driven us to bring forth. I know indeed how much more this discourse will delight you than those of mine that preceded it, because it brings to you the speaking persons while you are spending time in a foreign land, persons whom you used to hear gladly and whose appearance you said you considered a luxury, and that merely being with them was not to be placed second to wealth; but I would wish this dialogue to delight you not for this reason alone, but also for having surpassed all my previous offspring. If, therefore, it turns out according to my aim, thanks to you; for it is the one who provides the seed who is the cause of what grows, as your companion says; but if the prayers come to the opposite of what we intended, and besides not contributing, we are thought by you to be intellectually disabled regarding the begetting of words, I for my part shall withdraw to this difficult time and to such things, and perhaps I shall excuse myself well enough; but another perhaps might justly blame the one who held back the irrigation—I mean you, who have placed foreign interests before the fatherland, which, even though it now has the advantage over you, deems it worthy to try to help with all manner of contrivances (a); which in any case brilliantly convicts you of not loving the mother that bore you as you ought. For do not think that by keeping yourself outside the reach of arrows while tragedies occur here, you are fulfilling what is needed; but it is necessary that you be a sharer in the dangers when she is faring ill, and that you contribute to the works as far as you are able, if you at all care to show yourself a soldier of higher standing than the crime of desertion.»
(a) Consultations on bringing aid to the Greeks were then being agitated by the Pope and the Italian princes. C
85
NOTITIA
86
2. *Oration II, Protreptic or exhortatory [discourse] on the study of eloquence, and concerning virtue and a good prince.* Begins: "Regarding the ability to speak well." Ibid., p. 134, 173. Pp. 174–192. 3. *Oration II, That the good is naturally loved by all.* Begins: "I believe that all men are of the opinion." Pp. 192–227. 4. *Oration III, On what is elective and voluntary.* Begins: "It is demonstrated, as I believe." Pp. 228–260. 5. *Oration IV, On pleasure, that it should be entirely absent from this life.* Begins: "But since what is occurring is proper." Pp. 260–294. 6. *Oration V, In favor of pleasure, by which the former oration is refuted.* Begins: "These things then [being said] by those who complain." Pp. 294–366. 7. *Oration VI, That one must not despair for the sinner, nor hold the sinners in hatred, but [one must] pity them.* Begins: "Having discoursed on pleasure." Pp. 366–419. 8. *Oration VII, On humility and affection.* Begins: "The last of the chapters." Pp. 420. [See Lambec. VII, p. 333 seq.] 9. *Advice to a prince concerning subjects in the flower of their age.* Begins: "What is profitable to you." [V. Lambec. 1. c.] 10. *Morning prayers.* Begins: "Glory to God and the Father." Pp. 422–437. 11. *Shorter prayers.* Pp. 438. Begins: "I give thanks to Thee, O God and Father." 12. *Chapters of compunction, set out in verse.* Pp. 458–462. Begins: "That it is not worthy of you to partake." 13. *Image of spring in the embroidered curtain, of Phrygian work.* Begins: "The spring season and that it denotes the flowers." Pp. 442, 446. [Regarding this and the preceding work, see Lambec. VII, p. 342, 6, and p. 343, n. 8. Harl.] 14. *Ethopoeia of Tamerlane, leader of the Scythian Persians, to the Turkish tyrant Bajazet.* P. 446. Begins: "As it seems from afar." [See Lambec. 1. c. p. 343, n. 9. HARL.] 15. *Eucharistic Psalm, on the Agarene lightning, unto Bajazet, having been destroyed.* Pp. 448–451. Begins: "The Most High is the Lord in the beginning." [See Lambec. 1. c., n. 10. HARL.] 16. *Funeral oration, very ornate, on his brother Theodore Palaiologos, despot.* Begins: "But what shall I utter, and [what shall I] speak?" Edited in Greek and Latin with notes by François Combefis in Vol. II of the *Auctarium novum*, pp. 1045–1214. Paris, 1648, fol., prefixed with a beautiful engraving of Manuel Palaiologos. The same oration (1) in Latin from the version of Combefis in Vol. XXVI of the *Bibl. patrum* Lugd., p. 491. FABR. MS. Vindobon. in cod. Caes. 83 n. 7, where in place of a garland there follow two funeral epigrams by Matthaeos Chrysocephallos and Demetrios the Master on Theodore, despot of Laconia. Yet in the index prefixed to that codex, certain other parts of his, which were indeed torn away, are commemorated among these six works of Manuel, which nevertheless for the most part are found in the following codex, and were noted by us shortly before from it; but even so, other things that were in it are indicated by Lambecius: viz., the dissertation of Demetrios Chrysoloras to Antonius Diasculin, on why it is better to be than not to be; why Christ (in Matthew ch. xxvi, v. 24) said of the traitor Judas that it would be good for him if he had not been born; then the contradiction of Antonius Diasculin on the same matter to Demetrios Chrysoloras, and the declaration of Manuel Palaiologos on both opinions with his own assertion. Conf. above ch. 39 in the catalog of Demetrios regarding Demetrios Chrysoloras. In cod. Coislin. 345, the funeral oration, etc., at the beginning has this note: "Flavius (sic) Manuel Palaiologos succeeded his brother John in the Empire of the East: he began to reign in the year of salvation 1384, reigned 37 years, and according to others 32. He lived 75 years, died in the month of January in the year 1419. He is dealt with in Chalcondylas, Phranzes, and Crusius. He delivered this oration shortly before undertaking the expedition against the Persians on the occasion of the funeral of his brother Theodore Palaiologos, etc." See Montfauc. Bibl. Coislin., p. -
(1) Lambecius to cod. Caes. 88: "The funeral oration of the same emperor Manuel Palaiologos, very lengthy and almost entirely historical, on his younger brother Theodore the despot, or prince of Lacedaemon, that is, of the province of Laconia in the Peloponnese, with the prefixed *Protheoria* of Georgius Gemistus Plethon and the judgment of Joasaph the hieromonk on the character of the same oration. Plethon's *Protheoria* is inscribed and begins with these words: 'The *Protheoria* of Lord Georgius Gemistus on the present discourse. The proemium is impassioned, and as it were, becoming to a brother, recounting a funeral [discourse] for a brother. And having mentioned briefly his country and race, the most divine King, saying these things, does not linger further on that section concerning these matters, being eager to move on to the deeds of the one being praised, which are not few, nor requiring brief words—yet having secured a defense, since on account of it being manifest to all, and unknown by not a single person, it would not be necessary, etc.' Upon the completion of this *Protheoria*, there follows the judgment of Joasaph the hieromonk on the character of the same oration, in this manner: 'Of the hieromonk Lord Joasaph on the character of the discourse. All things which, as in a *Protheoria* of the present discourse, it was necessary to say, have been said by a wise man, and it is necessary to add to these. Yet it is necessary to speak also concerning the character. It is, therefore, as it seems to me, neither raised up nor humble, but honoring the mean. For the thoughts, etc.' Hence there follows the preface of the Emperor Manuel himself, by which he dedicates this same oration to his deceased brother with these words: 'Of the King. I have come to mourn, and [to mourn] you, O best of all, even if you have departed to God. For nature does not allow one to view the tomb without tears, even we ourselves, and even before you, whom you have taken away from yourself, the best of those we had. And I shall perform the duty of doing honor to you, even though by praises, as I ought. For if the whole human mind and all tongues had come together into one to [give you] your worth, they would not have been able to contribute anything at all.' Then the oration itself is inscribed and begins with these words: 'Of the most pious and Christ-loving King Manuel Palaiologos, a funeral oration on his own brother, the despot, Lord Theodore Porphyrogenitus Palaiologos, spoken upon the King’s arrival in the Peloponnese. But what shall I utter to you, O those present, etc.'"
A
[Regarding number 26:
The Interpretation of Dreams by the Lord Manuel Palaiologos,
preserved in Paris in the public library, cod. 2419, no. 21. HARL.]In the year 6908, on the 4th of December, Lord John, son of the Emperor Lord Andronikos, came to Constantinople in peace, with oaths having been previously concluded by mutual agreement. And on the 22nd of the same month, our sovereign, the Emperor Lord Manuel, departed, having boarded Venetian galleys, and set sail for Francia, for the sake of obtaining aid for the aforementioned Constantinople and the eastern regions. That is to say: In the year 6908 (of Christ 1400), in the eighth indiction, on the 4th of December, the Emperor Lord John, son of the Emperor Lord Andronikos, came to Constantinople peacefully, with oaths having been sworn by mutual consent. But on the 22nd of the same month, the sovereign Emperor Lord Manuel departed, and having boarded Venetian triremes, set sail for Francia, so that he might obtain aid for Constantinople and the Eastern parts. Read also the letter which the Emperor wrote to Manuel Chrysoloras when he was staying in the court of Henry IV, King of the English. It exists below.
To the same, from the letter to Andreas Asan, in which he discourses on dreams. We deemed it worth the effort to transcribe it here.
B OF THE SAME, LORD ANDREAS ASAN. The cold which suddenly assailed us, being great in itself and causing more astonishment by its unexpectedness (for they had prepared equipment against the winter, which all had set aside, trusting in the season), revealed them to be deceived, and being defeated, they turned and were driven as to a refuge toward the fire. Whence, many sat beside me as I sat there, and by offering this, they also shared in the warming. To whom, I believe, you yourself belonged. Therefore, you were all keeping quiet for a long while, and you seemed like some Pythagorean disciples. For the sharpness of the winter was established as a sufficient instructor in the place of Pythagoras, and the fire, which was very dear at that time, drew the mind toward itself instead of philosophy, so that, if the Comic poet had seen you, I think he would have said one of his usual witticisms, having changed it slightly: "how care draws the moisture into the coals." C You, however, looking at all around, after you believed you had enjoyed the heat enough (for no bird, says Plato, sings when it is suffering), either fixing your eyes on me, having proposed a certain argument of the kind that those who have leisure are accustomed to discuss. And it was that, as it seems very much to you and to him, that dreams are an unfailing prophecy and truly reveal the future to those who pay attention; and if we were all able to correctly grasp and conjecture what is indicated by them, we would all be accurate prophets of future events. But now, even if anywhere these seem to have lied, you said that it should not be attributed to them, nor should the fault be reckoned to these [the dreams], but it should be to us ourselves. Having said these things, you then immediately asked if I held the same opinion regarding them. D I, then, at that time, since the holy rite was calling me to attend to it, having excused myself from the answer, went away; but now I have come to you to pay the debt to the best of my ability. However, I will not say everything that you all previously discussed regarding dreams, nor all that I myself thought about them; for the multitude of matters does not allow it. But I will try to declare to you in few words what I decided would suffice for you regarding the requested argument.
For in many ways it seems to the children of the physicians, and indeed to philosophers, that dreams arise, of which I pass over the majority, for the present occasion does not permit longer arguments, but those from which the satiety of the subject will certainly be escaped, and which will yield what is sufficient, I come to mention, adding also something from myself.
For the images in dreams which are attributed to the mind are immediately known to accompany the qualities, the dispositions, and the pursuits of each person. For they say that he who is pressed by a lack of innate heat fancies himself to be shaken, constricted, and shivering, and now dreams of furs, now of fires; and those in whom this humor prevails over others, these again [dream of] waters and rivers and springs, and colors similar to the prevailing humors; and the coward [dreams of] terrors and places of refuge and ways in which he might vanish; and the brave man [dreams of] terrifying others and pursuing them and enslaving many of them, and indeed the spoils and crowns from victory and the processions of victory, and of appearing stronger and prevailing over enemies; as also ships and waves to the sailor, and after these, harbors; and again, thickets and hunts to the hunter, which he sometimes seems to have with his favorite dog barking; and this person moves his limbs although sleeping, and breaks out into some sound, by which he seems in his own mind to be running, and outstripping, and striking, while crying out and urging on. Neither from
C these things, then, my good man, can anything that touches upon the truth be announced to us, and least of all when the stomach is inferior to food, and we see the matters in it confused.
You might also see the holy brothers similarly minded and speaking, and entertaining the same opinion as these men regarding dreams. Yet one should not assume that all these things are false. If one divides it into three, I think one might hit the mark. For those things which appear to one in a dream, whether from qualities, or dispositions, or habits, or because one is gluttonous or desirous, must be deemed sheer nonsense and nothing sound, as has already been said. For if these are indeed affections in the mind, as indeed they are, it is necessary to accept that this [the mind] receives much mist from them, and that its visual faculty is disturbed and, as it were, muddied, to the point of being nearly blind. How then could it happen that to an eye which receives such great damage from these things, it would also be better at seeing? None, I think, who possess understanding would think that these things are otherwise. This, then, is the first [case].
But when our soul happens to be free from those things recounted, if it then sees dreams, these might indeed be movements of this prophetic and more divine power. For it tends rather to exert itself toward its innate operations when we are asleep than when we are awake, and it tries henceforth to use its own powers. Yet it does not reason correctly; for it attempts what is altogether unachievable while it still carries about with it the burden that obstructs it—the body. For it is as follows: it is naturally joined to this clay bond, and is confused with it, and is prevented from doing its own work; it seems to be released when the body, having become exhausted by the daily labors, is given over to sleep. The soul, therefore, appearing to have become thus by itself, craves its own, and moves of its own accord in the way it is accustomed to act, and when it wakes, it recognizes the deception. For it breathes, though dimly, from the daily siege, which takes its causes from the body and from the scene in this life, but it seeks its first nobility—that which I call the ancestral one—which Adam proclaimed before the fall. D Yet, it is far from obtaining this purely; the reason is that it has not been once and for all delivered from the body that disturbs it and continually stands before it, unless it has also become, by their strong union, more earthy. Nor is it reasonable that it is pure from the aforementioned affections as long as it is compounded with the flesh, such a evil, as Plato said. So whoever thinks that the soul is able to perceive anything purely in dreams, under the pretense that it is intellectual and created in the image and likeness of its Creator (which, indeed, it once desired—and at an untimely moment—and justly lost, and such a one will be seen to be deceived), will suffer harm, and will also incur ridicule. For great is the soul’s nobility, and indeed truly intellectual, and it is a more divine thing, and a creation kin to the one divine and good being, and after the first, these are secondary, even if not in time; for to speak of the work in each as different, there is so much identity in them. Nor are they distinguished by disparate substances or alien natures. For the mind and the soul are both rational and eternal, and are graced with free will, and were created in the image and likeness of Him who is above all goodness, and who created this for the sake of goodness alone. And in sum, I do not know that there is anything present to the nature of the angels that is not also present to that of the soul.
By what, then, are these distinguished, if not by these three, if someone wishes to observe accurately—that the soul is indeed bound to the corruptible, yet is not altogether sluggish toward the not-good (for the ancestral pair clearly shows this)? But the angels are purely minds (for they are free from flesh and from the evils that sprout up in us continuously from and through it), yet they are altogether sluggish toward evil, as the Theologian says. These, then, are the two things by which souls and minds are distinguished. The third does not introduce a difference in kind, but one of degree—the more and the less. For there are first lights after the First—this is also found among them—for they differ from one another according to the more and the less, and according to a certain heaven-befitting order, and there are, and are called, first, and second, and after these, those of lower rank.
Neither is it similar to the soul’s superiority over the other things that are created; rather, it surpasses those that are not subject to corruption and are simple, but which only admit of change—that is, the heavenly bodies—by the very fact that it is a soul and is adorned by the Word; and it surpasses the animate and sensitive things by its rationality and by not being subject to corruption. And those things that are without simplicity and soul, and are devoid of reason and sensation, it overcomes altogether. For nature itself remains in its place even after the—oh, who could fittingly lament?—just fall, but the body compels it continuously, and becomes everything, both friend and foe. For it is a terrible thing to persuade the union [to cease], once it has proposed [conflict] and to make a truce after the fight. But after this, it moves all mechanisms, and attempts to prevail by friendship or by force, whence it also makes a truce easily and breaks it easily. And it is difficult not to trip this up, and, having laid aside its high-mindedness, [compel it] to look down and be fixed to the earth. The high-mindedness of the soul is humbled by this if it does not obtain divine grace; and its nobility becomes vulgar, and its freedom henceforth practices servile things, its lightness becomes heavy, and its intellectual part becomes thick. And even if, having used nobler reasonings as weapons, it does not fall, and even if it prevails, still it is not possible to escape the flurries of arrows from every side, and to remain altogether unwounded. For, what need is there to tell those who know of the arrows of the evil one, which are sharpened along with the coals of the desert? As if it were not helpful! Then this [soul], even to an eye that is clouded, as one might say, and squinting, can—if this is even to be granted—divine and utter oracles in dreams. When, however, something is signified from God to divine souls (for the third [case] must now be spoken of), then I am persuaded that these alone can draw forth oracles for us, to which we might pay attention when we wish to know the future. And this happens to those who are purer and reconciled to God, sometimes even when awake, but for the most part to them and those after them while they are asleep; but indeed also to souls that are altogether terrified about this life, when they are in trials beyond their strength, He who, along with the temptation, also provides the outcome, consoles them in their dreams, so that they may be able, as Paul says, to endure it.
For what reason God does these things, it would be superfluous to say more broadly now; for we have another purpose in the present discourse, and in another way this is clear madness. For since we know that it is proper to the Comforter alone even to search out the depths, how is he who pursues this not altogether deranged? It suffices to add this much: that these things happen for the sake of goodness alone. For it has always helped those who see, or others, or both—those seeing and those hearing at the same time—when something has appeared from God, both to those awake and to those asleep, and to good men.
and not by such examples, of which there are so many and known to all, that it would be redundant to count them. Moreover, the envious and most wicked spirit has also indicated many things to come, many times, not only in dreams but also by certain omens and by the involuntary motions and palpitations of the limbs, so that, having deceived us at first, it might work our destruction by those things in which it spoke the truth, and then destroy us by lying. It speaks the truth not by foreknowledge—far from it—but by conjecture and surmise; yet it lies now willingly, now unwillingly, having been deceived itself, doing just that thing in which it persists. One must be on guard with every means of knowledge and diligence, and indeed also by prayers to God, extended with faith. These things we have said briefly, as we were able, for your sake. If you should desire fuller discourses on these matters, this will be for those who have the leisure; for us, even this measure seems to have exceeded boundaries by being placed in this urgent time.
ORATION OF MANUEL PALAEOLOGUS ON THE MOST VENERABLE DORMITION OF OUR MOST SACRED LADY, THE MOTHER OF GOD
(Translated by Joannes Matthaeus Caryophyllus, Archbishop of Iconium.)
Mother of God (for I think it a good and highly beautiful thing, at the very beginning, to address you by a loftier title, which alone suffices to explain your glory), look with favor upon those things which are to be said in your honor, and impose upon this oration a conclusion suitable to the purpose, so that, while I undertake to celebrate the admirable mysteries of your dormition, I may not stray far from the mark. For certainly, to attain it is impossible for men.
Let us approach, therefore, bolstered by good hope, having invoked you as a helper in labors undertaken beyond our strength. It is not new or discordant for the Mother of God—nay, rather, it is highly fitting and appropriate—that a migration from this life, which nature both dreads to come and cannot bear to endure in the present without pain, should, on the contrary, have been for you a source of a certain joy and pleasure. For it was fitting that it should be in harmony with your character and life, and that your own birth-giving, full of all admiration, should be such that whatever was ever in you was wondrous. For this reason, to speak more openly, the separation of the soul from the body, which it is our custom to call death, and at whose very name we are troubled, justly became for you a celebration full of hilarity and a cause of delight, more sublime than earthly things. Since all men yield to you in such a degree, even those who A have attained the highest praise for those things B for which a noble soul is eagerly commended, so that truly the distance of [your] excellence can in no way be found. Therefore, that point also, which is most novel, should indeed not even come to the minds of others: namely, that the dying should rejoice; yet all who are wise confess that this befell you alone, who beyond all others gave birth to God, being purer than the heavens. That this has been rightly affirmed will be demonstrated in its proper place, on the occasion of the present day, on which you migrated from earth to heaven—a place which would have been equally fitting for you even while living, to dwell together with the Son and King, and to reign together. This celebration, therefore, requires long discourses, both to extol your glorious dormition and for all other things that are in you worthy of intense admiration. Nevertheless, we, having omitted many things, as those which have been brightly narrated by many and distinguished men, pursue the subject begun at the start, neither relating deeds as they occurred nor lingering in praise.
For in you, Immaculate One, when we have called you Mother of God, we comprehend all things whatsoever that pertain to the weaving of praises. For you abound in many and most ample titles, which, since you are the Mother of God,
A you have produced from nothing. But you, as regards the nobility of nature, have in no way contended with them [the angels], mindful of that which was said by your forefather regarding our Savior, when he considered only the mortal part in Him: "You have made him a little lower than the angels" (Heb. 2:7), whose nature was fashioned immortal from the beginning. As for the rest, regarding the glory and splendor which you have in God, and the supreme miracle in you, although you are most modest, you in no way yield to them: for if anyone wishes to compare to you those substances devoid of body, he will find (as Paul says) that they are "ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation" (Heb. 1:14): but you, O Virgin, possess the power of first-fruits and reconciliation with Him who is the first-fruits and reconciliation with His Father for the human race, which had been hostile on account of the injury of transgression. For as He, because He is the Son, is a propitiation before the Begetter, so you are likewise before Him, insofar as you are the Mother who gave birth. By how much more excellent, therefore, this office of yours is than theirs, by so much do you surpass them. Wherefore, by the best counsel, I have decided to restrain my mind and tongue, which are eager to leap forth to weave praises, and they clearly favor me in this, those who from the beginning until now have woven for you excellent crowns of encomiums. I pass over the orders of angels, who appear to me to sing most radiant hymns to you with silent voices, with marvelous proclamations which the mind of mortals cannot grasp. I shall mention those who are lower. And who are they? The prophets, the assemblies of apostles, the throngs of bishops, the orators, and the sophists themselves, the most celebrated in theology and the most excellent in every kind of learning, both our own and foreign; and if one must speak elegantly, the confessors by the course of their lives, the martyrs through those things which they suffered—the voices from their mouths, truly still smelling of milk, cried "Hosanna": he who is greater among those born of women, who celebrated the Creator while still placed in his mother’s womb, when he could not yet use the office of the tongue; and, in a word, whoever offered anything to your Son, while he attributed glory to Him, he declared you also to be a sharer in that glory, since indeed what children have must also be referred back to their parents.
D Certainly, we see many and excellent men in the faculty of speaking, as many as have committed themselves to the sea of your praises, who both by the best invention of things to be said, and by lucid narration, and by highest order, and by admirable ornament, have gathered so many and so great things, as could either be found by a mind immune to the darkening of sin, or narrated by a tongue skilled in all the climes of the disciplines. But of all these, although they possess such great power of speaking, they are so inferior to your merit, and are as distant as those who offer the praises are from you who are praised, even if someone were to collect all perfections together to craft one most absolute oration. To such an extent is there nothing to be found to offer for your praises that can even come near to that which befits you. For the radiance of your soul is above the rays of the sun.
A and almost having no end, whether of praise, or of applause, or of encomium, and to express it in one word, whatever we employ to adorn a soul full of graces, it surpasses by a long interval and shows all labor to be in vain. At such a height, therefore, of loftiness and magnitude, what can we bring forward that is not unworthy? For you led a life the most innocent among humans, and you had a mind entirely void of any guilt, and a body consistent with it, and you were adorned with such radiation, glory, and splendor of the Spirit that you surpassed even the most precious creatures of God, and that, as has been said, by a very long interval. Why do I tarry, and not embrace the whole matter in one word? You were made a vessel apt for receiving that Word substantial to the Father and coeternal, who proceeded from the Father indeed without time, but from you in time, and from both without any lesion. And so there will be no need of our encomia even for God. Who, and from whence? Nor for you his Mother, and for him indeed because he has a nature that is supereminent, which we were once accustomed to attribute even to fleeting things, and those which are among us. Since the nature of God, infinitely infinite, fills every mind with every stupor, and excels in such an affluence of every kind of good as the mind cannot comprehend; for it is bounded by no limit, nor indeed can it be, just as it cannot deny itself. For whose limit is interminability, and what is manifestly known is that it is hidden, by what reason could anyone define his substance? But the cause of the things to be admired in you, O Virgin, is the purpose of the will. For from the rectitude of the mind and the probity of morals it happens that you surpass the power of encomiums, not because the flower of nature and honor, and beauty, and all other things of that kind, and by right indeed very rightly, for one must be grateful to the Creator for the excellence of nature, but for the purpose of the mind is one to be praised who willed it so. B I will omit therefore the laudation with a counsel indeed better: for it seems to me that all will say that the praises elaborated by me were excellent, because the intention was almost not to touch upon praises, although a most vehement love for you caused me to deflect a little from the mark. Nor is it a wonder, when even inanimate things move of their own accord to your praises. But, O assembly of God, and lover of the festival, for the second depends upon the first, and this puts forward that, turning next to you, we shall pay the debt to you and to the Virgin. But I said I would follow a better counsel on purpose, lest perhaps we should seem in the progress of the discourse to wish to weave encomiums again, when we had decided not to employ them further. This furthermore must happen to all who have wished to have any discourse about her. For one of two things will certainly be, either to say nothing about the Virgin, or if you speak, to praise. For by no reason can it be that you speak about her and it is not praise, what you are speaking, since both she herself and whatever looks towards her have most celebrated glory. Wherefore I am clearly worthy of pardon, if, continuing the discourse by the first counsel, I shall say what things will have her praises inserted, even if nothing can be said that contains worthy laudation; for the magnitude of the grace in which she abounds does not permit this. For who could celebrate her with worthy praises, she who is higher than the vaults of heaven, purer than rays, and is the most precious thing of all to God? Nor if anyone, I say, had ten mouths, ten tongues, of either order, angels, I mean, and humans, or the same multiplied ten thousand times. And Homer indeed gave me the handle for this figure of speech hyperbolically. I think, however, that what I am about to say is a greater hyperbole, yet not alien to the truth; for if the entire multitude of angels, and the entire human race were to come together into one thing entirely, and consequently had one mouth and all one tongue, and this whole animal were resolved into one voice of Stentor, or even one louder beyond proportion, and these gave to them to perform a hymn to the Mother of God, I think it could not be, that it would be worthy of her, or near to the worthy: it is better therefore to pass over in silence, than to wish to celebrate her with a long discourse, who shone forth with such illustrious deeds, so admirable, and above the order of nature, just as if someone wished to climb to heaven by means of a ladder. And these things indeed so far. What remains, that I may show, that the Mother of God departed from among all things rejoicing, as we said in our introduction, this will certainly succeed, she herself favoring our labors beyond our strength, in whose aid relying we undertook them. But that this may be proven, I do not believe there is need for circumlocutions and labyrinths; but for your sake we shall say these things: what could happen that was bitter to the Mother of God, who always had joy itself, that is the Word contemporary without time, dying, or by what force could any thing at all infringe her joy which was perpetual and without intermission? C For truly she was leaving by departing, those things to which she was not bound by living, nay rather those by which she was saddened, while by the condition of nature she was forced to use them. Therefore she desired the migration. D Therefore the day which she always desired with all her vows, by what reason would she not have received its coming most willingly, by which it came to pass that she would live always with her Son, with her Son and the same God and Creator? Come, are we persuaded? I think so. For what? Do these not conclude necessarily? Are they not consonant with the truth? To her in the whole time of her life nothing happened, about which she was to be grieved, why therefore would she be grieved that it had arrived, whose coming she vehemently rejoiced at? For of those things whose expectation is pleasant, the presence is altogether most pleasant. But what is clearly most pleasant, to prove that it is not troublesome, is entirely superfluous. One thing pricked the blessed soul of her living, that she had not suffered and died in the flesh together with the Savior, from which it happened that life not permitting her to go to him as soon as possible, was held to be intolerable much more than death to us; thus therefore it is clear that she migrated empty of pain; unless someone says that that was to be grieved, which not even the Son refused,
A as well as illusions, and his cross, and his death.
For I would confidently affirm, no less than any other thing, that his soul endured no less pain than the Son’s when that divine body was being transfixed by those impious and bloodthirsty wounds; and with good reason, for along with all other causes, there is this one as well: just as he rejoiced in the world ruler being driven from his principality, so too, as he was suffering, she suffered by right as the most loving Mother of all the offspring, just as she was the most flourishing of virgins. Therefore, she bore the bodily separation from her most beloved for a time, though not without tears; yet she rejoiced together with him as he returned to heaven, and lived with him most closely joined in spirit, being his Mother, just as he lived with her. Indeed, I would say that as soon as she was born—nay, as soon as she was conceived—the Blessed Virgin was filled with his grace, he who had foreordained her to be his future Mother; or rather, he himself was with her before she was born. For the body was formed and compacted in its due seasons, as Paul says, from the blood of the Immaculate one, yet he was never not joined to her, from the very moment he began to be in the womb of the barren mother. For why should one think otherwise? If we know that the eminent John was full of the Holy Spirit in the womb, why should the same not be rightly affirmed of the most pure Virgin? This is what that saying of Gabriel means: *The Lord is with thee.* He teaches this by distinguishing the time in this way: wishing to declare to the Virgin—who was asking—the manner of the Conception, he used not the present tense but the future, prophesying to her that the Holy Spirit would come upon her, and the power of the Most High would overshadow her. But when greeting the Virgin, he said, “Hail, full of grace,” and by calling her blessed among women, he praised her, according praise to her as being better than others, which already belonged to her. For he did not call her “full of grace” as if it were a future thing, but as an existing reality, and he hailed her as blessed, as if to say: “Since you are full of grace, O Virgin, the Lord is with you; because you possess him in your soul, you are blessed among women.” And these things are indeed so. But what follows looks to future events, which ensued upon the consent of the undefiled Virgin, as she first offered the gift most pleasing to God, than which no greater could be offered. For what could be compared to her, whom God required in order to use her as the foundation and base of the mystery, through which all things were renewed and restored much better than they were of old? It is clear that this is so, because as soon as she offered herself of her own accord, and with a ready mind desired that to be done which was pleasing to God, saying, “Behold the handmaid of the Lord, be it done unto me according to thy word,” the God Word, co-substantial, co-eternal, and contemporaneous with the Father, with the cooperation of the Spirit, being conceived in the womb of the Virgin who knew no marriage, put on this our substance, coming forth without stain. And when he assumed our nature, not confounding the two natures—the creating and the created—he, being one in his hypostasis, deified what he assumed, and through it saved the whole mass B as well as illusions, and his cross, and his death.
A For she was a vessel full of blessing, she who from the beginning was the Mother of God, for whose sake her Creator did not disdain to be formed in the womb which he himself had fashioned! O generous disposition in a girl so tender! O soul immutable within a woman’s body! For what could be more sincere, more pure, more generous, than [to think] the soul judged this greeting not to be fraudulent, but believed that it was possible for the whole lightning-bolt of divinity to be received into a material womb, and at the same time for the Word, who is without beginning, to exist in the bosom of the Father who lacks a beginning, and yet to be carried in her temporal womb? In my opinion, the cause of this is to be assigned to the conscience of the Theotokos, which imparted such courage; for this great and generous work could not have been performed by her if she had not kept her purity and offered a spirit that believed. B Wherefore the very words which she used plainly show that she deemed herself not unworthy of such a great benefit, [the benefit of] becoming, I say, the Mother of him who was performing this stupendous work. It was not, no, it was not [so] for Manoah, nor for Daniel—although I know not what should be thought concerning their vision, if it be accurately considered, or in what manner exactly he who appeared approached them. Certainly, it is not obscure that the angelic habit and splendor did not appear to her and to them in the same way, just as the conversation with the Blessed Virgin was not of the same honor as the words held with them; for one said, "We have perished, we have seen God," and the other’s mind almost failed, as fear suddenly penetrated into his inmost senses, and if that unusual sight had not quickly departed from both of them, perhaps both would have most quickly ended their lives. C For all people, one and all, who have been deemed worthy of visions have suffered the same things as these men did; but the Virgin, being troubled at first at the discourse, said [not as they did]—for she did not, by reason of the sight of the angel, and that lest she should see it, remain ignorant of how great a matter the greeting was—she soon offered herself to the Maker, full of the most sincere faith, that a material womb might receive the immaterial fire. But how great a thing it is that God does not do [only] that which is above nature and reason is a great matter, for he himself founded both the nature of things and reason. But that the Virgin confidently offered herself as such a minister and had faith in the words of Gabriel is clearly the greatest thing of all. D Therefore, the Virgin shows that she is most pleasing to God, while she believes in herself and in God that which is difficult to be believed possible for both natures [to attain], being higher than creatures, although she herself was a creature. And so, although there are many and great things that made her the Mother of God, there is nothing to be preferred to this offering: which is evident from this; for neither did the archangel ascend, nor did God descend, to bring the mystery, foreordained before the ages, to its end for the salvation of all, until after those admirable words were uttered from her mouth, and with perfectly good right: for it was fitting that the most pure Virgin, whose soul and body were free from every stain, she who alone from all eternity stood more exalted among men, [should be free] from the ancient curse and [from that which was] brought upon the human race—as she who... A ...was born a vessel full of blessing, she who from the beginning was the Mother of God, for whose sake her Creator did not disdain to be formed in the womb which he himself had fashioned. Why, indeed, should she not, who was the minister of the salvation of her own kind through the newness of her child-bearing, since it was plainly foreordained before this world was produced, before the angelic orders existed, that it should be fulfilled at this time? It was also fitting, I believe, for the Father also to approve the incarnation of the Son of the perpetual Virgin, with his own good pleasure, and [for] the Word himself, who underwent the incarnation, who was brought forth from the pure bowels of the begetter, and also the most holy Spirit, the bestower of perfection, namely the blessed Trinity—the Virgin herself being aware and offering her assent—to complete the mystery of goodness and full justice, so that the freedom of the will might have a place, and no violence whatsoever might intervene, from which the ancient serpent, accustomed to calumnies, could not accuse this, and as it were imprint a certain mark upon the goodness and justice of God, namely that he had performed the mystery without the consent of the immaculate Virgin; for he would have cried out that it is fitting for God not to do good to anyone unwilling, nor to confer gifts by force; for these things are completely hostile and hateful to Him. But perhaps some learned man of another [school] might say that these things belong to another feast [than that of her Assumption]. We answer: To another, indeed, O friend, yet not an alien one, but one closely related to this great one, for they are linked and connected among themselves, one depending upon the other like a chain truly golden: the discourse, therefore, has not wandered, as untamed horses do, to where it should not, but it tends to where it is directed: for although it seemed to digress, yet it was [occupied] in those matters through which that which we wanted was being inferred, and I shall show that this is so. What, therefore, is concluded from these things? That he, whom the blessed Virgin bore without a man, had always been intimately joined to her. And what follows from that? That she had her own very joy, the Son, I say, always inhabiting in her, and committed her spirit into his hands. And if these things are so, a thing which I think everyone will affirm, we are worthy of pardon, if something similar has befallen us, as happens to one who perhaps having gone out into a meadow adorned with flowers of every kind, while he wished to pick one, being enticed by another, picked that one, overcome indeed by its beauty and fragrance. I know that fair-minded listeners will grant pardon if we have digressed a little from the subject of the present celebration, and from those things which pertain to it alone. Therefore, let us return to our own subject, and since we have already proved that it was consonant and fitting that the death of the Virgin brought no pain, let us also show, if it pleases you, that this too was necessary. B C D For when true joy was joined to the Mother of God, with what evil could pain affect her, being called by the Son to immortal life in that manner of migration? For indeed she herself was truly joy itself; not only because she alone out of all women escaped the condemnation regarding sin and child-bearing in pain...
A, but also because she was the Mother of joy itself.
Every pain, therefore, was far from her. But if one is at all pleased to suppose that pain approached, it immediately departed, so quickly that one could scarcely say it gave any sense of its presence. Since, therefore, the Virgin was devoid of pain, it is clear that the most sincere joy was present. I am certain, moreover, that all agree with the reasons by which I have demonstrated the truth, persuaded that nothing could have been more desirable to the most pure Virgin than to depart from this life; so welcome was death to her, which we dread—and with good reason. For since there was no other way she could go to the Son except by migrating from here, while she longed for the companionship of the Son to a degree that no one could express in words, she necessarily longed as well for that through which she could attain what was most desirable as the highest end. And let no one wonder at this; for it would have been to wander from the truth to suppose that she desired to be separated from her body as an end in itself. For why? She was always immune to every sin; but she was desiring, burning, and longing for death as a sort of vehicle or ship by which she could be carried across to the immortal kingdom and life, to the Son and God, toward whom all desires turn, beyond whom it is not permitted to advance or desire anything. For there cannot be satiety of God and of those good things, as happens necessarily in this life in which we love fleeting things and prefer them to those which do not pass away. It happens, in fact, that when things are fleeting, the soul's desire also wavers, especially when that desire is quickly captured by satiety. Therefore, nothing could soothe her soul, which was burning with the highest desire, except departing from this life. What if blessed Paul longed to be dissolved and to be with Christ? To whom even David and Simeon, by pouring forth prayers B, seem to have spoken in keeping: the former when he said, "Bring my soul out of prison" (Ps. cxli, 8); and the latter when he said, "Now you dismiss your servant" (Luc. ii, 29). And I believe that those who have spilled their own blood for Christ and endured intolerable pains would have used such words, if there had been need; and likewise those who have descended into spiritual struggles, the assemblies of confessors, and all who have as their proposed goal that which is the highest, and who look only to that.
If this be the case, listeners, on what grounds should the Mother of God not be said to have been, with far the greatest affection, in this laudable desire more than others? Certainly, in them too this affection was most vehement; and they desired nothing else than—if there was anything paramount—to be with Christ, to which their own nature invited them. But the Virgin desired this much more excellently than them, in proportion to the difference between herself and them: both by reason of the sanctity and the requirements of virtues (whatever measure one might set for this in one’s mind), and by reason of her conjunction with God, since He was begotten of her; in which matter, indeed, there is no measure to be found. Since, therefore, she was burning with such a desire for migration from earth to heaven, when the time arrived which she had perpetually desired, why should she not rejoice and be glad? C
But if, for those endowed with the best temperament of nature, some trace of trouble remains for a very short time while they are being released by death, it is not to be wondered at; for the Virgin was a human being, and it was fitting for her to be in accord with nature, not to appear opposed to it, which would have been to fight against herself. Therefore, the divine Virgin did not harbor a deep aversion to the debt of nature—for if it had been done otherwise, the matter would not have been without its absurdity—but followed the nature of things quite plainly and, as we have already said, took on a little bit of trouble. Nor, however, do I seem to contradict my own arguments by this, as if asserting opposites; for one cannot desire the impossible. But the beginning of my discourse, and the crown subsequently added to that beginning, are a clear defense for me. For it could not be proven that the immaculate Virgin was devoid of all pain, but rather that for a moment of time she perceived the pain of this common death in accordance with the laws of nature, yet was so affluent in joy that all sorrow entirely fled from her; for it yielded to a stronger force.
So too her Son, having assumed the mass of our flesh, did not wish to lack those things which are specific to the flesh, without which a human being cannot perfectly exist in their natural state. He was saddened and affected by pain, not only on the Cross and in the Passion, but also when Lazarus was dead; by the law of our nature, He shed tears from His eyes; He was wearied by the journey; He felt the need for food, for sleep, and for drink, and in sum, for those things by which our fleeting life is maintained and which the body does not accept in itself unless it first sympathizes with their lack. So much was the Savior a lover of us; for He was not content to have become a participant in flesh and blood, and for benefits to have been conferred on all, without going further; but, as if it were impossible for man to be saved without He Himself suffering, He longed for the Passion and death with such an exuberant affection that it cannot be expressed. And He testifies to this: "I have a baptism to be baptized with, and how am I constrained until it be accomplished!" (Luc. xii, 50). Wherefore He was also saddened and experienced pains on the Cross. D
However, the time of pain was very brief, so much so that perhaps it does not even deserve to be called time at all; but the time of joy succeeding the pain is both ineffable and interminable. And if these things said about the Savior are true, shall it not be less of a pious mind to think differently about His Mother? It was surely fitting for the Mother of the Son of God to commend her spirit to the Son and into His hands with joy, just as He Himself did into the hands of the Father. Furthermore, it was fitting for the Mother, more than for all others in any human matter, to be in accord with the Son. If He, for the joy that was set before Him—as Paul says, or I would say, for the joy that was then present—endured the Cross, despising the shame (Hebr. xii, 2), and with all pain loved, as was shown a little earlier; it will certainly be fair and just, nay, even more than fair, that His Mother also, dying for the hope set before her—which was clearly not in doubt—felt almost no pain at all. That these things are consistent with reason, and that they do not abhor the sense of those who wish to cultivate piety, I consider to have been shown from what has been said. But so that, by lingering, we may do a welcome thing for those who
A not only listen willingly, let us add this besides. And would that what is to be said be not received as empty things, but first indeed for your benefit—than which nothing is more ancient to me, since I strongly delight in those things by which you may be happy. Then, may it be, I also hope, not unpleasant; since even she to whom these things are offered in the place of a gift, although they are far removed from her dignity, and she is in absolutely no need of our affairs, I know she will nevertheless gladly accept what is offered by a kindly servant. I think, however, it must be confessed that we shall not stray from the mark, with the favor of the Mother of God, through whom for the weak the most difficult things become most easy.
I say, therefore, that there are three reasons for which all men fear death. First, indeed, because it is not very manifest to the conscience what shall be in the other life when our B entire race shall rise to be judged by God, unless it has been divinely revealed to someone. Second, because the departure takes place from every kind of pleasure, and from kin, and friends, and ancient custom, and the like. Third, this common thing, that the soul is separated from the body, from which it results that the body, composed of elements, is corrupted—which all things naturally flee. Since, therefore, there are these three things which we suppose, by which I must conclude what I wish, I must begin from the middle. Certainly, for those who are held by the desire for life on account of present things only, who also pursue these as if they were the final end, death is deservedly intolerable, as it is that which separates them from the association of things precious to them; to whom, as if to children, and to generous souls unwilling to use them, but preferring these feigned C and shadowy things to truth and stability, death is by right a source of fear, and more detestable than to others. For just as we are affected toward present things, so we endure death, which separates us from them. For if we resist the inclination to the lowest things with manliness, death seems lighter to us, being full of good hope. But if we have been sluggish toward better things, we dread it not moderately. Furthermore, to those who are more basely and unworthily driven by their affections than slaves, death is by nature, to those subject to reason, and appears to be, far heavier and more troublesome; so that, although the matter is wonderful to relate, when we look with much greater exertion upon pleasure, and what seems most celebrated, not following reason as a leader, we become then, so to speak, more mortal than we are. When, however, we look upon the honest and the D good, mortality becomes, in a certain way, in us: so much does the power of free will avail among us. I think enough has been said about death, although it was not our purpose to philosophize about it—how, and why, and to whom more, and to whom less, and to whom also it is intolerable, and a most troublesome source of fear. As for the rest, the fear of the previous life that must be accounted for, which we said in the first place, and the day of judgment, and the horrendous tribunal, and the attendants standing by the king and judge who immediately execute what he has thought, and that unsleeping worm, and the dark fire, and besides these the uncertainty of the sentence. For "who has known the mind of the Lord?" (1 Cor. II, 16), and "the thoughts," he says, to which the timid A of mortals are terrified. These and similar things strike terror into the souls not only of those who are cajoled by the allurements of present things, who would not even wish to live if it were not permitted to them to indulge their genius, but also of those dedicated to virtue, who wish to rule desire and anger with the bridle of reason.
For it creeps upon all and injects horror, yet not in equal measure. Since indeed these things vary according to each one's life. And so both those who have lived holily, and those who have not, are seized by the fear of uncertainty, looking toward human justice, for "there shall not be justified in thy sight every living soul" (Ps. CXLII, 2). For if the blessed Paul, that soul reaching toward heaven, the vessel of election, is conscious of nothing in himself, but is not justified in this, as he himself says, who, I ask, B would another be, if he were wise, to confide in his soul, when the Savior shall sit, being most just and incapable of any deception, to judge, demanding an account from each one, not only of things he has done and said, but also of what he ought to have done, and said, and thought? Oh, how then shall those like me tremble with fear, for whom there was no care to observe these things, nor was it pleasing (would that it were not so) to accommodate themselves to the will of the Creator? Which Judge, when He shall have sat, will have no need of accusers, no libels, no witnesses, but He knows He himself that which has been done by us better than we ourselves do. By this series of causes, therefore, for which death seems to us more horrible and in itself, the most glorious Mother of the Creator was entirely superior. For neither could the uncertain sentence of judgment, C through which indeed the hidden things of the darkness of present vanity shall be laid open, trouble her thoughts, nor the migration from this life. And by most excellent right: for the ascent to God accustomed from her early age, and the grace, or deification, proceeding from then, provided her with supreme constancy and confidence. Wherefore, the sentence was not to be feared or endured then, by which those who are contumelious toward the law of her Son are condemned, nor was the departure to be endured with difficulty on account of the loss of fleeting things. For the blessed Virgin, even while still living, deemed as nothing and held as void that which, by holding, is not held, and slips away, while it is grasped by the hand; such indeed are the things of this age, that she would abstain D and altogether flee from them, unless need compelled it, lest the body should perish, if those things by which it is sustained were denied it: which is forbidden by both the new and the old law alike, and among many nations of barbarians as well. And so, to all things which entice and deceive the sense by their appearance, and which pour the darkness of the soul upon this glory, she was superior. For whatever was not a fruit of the soul, nourishment of virtue, or did not make for spiritual progress, was held of no moment at all to the most sacred Virgin, and was considered alien and a trivial and childish comfort, a shadow, a dream, smoke, and if anyone should say anything lighter than these. And therefore this most glorious Virgin, while she was in life, so much abhorred those things by which we are conquered, as much as the lives of those long since dead. How then, in an annoying...
A situation, would she be held by those whose affection she did not hold? Or why would she be distressed by those things from which, even when she could, she took no pleasure, but declared them to be rather values, and the glory of a false name, and that which seems to render a man more sublime than other men, even though he be compacted of the same clay and mass? The supreme theologian among theologians after the son of thunder, Gregory Nazianzen, might say to him, and the allurements of habit are indeed a matter of our concern, and are held in high esteem by those of us who love and admire whatever is carried downward and creeps like a serpent: but for those whose zeal it is to seek spiritual and sublime things, the head which they raise upward, that is, to turn it toward inferior things, is hateful. Therefore, it is painful to those who crawl upon the earth to lose fleeting things. For how could those who did not neglect future things despise present ones? But he for whom the care of earthly things was postponed, surely there was no anxiety for him to be separated even from them.
Why therefore do griefs and terrors befall us by their own nature, and are we in a way attacked on both sides, as well by the loss of present things, as we have said, as by the fear of future things, as we have already shown: by neither of which was the blessed Virgin assailed? For it was fitting that her transition also should be superior to nature, and not similar to ours, since everything that was in her was naturally more sublime. And so it was, indeed. But that pain which touches the soul deeply in death (which is the third and final thing) the blessed Virgin did not disdain to have in common with the whole race of mortals; even though she did not experience it equally as others did. But why do I abuse the name of equality, where there is no measure, nor can there be any comparison at all? For those things which pertain to the Virgin are as distant from us by as great an interval as the heaven is B greater than a bubble. Therefore, death did not take her, even though it carries off all men with pain, in any other way than that which we have said, namely, just as it did the Son; and to this end only, that she might be recognized as human. But enough of this, as regards the separation of the soul and body of the most blessed Virgin; for to her heavenly soul, wandering at all times in celestial and divine things, death is surely judged more pleasant (as I said at the beginning of the discourse) than painful, as it was sending her there whither she desired to go, to her own Son, to His Father, to the Paraclete Spirit, the very most holy Trinity, with whom is the true inaccessible light, the unfailing pleasure without satiety, the unfading crown, the eternal life, the beatitude, where it would be fully permitted to her to be a partaker of the kingdom and honor of the Son in a more excellent way, as being His Mother, than those can possess who, by virtue of their name, bear the first rank of all. What do I say of them, since she has long surpassed even the incorporeal minds in her glory? Moreover, she was raised to such a magnitude of greatness, as we have said, or rather, as no discourse is able to explain, not only because she brought forth the salvation and redemption and sanctification of our souls and bodies, but because she also rendered her soul and body such by purity beyond measure and by ineffable affection toward God, C so that she exhibited her womb as a place for the One who fills all things, and who is circumscribed by no place. For I believe that the immense beauty of her soul, resulting from virtue, was not a secondary cause why God took flesh from her. Nay, He Himself, who became incarnate, preferred her will to lead a life pleasing to God, and adhering to His commandments, to the gift of bearing Him in her womb and nursing Him at her breasts. For when she was being proclaimed blessed because of these things, He Himself said, "Nay, rather, blessed is she, because she hears the word of God, and keeps it": from which He made it clear to all which of the two is to be preferred, and which is justly to be held as more blessed, namely, the birth or virtue. For no one would be so foolish as to think that, while the most pure Virgin was asserted to be blessed because of the birth, another would be judged more blessed by the Savior because of habits. But having approved the woman's voice, her acknowledgment, benevolence, and probity by those words, "Nay, rather," He confirmed her most wise statement; then, in the following discourse, as if comparing Mother with Mother, He used those words which it was fitting to be uttered by His own mouth alone. For while He was teaching that woman, He was lifting all to a more sublime sense. I believe, however, if there were need to explain the sentiment in clearer words, He would have spoken thus, He who willed to become man: O woman, you who proclaim blessed, it was fitting that the Mother who is truly blessed be for me she whose soul was adorned with incredible beauty, and such as no times have ever possessed. And so, with supreme brightness preceding in her due to the exquisite integrity of her soul, and her sublimity and modesty, it followed that she should become my Mother, and it came to pass that, because of the light which dwelt in her soul, I, the creator of all lights, should acquire her as well. For all things that are united by affinity love to approach their kin. So it is, indeed. But when necessity required that the impassible and immortal should assume passible and mortal flesh, so that (if I must explain not so much by words the ancient, and in fact the greatest, counsel of the Trinity regarding this matter) having undergone the Passion, and death, and having tasted a certain corruption of the body, He might free all men, if they so wished, from passions and death and corruption: for force was not to be brought, but salvation was to be conferred upon those who willed it: He gave the power (He says) to those who believe in Him, to become the children of God, who were chosen by Him with a special love. Wherefore, one must give thanks to the Trinity, both because of this counsel which is coeternal to Him for our sake: for the counsel of God has no beginning of time, but is from all eternity common to the three consubstantial persons, who are distinguished by their properties: and also because He fulfilled that at His own time; but one must also give thanks to the most blessed Virgin, both because of the duties of her virtue, and because of the commendation of life resulting from thence, on account of which she was made the Mother of God. But now I believe it is time to contract this longing, lest not only with the desire of lingering, the never-ending speech be prolonged. For it would happen D to us while we strive to satisfy it, what is also to children
who strive to grasp their own shadow on a wall. A Since we have left behind the previous affections of the soul, we shall now endeavor to bring our discourse to the harbor of silence, and we shall no longer heed the movements of the soul that incite us, so that the fullness of the Virgin's praises may overwhelm us. We must, therefore, put aside that longing which can bring no consolation and only ever increases the zeal of our devotion. Let us rejoice abundantly, O assembly, and—I add—O company most dear to me, and let us congratulate the Mother of God, who journeys with joy to her Son. Let nothing tragic or mournful be admitted, nor let anyone’s countenance betray a trace of sadness, but let all things express pure joy, hilarity, delight, and immense gladness. For it is fitting that benevolent servants should rejoice with a rejoicing Mistress, as they would also grieve together if she were grieving. For why should we not, by every right, leap for joy and exult, and with a cheerful face and with dancing, sing to the departing Virgin, together with the angels and martyrs and the choirs of confessors? Since that which nature made intolerable to all others, this proved to be, for the most glorious Virgin, the material for the most intense joy and delight—as I was saying at the beginning—the extinguishing, if I may so call it, of the flame of long-suffering desire; the migration, I say, from this life. For she desired, even more than Paul, to be dissolved and to be with Christ, B who said, if I may make the comparison, that if indeed death brought her [to Him], then she would see her desired One with the eyes of her soul in immortality, far more happily than when she bore Him in her arms and nourished Him with milk. Let us not, therefore, congratulate the rejoicing Virgin on her ineffable joy merely, but let us add this also: let us, as many of us as burn with ardent desire for her, ascend together with her as she goes to heaven, and this will be possible if, with a purged mind and reason, we approach as near as is lawful to the light of her contemplative soul. But if we are thus affected, having cast off the dark and shadowy things, we shall be pure with the pure forever, and through her [we shall be] with her Son and the Father and the Holy Spirit, the most blessed Trinity; for it is not lawful for the impure and unpurged to touch what is pure. Furthermore, we shall reject the dark and filthy things, and we shall be luminous and pure, if, to speak briefly, declining from all evil (as David says), we have done all good, so that through these things, as if by instruments, we may merit in this present life her favor and grace, and may we become partakers of heavenly goods through the maternal prayers of the Virgin, most powerful before the Son, to whom is due all glory, honor, and adoration with His unbegotten Father, and with the most holy, good, and life-giving Spirit, now and always, and to the ages of ages. Amen.
MANUEL PALAEOLOGUS: CANON DEPRECATORIUS TO THE MOST HOLY LADY, THE MOTHER OF GOD, IN THE FACE OF PRESENT DANGERS.
Ode I. Let every rank and age of the faithful lift up their voices to the Mother of God, the Moderator of all: deliver your people from calamities, and grant your city victory against its enemies. You see, O Virgin, another enemy, a Chagan, pressing heavily upon your heritage: as you utterly destroyed him who brought this one forth, so destroy him and his followers. With how many distressing and harsh things is your people, O entirely blameless One, afflicted; and if you do not quickly succor us with your prayers, all will perish in most grievous ruin. O Virgin, who brought forth in the flesh the Creator of heaven and earth and all that is in them, and the Moderator of all flesh, intercede confidently on our behalf before Him. O Virgin, who brought forth God ineffably, acting as Advocate before Him for those for whose sake He, moved by compassion, became mortal, you obtain what is asked. Therefore you do not die.
Ode II. Since we, your people, O august Maiden, are pressed by many calamities as never before, now hasten to rescue us from evils before the end. By the mercy of God alone, through your intercessions, O Virgin, is it granted to us to have confidence, for life is spent in evils; that we, your faithful servants, may attain our hopes, O you who are worthy of all praise. You, O most pure One, are a Harbor and a Bulwark for us who piously place our hopes in you: therefore, appear now as such to us, who are tossed by a most grievous storm. Appear as Leader, strong shelter, and fortress, O Mother of God, and quickly bring aid to all who run to you.
Ode III. Our nature is wounded by the primal transgression. Nevertheless, that God to whom you, O Maiden, are Mother, having suffered much in His mercy and being crucified, has already liberated it from corruption and hell.
A Beseech Him therefore now, that He may deliver from enemies those who faithfully praise you.
Ode IV. Wearied by six hundred errors, we are utterly unable to lift our head on high. Do you, therefore, O most pure, fervently beseech God for us. May the assembly of those who praise you, O most spotless One, coming faithfully to your temple and asking for the repelling of the impending calamities, attain their hopes. It is impossible, O immaculate One, for those who call upon your protection to return frustrated in their vow. Wherefore, falling down before you, we faithful ones ask that we may be redeemed from our enemies. Having previously attained your many graces, O Mother of God, we cry out Hail to you, and we beseech you, O most glorious One, that against the enemies who dishonor you, you may grant victory to your own. B
Ode V. The spirit is indeed subjected to evil, but the flesh, alas for me, is shamefully subjected to passions, O most pure One: wherefore, deliver us, Mother of God, who are set in the crisis of many evils, by your intercessions. The body is full of sins, but the soul delights in evils; speech, heart, and mind incline to worse things, and now we are involved in calamitous affairs; but you, O Virgin, deliver your servants from these. May the customary mercy of your Son and the Ruler of all, O good Lady, prevent us, which may drive away all troublesome instances for us, and deliver us from errors, by your intercessions. Grave matters now hang over us in many ways. Dissipate these quickly, O Maiden, like smoke, which in no way is able to withstand the impulse of a violent wind.
Ode VI. The commotion of life, O Virgin, disturbs the soul; disturbances bring difficulties upon us everywhere at this time; drive these away as quickly as possible by your prayers. The billows of troublesome things threaten to sink that ship of which you, Mother of God, moderate the helms with your hand; therefore, calm these and grant tranquility by your prayers. There is need of many tears, O Virgin, for us who have spurned the precepts of Christ, on account of which we struggle with sinister affairs; redeem us from these, leading us to an excellent manner of life. If you deliver your own from enemies now, O most holy One, it will be nothing new; rather, it will be your old custom, O summit of goodness; therefore, grant that we may be quickly delivered from these.
Ode VII. One command, alas for us, O Lady, was transgressed by our first father Adam, and he immediately gave the penalty of his deed to God. But when C he had to move God to anger, how many punishments were due! But do you deliver us. Neither prophet, nor prince, nor leader can help us today, nor is there anyone who can restrain adverse things, for all are guilty of crime before God. O how grave are the punishments it is right to expect, unless you, O most pure One, prevent them! Mystically, baptism has made us children of God instead of evil servants, yet sin does not allow us to have confidence. Therefore, O most holy One, deliver us who are surrounded by a multitude of calamities by your intercessions. We have by no means kept the precepts of God, the Ruler of all, O most pure One; therefore, on every side, this fierce flame of adversities is being aroused against us. But by your prayers to your Son, may you extinguish it.
Ode VIII. You gave birth to the Savior of the world, O Lady, who is good and beneficent to those who glorify you. Therefore, beseech Him now with your hand, that He may deliver your own from enemies, while many are standing faithful. Your Son, O Virgin, delivered the three youths from the most voracious fire, for He can do all things. By the hand of this same One, deliver us all, O Spouse of God, from the fury of a most savage nation. God, through His exceeding mercy, was incarnate from you, O Maiden, wishing to save all. But you have the confidence to make Him propitious to our errors, O most pure One: hasten, therefore, O Mother of God. He whom you brought forth rejoices more in granting grace than those to whom it is given rejoice to receive it. Therefore, performing the embassy for us before Him, bring all things to pass. Proceed, therefore, O Mother of God.
Ode IX. You gave birth to God according to the flesh, O Virgin, who also suffered voluntarily for us. But when He had endured death, He absolved from the bonds of death those who were in hell. Beseech Him, therefore, that those who praise you may be able to be freed from sinister things. The human race has sinned against God, and even now, they proceed, O most unpolluted One, but the errors of men are not of such a kind that the blood of God shed for them could not cleanse them. Therefore, now beseech Him for us, O Lady. May you disperse the power of the ancient tyrant enemy, O most pure One, as soft and powerless by your intercessions, and may you cast down his pride, which is lifted up on high, O Virgin, and visit your servants quickly, who are struggling with countless grave matters. Those who frighten us at this time, O most pure One, do you cast into flight, trembling and timid, and cut off their prosperous course. Grant, however, to your people that they may be able to set up trophies over them, as you once gave our ancestors the strength to set them up.
NOTICE OF A WORK BY EMPEROR MANUEL PALAIOLOGOS, ENTITLED: DIALOGUES WITH A MOHAMMEDAN PROFESSOR. By M. C. B. Hase.
The work whose title has just been read is found in three manuscripts of the Imperial Library. The first, which is the oldest, has been part of this collection at least since the reign of Henry IV; upon the binding still exist the arms and the monogram of that prince. This volume contains 514 folio leaves on ordinary paper; it was first numbered M. CC. LXIV, then 2417, then 1385, and finally 1253. It is this last number that it still bears today, and under which one finds it mentioned in the printed Catalogue of manuscripts of the King's Library. The handwriting appears to be from the 16th century; it is large and contains quite a few abbreviations; the ink is still a beautiful black. Independently of the different numbers that the volume has borne successively, and which I have just indicated, one reads the following title on one of the blank leaves which are at the head of the work: Τάδ' ἔνεστιν ἐν ταύτῃ τῇ βίβλῳ · Μανουὴλ βασιλέως τοῦ Παλαιολόγου διάλογος περὶ τῆς τῶν Χριστιανῶν θρησκείας, πρός τινα Πέρσην· διήρηται δὲ εἰς κς' διαλέξεις. Two other shelfmarks, No. 166 vicesima tertia; and one lower down, No. 25, have been added by a hand that seems to me to be Italian. It is possible, in fact, that this copy was written in Italy, and preserved in some library of that country, before being transported to France. I believe I have even found an index of the collection to which it belonged. Chance having led me to consult an old manuscript catalogue of the library of Cardinal Nicolas Ridolfi, nephew of Pope Leo X, who died in 1550, I encountered there the following entry, almost entirely consistent with the title reported above: « No. 49. Μανουὴλ βασιλέως τοῦ Παλαιολόγου, διάλογος περὶ τῆς τῶν Χριστιανῶν θρησκείας, πρός τινα Πέρσην· διῄρηνται (sic) εἰς κς' διαλέξεις. » If, therefore, the work of Palaiologos was once in the collection of Cardinal Ridolfi, as the books of this prelate passed successively to Marshal Pierre Strozzi, to Queen Catherine de' Medici, and finally to the King's Library, it becomes infinitely probable that the volume mentioned under No. 49 in that old catalogue is the one in question here, and which bears today the number 1253 among the Greek manuscripts. I must not hide, however, that I have nowhere found, at the head of this latter, the notation 49 that the copy of Cardinal Ridolfi must have borne.
The second manuscript is of the number of those that belonged to M. de Coislin; it retains its old number 130, under which Montfaucon described it in his catalogue. It is a small folio bound in wood, of 216 leaves; it is on ordinary paper; the writing is cramped but easy to read, despite frequent abbreviations. The greater part of the verso of the sixth leaf, and leaves 8 and 9, are blank; one easily makes up for these gaps, which are not very significant, by the copy of which I have already spoken.
Finally, the third manuscript, numbered 169, is part of a supplementary deposit in which the books recently acquired by the Library were gathered. It is also on paper, in quarto format, containing 687 leaves, in a very modern hand. One sees clearly that it is a copy of the first, made by someone who was not practiced in the reading of manuscripts. This copyist, not being able to decipher all the abbreviations of the original, often tried to imitate them stroke for stroke; sometimes he was even entirely mistaken as to how they should be read. I will return later to this copy, because of a peculiarity that one notices in it; let it be permitted to me now to say something about the work that is contained therein, and the reasons that led me to provide this notice. Having been charged by my superiors to make the detailed catalogue of the Vatican manuscripts that arrived in France and were reunited in the Imperial Library, I was in the position to browse, for this work, a certain number of unpublished Greek works, composed in the four
A centuries which preceded the fall of Constantinople. The Latin versions and the extracts I have made from some of these treatises do not all, certainly, deserve to be made public; but the one before us is one of those compositions which, in more than one respect, have not seemed to me devoid of interest, and I thought that readers would be grateful to me for presenting the beginning of it here. In the current state of literature, the book of Manuel, if published in its entirety, would undoubtedly find fewer readers than at the time it was written. However, besides the advantage of representing with precision the ideas and language of the two nations which, in the fifteenth century, disputed the empire of Greece, one also finds there several facts worthy of being collected, and some digressions which, by shedding light on an obscure part of Byzantine history, give the Treatise which contains them a sort of merit that elevates it almost to the rank of historical monuments. Finally, as the origin of the Ottoman empire has been the object of an infinity of discussions, and as one has so often sought how a nomadic people could manage, through a series of conquests, to found a State so vast, and to form a mass of unshakable power for three centuries, one will like to find, in this work, some details on an event so important; one will not read without interest the sad and sincere admissions of a sovereign who confesses his own distress and recognizes the ever-growing superiority of his enemy.
The author of these dialogues is the emperor Manuel Palaiologos, second son and successor of John. Du Cange, Gibbon, and Henri Warton have gathered almost everything that is known about his political life; and more recently again, in the continuation of the History of the Lower Empire, a distinguished scholar has just shed new light on several points of this epoch. I will therefore limit myself to recalling here that Manuel, born in the year 1348, was associated with the empire in 1373, that he succeeded his father in 1391, and that his reign was as long as it was unhappy. Extraordinary forces had then turned the Turks into a people of heroes. B Orchan skillfully profited from the divisions that had arisen among the Greeks during the minority of John Palaiologos; Amurath I, having taken Adrianople around 1360, completed the conquest of Thrace without obstacle; and while the Greeks, despairing of their own forces, implored foreign aid, which was always dangerous or late, the warlike virtues inspired by the religion of the prophet reappeared among the Turks with all the brilliance with which they had shone during the birth of Mohammedanism in Arabia. It is not surprising that, in such a situation, almost the entire life of Manuel Palaiologos was spent either in solicitations to the princes of the West, to engage them to unite against his enemy, or in approaches to the sultan's court, in order to get those same negotiations forgiven, or in wars whose outcome was almost always disastrous for him. After a reign of about thirty-four years, during which this unhappy prince traveled through Italy and France, endured two sieges in his capital, and even condemned himself, for some time, to a private life, one saw him, overwhelmed by fatigue and sorrow, leaving the cares of government to his eldest son John Palaiologos II, and, retired in the monastery of Peribleptos, he occupied himself with letters and the study of Holy Scripture until the moment of his death, which arrived on July 21, 1425, twenty-eight years before the fall of his capital and the total enslavement of his nation.
While the sovereigns of the rest of Europe were almost all strangers to the lights of their century, one is pleased to see those of Constantinople not only protect letters, but often cultivate the different branches of instruction themselves, and sometimes distinguish themselves by works whose merit we can still appreciate. Anna Komnene left us the Biography of her father; Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus, that of his grandfather; Theodore Lascaris, panegyrics; Maurice and Leo VI, Treatises on the art of war; Cantacuzenos, Memoirs which place him alongside the best historians.
A of the Byzantine era. It is true that these writers, illustrious by their rank and zealous admirers of the ancients, hardly offer in their works the character and style of the latter; there are scarcely two or three who have any traits of resemblance to these great models. So true is it that there can be for literature circumstances so unfavorable that even the most intimate commerce with the ancients does not suffice to give the human mind all the momentum it could take. It is certain, however, that the example given by so many princes contributed greatly to preserving among their subjects the love of these studies, still useful even in their decadence and their false direction. (1)
Manuel Palæologus had inherited the noble tastes of his grandfather; following the example of Cantacuzenos, he not only welcomed talent (2), but his own gave him a distinguished rank among the writers of his century. I shall not undertake to give here a list of his works; he left them on a great number of subjects, and I could only repeat what M. Harles says of them in his new edition of the *Bibliotheca Graeca* of Fabricius. One counts twenty-eight of them, without, however, including in this number the dialogues in question here: fifteen were published by Jean Leunclavius, at Basel, 1578, in-8°. These are all prayers or declamations, except for a Treatise which is found at the head of the collection, under the title: Ὑποθῆκαι βασιλικῆς ἀγωγῆς. It is a collection of moral maxims, composed for the education of John II Palæologus, eldest son of Manuel. (3) B Besides these fifteen pieces, there exists also from our author a funeral oration which he pronounced at the death of his brother Theodore Palæologus, Despot of the Peloponnese; this discourse, published by Father Combefis, can be looked upon as a historical monument, and M. Ameilhon made use of it in the XXVI volume of the *Histoire du Bas-Empire*. After having accounted for these printed opuscules, M. Harles makes an enumeration of twelve others which have not yet been published, and which one knows, for the most part, only because they are cited in different Treatises of Leo Allatius. They are all found at the Vatican library, with the exception of the pieces that M. Harles designates under n. 26 and 27, and which exist at the Imperial Library, one in the Greek manuscript 2419, folio 315 verso, the other in n. 3043, fol. 11 verso – 14 verso. But I think that one is wrong to attribute these two compositions to Manuel, of which the first (4) is nothing other than an explanation of dreams written in a barbaric language and completely disparate to the refined and elegant style of our author. The other is indicated in the *Bibliotheca Graeca* by the words: *Adloquutiones, 1. ad summum Pontificem*; these small discourses were made to be pronounced, not by the emperor, but by Manuel, son of Thomas, Despot of Achaia, when this young prince, the last scion of a dethroned family, came with his brother Andreas Palæologus to present himself, at Rome, before Pope Paul II, from whom he received a pension. (5)
A
PREFACE. DIALOGUES WITH A MOHAMMEDAN. PREFACE.
The work which I am about to describe is perhaps, of all the compositions of Manuel Palæologus, the one encountered least often in libraries. Fabricius did not suspect its existence; and aside from a manuscript kept at the Ambrosian Library of Milan, which itself contains only six dialogues, I know only of the three copies that are to be found in Paris. This work is addressed to Theodore Palæologus, brother of Manuel, Despot of Lacedæmon, which proves that it was composed before the year 1407, the date of that prince's death. Manuel reminds his brother that he was obliged to join the army of Bajazet with a corps of auxiliary troops; he explains to him that in the winter, while the sultan was residing at Ancyra, he, Manuel, had the occasion to become acquainted with his host, who occupied the position of *muderris* (1) or professor at the college of that city, that he questioned him on different points of the Christian religion, and that he had with him a series of conversations of which he renders an account to his brother. A passage from Ducas (2) informs us, in effect, that the Emperor John Palæologus saw himself forced, in the last years of his reign, to send to the court of Bajazet a troop of one hundred soldiers commanded by his eldest son, to follow the sultan in a war that he was going to undertake against a Turkish emir who occupied the city of Perga in Pamphylia. Now, Bajazet ascended the throne in the month of August or September of the year 1389 (3), and John Palæologus ceased to live in 1391; it is therefore between these two periods, and probably in the winter of the year 1390, that one should fix the time when these conferences took place.
At the head of the manuscript cataloged 169, one reads a note in a very modern hand, which contains a pompous eulogy of the work of Manuel. To believe the unknown author of this note, one finds there the elegance of style, the vivacity of turn, the variety of expressions, the boldness of the figures, finally all the rare and brilliant qualities that characterize the great models of antiquity: *Hosce dialogos cum lego, legere mihi videor modo Platonis* B τὸ μέγεθος, *modo* Demosthenis δεινότητα, *modo* Isocratis κάλλος, *modo* Aristophanis Ἀττικωτάτην ἀστειότητα, *modo* Xenophontis μελιτώδη γλυκύτητα, *modo* Gregorii Nazianzeni κομψόν, *modo* Chrysostomi τὴν ἁπλῆν σαφήνειαν, *modo* Basilii εὐκρίνειαν, *semper* ἀκριβέστατον purioris hellenismi κανόνα (4). It is certain that a severe criticism would have much to cut from these eulogies; I admit, however, that I read the whole work with pleasure, that I found in it a lively and animated style, a pure Greek, and a great knowledge of sacred and profane authors (5); [it is worth the] trouble to insert here this whole short harangue, in which the young prince depicts his desperate situation: *Etiamsi*, he says among other things to the Pope, *tanto intervallo infra tuam amplitudinem simus positi, præstare nihilominus puto, afferre sibi aliquid, quale id cunque est, quam omnino nihil dare. Quam ob causam flexis genibus ad sancta vestigia tua ipse accido, beatissime Pater, depresso capite, depresso animo, immortalesque fateor me tuæ bonitati habere gratias: prædico tuum patrocinium, adoramus beneficia, profitemur tota mente et lingua celebramusque tuam misericordiam. Tu secundum Deum in patroni loco fuisti nobis, tu peregrinis congregator, tu servis dominus providus, tu nobis nunc egenis præbitor magnificus, tu desperantibus et orbis pater secundum Deum, et patronus, et auxiliator, humanissimus et misericors: qui apparuisti nobis totus ad Dei imaginem expressus, tanquam communis revera curator, et pater servatorque communis secundum Deum*. The expressions are almost even stronger in Greek. Εἰ δὲ καὶ κατόπιν ἡμεῖς τῆς τῆς τοσοῦτον ἐσμεν ἀξίας, ἀλλὰ κρείσσον οἶμαι πανδω τοῦ γε διδόμενον, ἢ παντάπασι λειπόμενον. Τοιγαροῦν, μακαριώτατε πάτερ, γονυπετῶν καὶ αὐτὸς τοῖς ἱεροῖς σοῖς πρόποσι, κεκλικυίᾳ μὲν τῇ κεφαλῇ, κεκλικυίᾳ δὲ τῇ ψυχῇ, μεγάλας ὁμολογῶ τῇ σῇ φιλανθρωπίᾳ τὰς χάριτας · ὑμνῶ σου τὴν προστασίαν, προσκυνοῦμέν σου τὰς εὐεργεσίας, ὁμολογοῦμέν ὅλῃ γνώμῃ τε καὶ γλώττῃ καὶ κηρύττομέν σου τὸν ἔλεον· γέγονας ἡμῖν προστάτης μετὰ Θεὸν, τοῖς ξένοις συναγωγεύς, τοῖς οἰκέταις (perhaps one must read ἱκέταις, supplicibus) προμηθεύς, τοῖς νῦν ἐνδεέσι παροχεὺς μεγαλόδωρος, τοῖς δυσελπισί τε καὶ ὀρφανοῖς πατὴρ μετὰ Θεὸν, προστάτης καὶ ἀντιλήπτωρ φιλανθρωπότατος καὶ συμπαθέστατος · ὅλος θεομίμητος ἡμῖν ὀφθεὶς, οἷα κοινὸς ὄντως ὧν κηδεμών, καὶ μετὰ Θεὸν πατὴρ καὶ σωτὴρ κοινὸς καθεστηκώς. What would the Emperor Phocas have said, to whom Saint Gregory the Great wrote letters so submissive, reported in his *Works*, vol. II, p. 1238, Benedictine edition, 1705, in-folio; what would that Constantine have said, who stripped the Pantheon of its ornaments and Rome of its treasures, if they had known C that the great-grandson of one of their successors would humble himself to this point before the sovereign of this same city?
A If sometimes the author employs subtlety in his ideas and allows himself refined expressions and manners of speaking, it is impossible not to recognize in other places a true talent and a happy imitation of Plato. Robert Gerius, in his supplements to the *Literary History of the Church*, by Cave, appears to have had an even more favorable opinion of this book; he calls it an excellent work (*opus egregium*).
One finds, in perusing these dialogues, a curious and true tableau of the savage luxury of the sultans’ court, and of the extreme weakness of the Greek emperors at the end of the XIV century. Bajazet was then master of almost all of Greece and a large part of Asia Minor; all the Christian princes, from the Bosphorus to the Gulf of Venice, were his tributaries. B Filled with glory and laden with riches, he passed the harsh season sometimes at Nicaea, sometimes at Prusa, sometimes at Ancyra. “The tree of his fortune,” says the historian Ducas in a figurative style that an Arab author would not disavow, “the tree of his fortune, raising its crown and extending its branches to infinity, provided him with a prodigious abundance of the most delicious fruits that could flatter the appetite and sustain his pleasures.”
If one must believe the description of our author, one found in the sultan’s camp the barbarian and warlike pomp of an eastern court; one saw in his banquets troops of mimes and musicians, choirs of singers and female singers, an infinite number of dancers; the clatter of the cymbals, the noisy laughter of the guests troubled the head of the Greek prince, and that was not the only annoyance he had to endure. “Charged for so long with this military command,” he says himself to his host, “I cannot find a moment of rest, in the middle of winter, in a country that will always be foreign to me, even if you would like to call it friendly.” One must know, to understand this passage, that according to the custom established in the armies of the Orient, Manuel was charged with providing himself for the maintenance of the small corps of auxiliaries with which he had joined the army of Bajazet. These expenses, it seems, exceeded the faculties of the imperial treasury, nevertheless; and one is astonished to hear the successor of Constantine and Justinian complain of the high cost of provisions at Ancyra, of the enormous sums that a similar expedition cost, and of the difficulties he experienced in procuring food at the market. His embarrassment was at its peak especially when he had to appear at court. The pride, the impudence, the greed, the jealousy of the great men of the Porte caused him continuous disgraces: one looked upon him as a prisoner; one treated his companions like slaves; and when, during the hunt, one of his retinue would slaughter a wild boar, all the Greeks would hasten to hide this prey in the foliage and transport it clandestinely to the prince’s house, for fear of being scolded or even beaten by the Turks, whom the mere sight of an unclean animal would have transported with fury. While at the sight of the snows of Galatia, the Greek officers regretted the climate C of the same image, although the treatise in which this allegory is found (de divinis nominibus, cap. 2. §. 4) has been recognized as supposed, not only by Launoy but even by Catholic bishops of the VI century, in a conference they had in Constantinople with the Severians. One can say however, in Manuel's excuse, that the writings of St. Denis the Areopagite, which became in the XVII century the subject of such violent discussions, were greatly admired during the entire Middle Ages, and that a short time after the composition of these Dialogues, they had found a new commentator in the historian George Pachymeres, who doubted their authenticity not at all, and whose authority may have fixed our author’s opinion. D
C delightful of their beautiful country, Manuel would profit from the moments when he did not have to appear at court or accompany the sultan to the hunt, to make his host understand the principal dogmas of the Christian religion. The host of Manuel, as I have said above, was a *muderris*, or professor in a Mohammedan college, and generally respected because of his talents and his knowledge. Originally from Babylon—one does not know if it was Bagdad or Cairo, for in the Byzantine authors these two cities are equally designated by this name—he had arrived shortly before at Ancyra. His two sons, one of whom exercised the functions of a judge, habitually attended these conferences, which rose to the number of twenty-six; Manuel often also had as listeners inhabitants of the city, and even foreigners distinguished for their learning, whom curiosity or the desire for instruction attracted to the house of the *muderris*; these listeners were almost all elderly men. D In these conferences, Manuel spoke Greek and the Muslims Turkish, and they employed an interpreter versed in both languages, who translated on the spot the arguments and the replies of the interlocutors; a task which must have been quite difficult, if these conversations actually took place in the manner in which the author reports them. The interpreter, although Mohammedan, retained an attachment for the Christian religion, which had been that of his parents; it is probably for this reason, and in order not to be understood by him, that the Turks sometimes spoke among themselves in Arabic and Persian; a circumstance which proves that, if the Turkish language was then, as today, the vulgar idiom of the greater part of Asia Minor, Arabic and Persian were equally familiar to those who received a refined education and who were destined to fill the civil dignities of the State.
It is impossible to judge the plan of this work; the author does not appear to have finished it, and it ends abruptly in the same place in the three manuscripts. In what has reached us, the *muderris* is represented as a weak adversary, easy to convince, and almost as prejudiced in favor of the Christian religion as Manuel is against that of Mahomet. In the first discourses, one sees him, in truth, making some objections to the arguments of the prince; but as the discussion continues, the incredulity of the listeners diminishes, and in the last dialogue they appear almost persuaded. However, a few words in the preface give one to understand that the result of the conferences did not respond quite to the desires and perhaps the expectation of Palaiologos; and the latter confesses to his brother that the *muderris*, although very shaken by the force of his arguments, could not nevertheless determine himself to change his religion publicly. Indeed, it would have been necessary to join to an intimate conviction a very elevated soul, to make this abjuration in circumstances where everything seemed to unite to make disappear from Asia...
the last remnants of Christianity, and where the Mahometan religion enjoyed the brilliance and the preponderance which always follow victories.
The preface of Manuel and the first two dialogues being joined to this Notice, I consider myself dispensed from giving any detail here with regard to them; one will see there the manner in which the author exposes his subject and how he enters upon the matter. The discussion on the paradise of Mahomet occupies the second and the third dialogue; the fourth concerns the animals which, according to the opinion of the Mahometans, have a soul not very different from that of men. In the fifth, the Turks, in order to make their religion triumph, seek to avail themselves of their victories predicted by Mahomet, and oppose to this tableau of their prosperity the painting of the deplorable state of the Greek empire. Manuel agrees to these facts; but he strives to demonstrate that each people has had its period of splendor and of decadence; that God sometimes punishes those He loves, and that if the situation of the Greeks is not flourishing, one finds princes in the West of Europe, professing the Christian religion, and nevertheless possessing as much and more power than the Turkish sultans. Moreover, he adds, it is not by prophecies alone that one must judge the founder of a new religion; it is by the holiness of his doctrine and by the ensemble of his precepts; without that, the predictions of the ancient oracles, which have been accomplished, would prove in an incontestable manner the truth of paganism. Moses, he says at the beginning of the sixth dialogue, is infinitely superior to Mahomet: the praises which the latter does not cease to give to himself are completely removed from the true character of a prophet; while Moses, chief of his nation, occupying at the court of Pharaoh the rank that even a son would believe himself happy to have near his father, surrounded by all that could excite and satisfy his vanity, has always shown himself humble, modest, sincere, disinterested, and a constant enemy of flatteries and praises.
In the seventh dialogue, Manuel accuses the Mahometan religion of having taken from the character of its founder that spirit of intolerance and persecution which distinguishes it; he shows that Christianity teaches one to cultivate one's reason, to moderate one's desires, to conquer one's passions, to persuade with gentleness, and he proves the superiority of its precepts by the comparison of the gentle means which propagated it with the murders and violences to which Mahometanism owes its establishment. This whole part of his discourse is full of force and energy. The Turks reply to him that even if one did not wish to recognize their religion as the only true one, one would still have to admire the wisdom of him who knew how to find a just mean between the barbarous cruelty of the law of Moses and the too great gentleness of the morality of Jesus Christ. Manuel replies that Mahomet only took from Christianity what he judged could be adopted by a sensual and passionate people; but that he did not dare to transport into Islamism the moral precepts of the Christian religion, which by their sublimity loudly attest their celestial origin. This discussion is terminated by a truly eloquent piece, in which Manuel shows that man could not be happy except in so far as he conforms his conduct to evangelical morality.
I will not follow the author in his other discussions; they have for their object Providence, divine foreknowledge, and predestination. One reads with interest, in the tenth dialogue, a digression in which Manuel defends with warmth the pilgrimages to the Holy Sepulchre and the adoration of the cross, of which the Muslims make a reproach to the Christians. He begins, from the twelfth, to report the passages of Scripture which show that Jesus Christ is the wisdom and the Word of God, that He incarnated Himself to save the human race, that He was to be born of the race of David, in the city of Bethlehem, etc. But perhaps the author has here multiplied too much the scholastic terms and the forced explanations which are little suited to the letter of Scripture. I conceive that the Greeks, who loved allegories and mystical contemplations, may have been able to find taste and pleasure in reading this part of the work; but one could not persuade oneself that Mahometan listeners were able to understand these subtleties, and to judge of the more or less perfect accord of these interpretations with the sacred text. After having examined some more questions on the incarnation, the author explains, in the fourteenth dialogue, the mystery of the Trinity, and in the six which follow, he justifies the Christians from the reproach of adoring three Divinities instead of one. In the twentieth, he defends the cult of images, by almost the same arguments as Saint John Damascene, while admitting however that it would be a sin to honor them with a true cult, which is due to God alone. The mystery of satisfaction is treated quite at length in the four following dialogues. In the twenty-fifth, Manuel speaks of the mission of the apostles; and in the twenty-sixth, of the institution of the Supper and of the real presence; it is by this very conference, as I have said higher up, that the work ends in the three manuscripts.
It remains for me to present here, as I have promised, the two dialogues which form the beginning of this composition. I have chosen by preference the part of the work in which the author attacks the dogmas of the Mahometans; it has appeared to me more interesting than that where he defends the truths of Christianity by arguments often repeated since.
DIALOGUE WITH A MOHAMMEDAN
If the subject treated by the Emperor Manuel still possessed today the interest it should have inspired at the time these dialogues were written, I would perhaps have attempted to compare them with those of the polemical works of the Greek Church that have the most relation to them, such as the treatises of Saint John Damascene, of Theodore Abucara, of Thaddeus of Pelusium, A of Cantacuzene; I would have cited the places where these authors met with ours, and examined the manner in which Manuel took advantage of the writers who preceded him. Among a people whose literature was entirely theological, such comparisons can serve to make known what might have been, from one century to the other, the changes in taste and opinion, the progress or the decadence of talents. But such a development would appear, with reason, misplaced in this collection; it is not even very necessary, since in fact Manuel Palaiologos borrows little from his predecessors, and even while he cannot say very new things, the form at least and the manner in which he treats them belong entirely to him.
B Thaddeus of Pelusium was patriarch of Jerusalem; he wrote a treatise against the Jews, which has remained in manuscript, and which, in the copy at the Library, bears for a frontispiece these two iambic verses: Thaddaeus arcet Judaeorum audaciam, In freni morem tali constringens libro. The time when this prelate lived has not been indicated by M. Harles, *Bibl. Gr.*, vol. VI, pag. 749; but one could fix it by the peroration which ends his book: ... The year after the ascension of J.C. is the year of our era, at which epoch Thaddeus wrote. See Le Quien, *Oriens Christ.*, tom. III, col. 506. C It is true, for example, that one finds a striking resemblance between the paradise of Mohammed, such as Palaiologos describes it in his second conference, and that which St. Ephrem promises to the faithful, *Serm. X de paradiso*, Roma 1743, in-fol. III, p. 594. According to this father, some rivers of honey and milk flow in the dwelling of the blessed: *aestuant in beatissimo illo solo fontes, factoque gurgite lato gremio patescunt in flumina vini, lactis, butyri et mellis.* The muderris says of paradise... But one cannot see in this encounter anything but the effect of chance alone; and in the description of a delicious site, the poetry of all the oriental nations must offer nearly the same images.
OF THE MOST PIOUS AND CHRIST-LOVING EMPEROR MANUEL PALAIOLOGOS TO HIS MOST BELOVED BROTHER, THE MOST FORTUNATE DESPOT PORPHYROGENITOS THEODORE PALAIOLOGOS. DIALOGUE WHICH HE HELD WITH A CERTAIN PERSIAN, HOLDING THE OFFICE OF MUTERIZES, IN ANCYRA OF GALATIA.
D 1. And to attempt to persuade those who have a persuasion [...], O my most beloved brother above all, is altogether superfluous.
and even to instruct those who persist in their earlier notions after they have been refuted as false, is extremely vain. Whence it seems in a way foolhardy to converse with any people at all about the infidelity or falsely named faith of the Turks. For whether one were to converse about this with the pious, one would converse with those already persuaded; or with these atheists, you will not persuade them, even if you should persuade them, as the Comic poet says (1). For they cling to the deceit to which they have willingly surrendered themselves, just as the polypus clings to the rocks (2). I have heard many people always say this, and recently it happened to me to see it by experience. For when it seemed to be better that I should bring aid against the Scythians to one who even now uses against us those very things which he acquired then by our labor and at our peril: then, therefore, in Ancyra—a city formerly noble, but now no longer so, since it is rich in impiety—having to stay there for no very short time, I happened to be entertained myself by a certain old man, who, although he himself had arrived recently (for he had come at that time from Babylon), was nevertheless of great dignity in the town. For all who were judges and all who were teachers of their wisdom depended upon his words B. This man was called Muderris; this name denotes presidency and honor. Therefore, having leisure during the winter, I often conversed with him far into the night; for he himself requested me to do so, being fond of hearing. He seemed, in fact, to be a man of good sense; for he did not rejoice in contention, but even if he was not easily persuaded by one telling the truth (for preconceived opinions are wonderfully strong in resisting everyone), yet he was nevertheless persuaded.
2. But it is worthy of admiration that although he agreed with what was being said, sometimes willingly and sometimes unwillingly, because of the things he answered when questioned, he was unwilling to proceed further. For he was indeed gripped by great admiration for the things being said, and he took more pleasure in learning the truth than he felt sorrow at being defeated. But he could not bring himself to embrace the things he deigned to admire; and he did not seem to admire his own religion very much, and yet he was nevertheless eager to guard the evil deposit of Satan. For he thought it to be of the most absurd things, as it seems, if in such deep old age and in the waning of nature C he were to depart from his first impiety. And if I must tell the end, at which the discourse finished, starting immediately from the very beginning and from the starting-line (as they say) (5): I do not think he was so much held by the desire to defend his religion, once at least he had learned what he learned, as he was bound by the chain of riches, and by the pleasures and sorceries that flowed from them. To these things was added that troublesome shame, which I would call the mother of untimely contention, and the deception of vain glory, than which nothing is more powerful for overcoming a soul that does not know how to philosophize correctly. To these add the customs in which he had been nurtured, and his fortune, D
A that is to say, the fact that the men of that nation possess prosperity, while we presently suffer adversity—all of which pulled his mind in opposing directions. For as one might say, bound hand and foot, he nevertheless held fast to those things which he condemned extremely in his speech; while those things which he praised in some measure—how you think!—and regarded with wonder, and appeared to believe were true in all respects, yet the wretched old man was unable to move toward them. For it seems that, once in bondage to an evil opinion, he was no longer master of what he chose to do; or if you prefer, having never tasted true liberty, he was very far from desiring it as much as was fitting. Hence, as I was saying before, it risks seeming almost foolish to converse about the impiety of the Turks and the doctrines of those people, when they are such that, at best, they are sufficient to provoke laughter in those who hear them.
PREFACE
1. Therefore, for us to now undertake the effort of refuting the madness of the demented Mahomet seems to me entirely redundant, since not a few have already finished this race; among whom was also our most divine grandfather, that most excellent and admirable Emperor B; who, being a rule of piety and yielding to no one the primacy in the labors undertaken for its sake, wrote many other things which clearly declare to us his ardent zeal for the true faith; and, upon his death, he added to these that work in which he most evidently demonstrates that the religion of those Achaemenids is nothing other than mere nonsense. But because I knew that you, as a true brother, detest this fraud of the impious whom I have mentioned more than others, and moreover, that you consider it a delight and, as it were, a pleasure if someone recounts anything concerning their absurdities, and especially those things which are held to be secret and venerable by them—for these reasons, I decided to desist from writing a whole and complete work against all the tenets of Turkish madness; for there are, indeed there are, as I said, those who have executed this most excellently and to the extent that was sufficient; C if you should wish to read their writings, it will be possible for you to see the madness of the Turks led in triumph. Nevertheless, for my part, I shall attempt to express to you in words those things which seem to have been said more opportunely and better by Muterizes, while avoiding satiety as much as possible, as well as whatever I remember to have been said by me to the old man. For I shall relate the words of that man as well, wishing to gratify you; for I would be doing you an injury if, in things from which you yourself D would have derived pleasure if present, I were to omit them in writing, where they can be so easily explained.
B For even if the shadowy mountains and the sounding sea A distance our bodies from one another, they are not able to do this to true brotherly love, for such a thing is by nature unrestrainable. Whence I wish for you to be a participant in this repast, at which the old man feasted B us splendidly, and we were the guests. It might perchance appear more delicate to you, one with which that most grave and most perverted Satrap often feasted us, telling a certain prodigy in the fantasy of dreams—a snatching away, forsooth, suited to himself, and a paradise filled with dogs and infinite maidens perched on the branches of trees, and other long-winded nonsense. C But it is necessary for me to speak of two things: first, because it is neither congruent nor right for any dialogue to take place that does not contain the remarks of all who are conversing. D Secondly, perhaps something useful might be found in these things for those who wish to respond on the spur of the moment regarding the hope that is in us, whenever those god-haters offer something ridiculous against it. For that man emptied his whole quiver, shooting a great force of arrows from a barbarian hand; but God rendered them utterly light and blunt; and the opposite happened to him, for that archer was pierced by our arrows—nay, even by his own, which indeed seems altogether more bitter. And yet we did not use the interpretations of the Sacred Scriptures and their testimonies as much as was allowed and as much as was fitting, but only as much and whenever B he desired. It should, of course, have been worth the labor to do this, but I was willingly deprived of that invincible and excellent aid, first of all considering with myself that whatever oracles of the books of theology prove the error of Mahomet to be nothing but sheer error, these have already been discovered, arranged, and expressed in most ornate words by those who have written against him. C Then, although that old man was considered great among all those of his own age and race, so far as liberal disciplines and the wisdom that flourishes among them are concerned, he was nevertheless a barbarian, as was his whole race and language. And on account of this he could not naturally have a mind capable of reaching the god-befitting meaning hidden in the Scriptures; wherefore we did not dispute as we ought, but as he was able to receive what was said. For there were also interpreters who transmitted our words back and forth; and this often stood in my way and obstructed me when I wished to speak of something not altogether earthly or abject, but something more noble and sublime (for such are the things we venerate and honor); D for it was necessary to say the same things twice and thrice so that they might be easily grasped. For these reasons, in not a few places where the aid of Scripture was needed, I was forced to be "naked," so to speak, of the support of the logia and of the weapons from that source, and was compelled instead to use reasoned arguments and examples for the most part while conversing, and to use these as they were appropriate to the strength of those who were listening. This caused me great loss, yet it also brought something useful.
For even an unskilled person among those whom we have compared together might remember the discourses and, when it is necessary, use them more easily and readily than arguments drawn from the Holy Scriptures. For those who wish to employ the divine books rightly in a discussion have need both of their excellent training and of a more subtle mind and more divine assistance: it is certainly difficult for all these things to come together in one and the same person. You have, my best brother, what I thought ought to be set down as a sort of foundation of the work, that you might more easily understand the discourse between us, which happened in this way. A
DIALOGUS PRIMUS. De Angelis et Animabus.
B 1. I was sitting by the fire after supper, and the old man was doing the same, as was his custom, along with others from our company and his own sons; for these were two, gifted with talent and wisdom, and not infrequently did they assist in their father’s discourse. Then the old man said: “If I may not seem troublesome, I shall ask you to listen to me and share with me a discourse on those things about which I shall inquire; for I have found you at leisure.” And I said: “Even if I were not at all at leisure, I would still gladly listen to you; for I desire nothing so much as to gratify you.” Then he began to speak:
2. “A constant desire has been mine to find someone to instruct me in your worship. For I have never yet met any of the Christians C who possessed such talent and such knowledge of their own religion that they could clarify for me something about it, such as I might desire. I have heard many things from many Persians, Arabs, and Turks who, as they said, were taught by yours the heads and tenets of your religion; yet I did not wish to believe them entirely: both because they cultivate a religion opposite to yours, and because they disagree among themselves and do not say the same things. For one asserted that he had heard one thing about the same matter, and another something else; and all spoke things that were utterly unable to hang together with one another. But now, as it is a happy and favorable event, having found such a guest as you, I hope greatly that what I have long desired I shall now certainly attain. Wherefore I beseech you that I may be fulfilled in my vow, and let not my hope deceive me, but that I may hear clearly from you all that you believe; and for my part, if you wish, I will set forth to you all our things, which I think I know well. And it may turn out that you will receive the reward for your labor that you would prefer. For if the things to be said by you shall appear to be connected to the truth, D
it is certainly necessary that what I have said appear to be otherwise. But indeed, who is so foolish as to prefer what is not true to what is? And that what I have said is true is demonstrated by this argument: it is forbidden for us to dispute with Christians, who, as they say, have no small power of persuasion. And if I were not a most zealous lover of the truth, I would certainly not disregard the law that prohibits this, nor would I rashly gird myself to undertake such a contest.
C 3. But you, I said, happen to be a teacher of your doctrines, and you could well fulfill what you promise; but for me and those who are just now serving as soldiers with me, a certain other kind of life is prescribed: wherefore, if you are eager to learn our ways and are thinking of doing something of that sort, it would have been more appropriate for you to approach those whose duty it is to teach these things: they are many in number, and they dwell in our cities. Yet not even so should we be reluctant to speak about whatever you might ask: although it is not permitted to do this simply with everyone. For this law is given to us, that we should always be prepared to D provide a reason for the hope that is in us: for one who is a soldier of God, and armed with the truth itself, must neither tremble nor fear those who attack him; and not only this, but it is permitted to preach the Gospel everywhere on earth and every day. Yet, to drain the treasury of the faith so indiscriminately and rashly toward everyone is not permitted. But you have captured us with the argument by which you persuaded us to hope that we shall obtain from God the reward for our labors. Tell us, therefore, having made a beginning, from wherever you wish.
4. He said therefore: I would wish first to learn, if it is not burdensome to you (for this also appears to me to have a certain order), what it is that you think concerning the nature of the angels, and A the composition of the heaven and the earth and this entire world; then to examine everything together with you up to the resurrection itself, and the state of things that will be then, and the retribution to be made to each for his deeds, which is the final end of those things that are moved. But if it pleases you to speak first about God and the things on which we differ with one another, let that which seems best to you be done. But I, in response to these things, said: One must begin from where you first said: for after those things we would more easily be able to say something about God than before them; for by these things we finally know Him. For indeed, even Abraham (for I do not think this is unknown B to you) arrived, from created things, at the knowledge of the completely unknown and incomprehensible God, and the true creator of all. Indeed, you speak well, he said; for we also know his history, and it brilliantly supports your argument; therefore, from where you said, we must begin. And both of us agreed upon these things.
5. Then I asked whether they embraced the book of Moses; he indeed said, Most of all the ancients. I said: Do you therefore also accept the books of the prophets? Certainly, he said; for indeed, they are written among us.
and translated by our interpreters. A Do you wish, therefore, I said, to cling to what they say? Yes, he said; for why not? Since the Gospel is also with us, and we consider this to be something supernaturally divine, and a heavenly gift. For it also descended from heaven, bringing laws to the human race. Nevertheless, a certain report is told and believed among us, that this very thing, and the whole Old Testament, together with the book of David, were translated by your ancient interpreters (those who first turned these into Greek), and that they interpreted them lavishly in accordance with things that seemed to establish your own worship, neglecting the original texts.
B But, my good man, I said, this, in the first place, would not be honorable to say, nor is it worthy, I think, to be believed; for you yourselves, who stand against us in judgment, are witnesses to this same matter. But from there you might be able to learn the truth more accurately. For if you were ever to have an abundance of time, good interpreters, and Hebrew books, you would well know who has corrupted the Holy Scriptures. And observe for me also the Providence that governs all things well, how it completely stops the mouths of those who unblushingly attack these matters, and who easily disparage them. For when all the divine Scripture had to be translated into the Greek tongue, it was not done by chance, know well, nor by just anyone, but by him who held sway over almost all of the East (and he was an idolater, and having reigned for no small time before Christ, Ptolemy being the man's name) C this was done at that time. For having summoned learned men as interpreters, two and seventy in number, from the Jews, he entrusted this work to them; whom the one then ruling their metropolis, moved by God as it were, and whose name was Eleazar, having chosen from each tribe, sent. Because of this, not even the most shameless race of the Jews themselves dares to put forward anything against them, nor to cast any stain of reproach upon the matter; but they do attempt here and there to change certain words of what is written, which, even if taken as they say they are, nevertheless do not at all depart from the true meaning.
7. But do you tell me, by whose command, and from what place, did those who have published the things of Scripture in the Arabic tongue obtain the originals? And when? And who indeed were they, and what kind of men were they, and how many in number? But you would not be able to; for you are entirely destitute of all those proofs upon which our own contentions rest; and merely to cause suspicion is for all. For after the appearance of the religion of Muhammad, you yourselves alone, in every way, translated the Scripture into your own tongue, which has been shown to be the opposite of what is the case with us. Whence, who of sound mind, D while disbelieving our own, would believe your own? If, therefore, you were a believer in what is written, we would not have had
A many difficulties. For it openly (know this well) fights against all the things of Scripture in your religion. "How you admired and received it at the beginning, while many wondered greatly, I myself do not experience the same. For you exchanged for this [religion] polytheism and the worship of idols; for which things you are not to be blamed on that account, but because you did not keep the same law, so as to leap again from this to a better one." But since you do not yet wish to be persuaded by the Scriptures, where one of us might accept a passage of Scripture brought forward by the other, it is good to share in the help of the oracles for our discussion, as much as possible. Where this might happen otherwise, the remainder must be used in lines of reasoning, and one must attempt, according to one's capacity, to find where the truth lies—if, I say, this is also pleasing to you. And he praised what was said, and it was agreed between us to discuss in this way.
8. Then he said: "It must be considered concerning the discourse, how you will weave this together completely, beginning from the angels. I, for my part, will state whatever of the things said I do not approve, and I will add telling what our own opinion is concerning that very thing which I might recognize to be discordant with our own dogmas." "Very well," I said, "O best of men; I will attempt to act just as you yourselves might wish." And indeed, we say that the angels are the first creation, and that these, and all things, were created on account of the goodness of the Creator (for those of which He had no need for sustenance would never have been created by Him, had He not been supremely good); all endowed with a simple nature, and having the same, C even if one excels another in order, in the degree of service, and in nearness to the Divine, being light-like, and lights, and either difficult to move toward evil, or even completely unmoved after the defection and fall of Satan. For when he had been moved (you know this, I suppose), these remained completely unmoved; for one might justly conjecture that, just as those who were moved badly were justly abandoned and are moved toward worse things perpetually, because they were once moved badly, so also these, because they remained firm, received this gift of progress from God, so that although their nature remained in its place, they themselves could never suffer the same as those who had fallen. And not only that, but we also deem them to be good. For we understand their nature to be more akin to God, the Creator of all, than other things created by Him. Wherefore we also believe them to be immortal, and completely lacking what we require for life.
9. The old man said, "These things said are all good." D
A However, I would still like to hear something about these matters more clearly; B but perhaps the logic, as it proceeds on its path, will render this to us. Yet how is it possible, I ask, for the angels to be immortal? For it is necessary, by all means, that every nature which is not destined to perish completely, having once taken a beginning, should also take an end to it; so that, just as in a circle it comes around to the same point again, through generation, decomposition, and regeneration, being transformed and enjoying a better resurrection, it may henceforth be above all decay. Therefore, I said, O good man, do you also consider the angels themselves to be mortal? And he said, "Yes." How greatly, I said, our opinions concerning the angels differ! For what greater difference could there be than that which exists between life and death? Who, then, could persuade you that it is otherwise than what you say, especially when you seem to yourself to be speaking something probable, and yet you are unwilling to accept the testimony from the Scriptures, and furthermore, you are conversing in a language which, being foreign to the one you are addressing, has the effect, by its own inherent force, of making the things being said seem more humble than they truly are.
10. C"We must try, even so," he said, "to find the truth." For, know well, I would have paid a great price if any one could have granted me to be able to converse with you directly. But since it must be allowed, as it is allowed, to proceed in this way, surely the truth will be discovered in whatever manner it may be. "Answer me, then," I said. "Do you say that every soul is without beginning, and was never created, and that there was no time when it did not exist? Or that it was created at some time, and is a creature, and has taken a beginning?" "Who," he said, "could say the former?" "You speak well," I said; "but it seems to me that you also consider the angels to have been created before all other creatures, and that their nature is superior to all those generated after them, and more akin to the first. For just now, when I said this, you agreed, D as I think, to what you did not contradict." "You judge correctly, indeed," he said. "See then," I said, "excellent man, how much you are in error: for must not your own soul, and every other soul, also perish? And indeed, much more so than the angels, since it is very far from the case, by heaven, that souls are equal to angels; for it is established that the former are far inferior to the latter." "It is not so, however," he said; "we have not received that doctrine from our ancestors: souls, after they are freed from the body, remain immortal." "You do well," I said, "in saying this. But in what way, pray, are souls, even though they are inferior in perfection to the angels, placed above all risk of perishing, while the nature that is superior to them will undergo corruption and death? For it is no wonder if a second and inferior substance experiences something which the first and superior one does not appear to experience; but that the second and inferior nature should be exempt and free from that to which its superior—though we confess the second is far more noble—is subject, this is indeed strange. Does it not seem so to you?"
B 11. To me, indeed, he said, what you say seems logical enough. We say that the soul, after its separation from the body, no longer dies, for this reason: that the composite is man—that is to say, soul and body—not one or the other of these; and when he dies, the soul also participates in some way in death. If it were otherwise, it would by no means be logical to say that "man" is dead, but rather "the body of so-and-so." But we do not say this at all; rather, we say that "man" is dead, which signifies the composite. Therefore, as I said above, since the soul participates in everything that happens to the body, it also shares in the death of the body in the manner described. And from that point on, it remains immortal, since it has not undergone change in the death of the body. You speak with great subtlety, I said, yet I think this is a sophism. For what, after all, do we say that death is? And what is life? Shall we not define life as the soul being in the body, and death as the state where both these are separated from each other? Yes, properly speaking, he said; but many other things are also said to "die" in many other ways, whether by being aged by time and gradually and covertly consumed, or by witherings due to certain accidents, and because they cannot forever resist approaching corruption, they vanish completely.
12. I understand, I think, what you are saying. For you say that everything, whether animate or not, provided it has been in any way completely corrupted, is what "dies," and you call the thing itself by the name of death. I do not, he said, hold this view at all, which you describe; for that which you speak of, once it has been corrupted, will never revive. Then, said I, our bodies will not rise again either? Even so, know well, said the Persian, there are among our own learned men those who hold this opinion; for one must confess the truth. And it is certainly difficult not to be tripped up and refuted by them—those who might wish to engage in argument with them, I mean, if they approach not protected by faith as by a shield, but armed only with arguments. Nevertheless, He who gave us the Law commanded us to await the resurrection of the bodies, and it is not permitted to disparage or contradict the faith. As for us, I said, we firmly believe that human bodies will rise; but if C one of us did not now grant this, how, I ask, could the other lead him to his own authority? No one, he said, could ever persuade one who does not believe in the resurrection and who demands plain proofs concerning the matter.
13. Consider then, I said, my good friend, how it could be quite sufficient for us to rely on our teachers and our faith in order to demonstrate the immortality of the angels, and thus D be rid of all trouble and labor, for it is not right that you should be allowed to do this while we are deprived of such an anchor. For by faith
A more than by art, method, and reasoning we are established; yet, as far as it is permitted, it is very good to use what is probable. For where faith does not lead the way, we require a demonstration that is entirely undeniable and universally acknowledged; but where faith has full power, there is no place for manifest demonstrations. For faith and demonstration are opposed to one another, and they can never come together into the same [context]. But a probable argument, accompanying faith in abundance, becomes a kind of harbor for those who believe; it produces peace for their reasonings, for they place the hopes of their salvation in a strong anchor, I mean faith. Therefore, wherever it is permitted, it is very good to make use of this; and this is what we shall do, if you please, by taking up the discourse again.
14. You said, then, that death properly is the separation of the soul from the body; but that other things are also said to die by a misuse of the term, some of which are no more and are not going to live again, having undergone corruption; while others, on the contrary, having been changed and having thus attained to a better state, will no longer be subject to death and corruption. This type of change you are pleased to call death and resurrection, and you think it necessary B that souls also should participate in it; so that since they have had a beginning, and consequently expect an end, they might be rendered immortal through this renewal, and attain a second state, which is fairly better than the first. You said these things, certainly, using a probable argument: for souls, you argue, will share in the death of those bodies with which they share both good things, and things that are not such, and simply everything in succession. These, O good friend, are the things—if my memory does not deceive me at all—which you have said in other words (for I have summarized your discourse) concerning souls, and death, and change; if anything has escaped me, remind me yourself. And the Persian said, "These are indeed the things."
15. "Tell me first," I said, "to what kind of death you mean the angels are liable—to that which is properly so called, or otherwise?" "Clearly," said the old man, "nothing is said or written about this, except that the angels also will die." "But to me," I replied, "especially from what you have just said, it seems reasonable to conclude that the angels will undergo a death which is not properly so called. And how could you C otherwise think or speak, being a man of sense and wisdom? For as many things as have their existence from more than one and different elements, it is evident that they are composite, and that these must one day be dissolved. For composition, they say, is the beginning of separation. If, then, they are composed of elements that are contrary and naturally at war, such as the first elements (from which, by the power and command of God, your bodies consist), it is a wonder that they came together at/in the beginning, and that they have held together at all, and that they last—some for a longer time, and some for a shorter time. But that which causes astonishment to those who possess reason D is that which..."
A appears to function as a constitutive principle for these things. Let us consider, then, how war and battle may have an end—it must be one of two things: either arriving at an agreement or victory, such that one conquers and the other is conquered. But for the elements to arrive at an agreement among themselves is altogether impossible; for it is not possible to deny their own nature. And that one should completely conquer the others is most necessary—but God prevents this from happening. For the element that would be the victor in these matters would necessarily destroy the one being conquered, and by this same means would destroy that which consumed it, just as fire does with its fuel; so that the elements persist only through fighting, and are preserved in this paradoxical way. For war, which is naturally constituted to destroy everything, appears B in these instances as a constituent principle.
16. It is a marvelous thing, which I said, that our bodies were constituted from the beginning from such C things, and that they last for a short time. But the nature of angels is simple and superior to the elements, and it has its existence neither from these—I mean, the elements (for how, I ask you, would it be consistent for them to be made from things that were created later?)—nor does it need anything else in order to subsist or to be in a good state. Therefore, one would not rightly judge those who suppose them to be subject to corruption. For if composite things are mortal and await an end, by the very fact that they are composite, and for this reason need other corruptible things in order to subsist, it would be entirely clear that those things which are the opposite of these are immortal. Thus, the nature of the angels is immortal. For they have their existence from God, and by His participation alone they live, and move, and exist. How, then, would such a nature fall ill? How would it grow old? How would it wear out with age? How would it die? In the same way, one must also conclude that souls are immortal. For they are, by nature, simple and partakers of reason, and they exist solely through the intervention of God (if it pleases one to call it by that which the Greeks term participation). Furthermore, whatever things among corruptible and mortal beings overcome corruption and death, they obtain this immortality through participation in an incorruptible nature. What reason, then, can there be for us to attribute death to angels, who are superior to mortal substances? But if you say that their nature is changed for the better, and you are pleased to call this "death," know that you are calling a most beautiful thing by a name that is not beautiful; for a transformation toward a better state ought to receive the name of "life" rather than "death." I shall not dispute with you about terminology, nor shall I make a long speech about that matter, provided that your intent and opinion are not alien to the true doctrine.
17. D "Everything you have said," said the Persian, "is very logical, and the discourse has demonstrated that both the angels and the souls are immortal. However, the nature of both does not seem to me to be entirely devoid of all passion; for it is not always in the same state, and according to...
the same things, and is immutable. Yes, I said; for to be capable of undergoing no mutation or motion whatsoever in any way, this must be granted only to the divine and beginningless and creative nature. When I said such things, he said, I gladly agree with you in this; and those to whom I might communicate this discourse will not disobey me either, for they will not attempt to contend against it. For I believe that there is no one among those who frequent my house (and indeed all frequent it, as many as care for the dogmas, laws, and teachings of our citizens) who is so bold, or so dull and senseless, as to dare to come to discuss arguments with me. For they know, as they say, the mouse and the pitch. A I have therefore sufficiently received from you the discourse on the things mentioned, and I thank you for your labors; I beg you to proceed to what follows. These things took place on the first night. The next day, when the old man came to me with his sons at sunrise, they begged me not to delay, but to make a start with speed from where our discourse had ended.
DIALOGUE II.
De cœlo, terra, et de iis quæ ibi continentur; item de Adami lapsu, Christique judicio et Moamethis paradiso.B 1. Let us proceed, then, I said. What, then, are your thoughts concerning heaven, and earth, and all things that are in them? For I think that you are seeking the rationale of these things. If, then, you wish to speak or to ask something regarding them first, you are free to do so. When I had said this, the old man sat with his head bowed,
Fixing his eyes upon the ground,
and he seemed to be considering C something and to be in doubt. For he was, as I said earlier, experienced in the laws, and dogmas, and teachings that prevail among them, and he had grasped the summit, as it was said and believed, of their wisdom; he was, they say, wise in his own generation. For this reason, I think, being anxious, he was like the disciples of Pythagoras, greatly embracing silence. Since he did not look up for a long while, the elder of the two sons said, looking at me: "But if it is not burdensome to you, do you yourself give us the explanation concerning these things as well." I said to him: "And D what explanation do you demand? Should I tell you how each of the elements of nature exists, and how these things, though they are hostile to one another, and..."
A differ greatly in their nature, yet in a certain way come together and are near to each other? Some do so immediately, being related to those things to which some kinship and hidden identity belongs; others do so mediately—I mean now those things that are entirely disparate and alien—which, by the intervention of properties common to both, are secretly, as one might say, and hiddenly reconciled. Each one communicates to the other, in a marvelous way, its own opposite nature, and transmits, in a quiet manner, its commixture and union with things dissimilar, which in truth exceeds all excess of wonder, producing a kind of sweet harmony from the appearance of dissimilarity, one that no one could sufficiently marvel at in proportion to its dignity. Do you therefore, host, now demand an explanation of these things? Or rather that according to which the Creator of all things brought these things forth from non-being? Or the one that narrates their making, and which came first, which was the middle, and which was the last?" And the boy said, "I think [he asks for] the third, father." B Having agreed with the son and assented to him, I then began to speak again:
2. "You seem to me to have taken good counsel, by inclining toward that which is not very difficult or altogether beyond our power. For the explanation of the former questions would indeed require much discourse and would provide us with much trouble, needing the language and ear of philosophers. But as for that principle by which God brought all these things forth, and the wisdom by which He built this universe, He alone would know; and there is surely nothing less possible for us to arrive at the knowledge of. For what? Does a house or a ship know the art by which it was made? And yet both have received from our hand and thought only this or that form (not their beginning of existence, nor their state, nor their conservation). But God, because He brought all things out of nothing and preserves C them in being, excites no less admiration from this than because He later endowed matter—which was without any form and lacked quality—with a certain form. And if we do not know the things that concern us, how could we rightly know other things? Nevertheless, we know this above all, that it was for the sake of His goodness alone that God created the angels and every other intelligible order; then He brought forth, formed, and provides for this visible world, and holds all things together with bonds of ineffable D love and natural union, which must be considered beyond all human reason and comprehension. It remains, therefore, to declare in what order these things were created. Or do you not think so?" "We do indeed think so," they replied, "and let us hear this for now: as for those things that are above us, let us leave their knowledge to God."
3. "But you shall hear nothing from me regarding these matters," I said; "for I shall relate to you only those things which God commanded Moses to write. If, then, you believe anything otherwise regarding these, speak. Yet I wish you not to be ignorant that they..."
[I say the Jews] A, who possess the original texts of the Holy Scriptures, although they are enemies of our faith, do not differ from us at all when it comes to the doctrine of creation. But even though they happen to be especially hostile to us, I said, yet they agree with us on this point. "Therefore," I said, "if they agree with both of us on this matter, we too shall agree with one another." "That is clearly so," said the old man. At the same time, the children also praised the discourse and asked for the narrative, which I provided with as much accuracy as possible. I found, however, that they understood most of these things in a confused way, as was to be expected for a mind not illuminated by God, which cannot grasp things that are more divine, or things beyond the capacity and knowledge of the flesh, or foreign to it. For to the things mentioned that happened to agree with their own books, they immediately gave their assent without any contention; but to the rest, they did so slowly and with difficulty. But, to proceed quickly to something of greater importance, they all finally approved of everything with their assent. Yet the history of the commandment of God and of the sin—I mean of the first parent—and of the curse pronounced on account of this, and of the exile, and of the death of Abel, and indeed also of the flood, and of the ark of Noah, and of the sojourn of Israel in Egypt, and of the departure from there, and of the crossing of the Red Sea, and of the journey through the wilderness, and of the works of God in all these things—the history of all these, and of some other things recorded in the Holy Scripture, they know, though in a corrupted way; for now it is superfluous to speak in detail of the things in which they were limping. B Moreover, they also know of the translation of Enoch and the chariot of Elijah, and they say they are still living; and in addition to this, they are not ignorant of Abraham, nor David, nor that Jesus was born as the son of these. I think it is good also to mention the honor which they say that Enoch and Elijah found, and why they have surpassed the life-span of all men and the law of body and flesh. For they say that God wished them to live so that they might sew the garments of those who were destined to attain paradise; and these, as we say, are those who follow the laws of Muhammad. But God alone knows the truth.
C 4. "Were these, then," I said, "O excellent one, hired workers, and did they live by earning wages while they lived among men here?" "God forbid," says the Persian, "not at all; but God entrusted this work to them after their departure from here." When he had said this, I recalled the discourse once held by our wonderful master and emperor—I mean my father—whom the Divinity had adorned with many good things, and who showed himself to those he ruled as an emperor over citizens distinguished rather by the noble gifts of virtue than by the majesty of imperial dignity; and (I know and am fully persuaded, brother) He made him a participant of a much better and superior kingdom when He called him from this world to Himself. And indeed appropriately,
A for if it were pleasing to anyone to say—(and surely anyone who has had good experience of him will say it)—that if the great emperor had still been alive, perhaps the calamities would not have crept in in the beginning; or if they had attacked with great intensity, who, by the gods, would have feared any storm of waves and winds rushing one upon another with him holding the helm in his hands? But anyone who mentions him is immediately compelled to fall into a sea of praises; and since no tongue can be found worthy of his virtues, and the proposed scope of our discourse draws us elsewhere, let us return, brother, to that discussion which seemed pleasant and witty to all, and which once caused great laughter concerning the Barbarians.
5. I think, my excellent brother, that you remember the spring B and the oak under which the most noble emperor once sat during the heat of summer, about to partake of food from the hunt, to which that satrap, who begat this lightning bolt now launched against the Christians—named so on account of the bitterness of his evils—had invited him. At that time, therefore, as you know, he held a long discourse, wishing to declare that Enoch and Elijah were caught up into heaven and were sewing garments for all there; he was extolling them splendidly for this reason and marvelling at the honor bestowed upon them. The emperor, smiling, said to him: "So, do you really consider this a mark of honor and a divine gift, and a reward for the labors of virtue? How so? It would C be enough for those who have fallen grievously into offense against God as a substitute for some other vengeance and punishment. Place before your eyes any tailor: there is surely none, I think, who, if given the option by God—whether to be caught up from this world and live anywhere else, and to continue to handle such a base craft with labor, or to die once, then to rise again, and be clothed in garments which would be a pledge of Paradise and the delights therein—would not clearly choose the latter, and would not immediately throw away his needle, and swear that he did not know the trade well, and vehemently reject such a translation as an occasion of reproach and labors, and not of rest or honor."
6. Having heard these words, the old man laughed, and D looking at his children, "By God," he said, "this account is indeed written somewhere and handed down to us from the ancients, but now it seems to me excessively absurd." Then the sons: "But do you believe it was truly said by our ancestors? For would God, who draws all things by His nod, have need of tailors? Unless perhaps He might even have need of flax and weavers to weave our little cloaks; for He would not need gold shavings, nor be forced to profit by trading, so as to buy from merchants what is needed for the making of garments. But no one"
the construction of clothing should be purchased. But no one among men would speak such a thing; for it is not even the speech of those who are in their right mind. But if the possession and duration of these garments is beyond reason (for they remain, which is most paradoxical, incorruptible, as we believe), how then is it not the most absurd thing of all to say that God, the master craftsman of all, is not capable of accomplishing all things, but that He requires a tailor who will give form to the matter? As if He could not, like all other things, A accomplish this too by His will alone.
7. The Persian was pleased with the words of the young men beyond measure, and said, "It seems to me, most excellent sir, that the young men have well supported what you said, having acted well and righteously in remembering my exhortation to them. For I am pleased, as you might think, that they prefer the truth even to their own father who begat them." "Indeed so," I said, "my good sir; for not only did they agree with my discourse brilliantly, but you also have a right to be pleased, since your children count nothing more precious than the truth. B But tell me about the paradise, and its dwelling place, and all the enjoyment, and furthermore about the glory which all of them will share who shall be clothed in those garments; into which a wonder is mixed, if it is true that these will remain superior to corruption; for know well that this makes me doubt very much. Teach me, in addition to other things, this as well: will all those who profess your religion be clothed in these things? Or will some of them be, and others not? And is it possible to enjoy greater goods if men have appeared righteous and lived a life pleasing to God, or will this grace or reward for the virtue of their way of life be limited C just to Paradise for these? And will these good things be theirs because of their works, or because of their faith?"
8. "I shall attempt," he says, "to recount all these things, if the time permits. For even to speak of such things, or to hear someone else speaking of them, is sweeter to me than honey. But I must speak first of the first point. Know, therefore, that very few would partake of the blessed life and the goods in paradise, if Christ strictly demanded the reckoning of our deeds. For He Himself will sit as the most just judge of all; we know this very well: for He is breath, and soul, and the Word of the living God, and born of a Virgin, having preserved her D even after childbirth, as she was also before; but He will have regard for the intercession of Mohammed, whom He loves exceedingly, as he intercedes for those who have stumbled, and He will not send him away empty of hope: whence almost all, I mean our own people, will be saved. And the manner of our salvation and the paradise are as follows. A deep trench surrounds the paradise itself, which has come into being of its own accord, and makes it impassable to all; for it is full of pitch, which, burning with unquenchable flame, bubbles perpetually, and at all times it flows around in the trench, and presents an unspeakable roar to the ears, and a horrible
sight to the eyes. There is but one gate to Paradise, and one bridge; this is a sword most sharp, as you might think, which one must cross with bare feet to become a partaker of Paradise; in no other way is it possible to attain to it. Whoever, therefore, has a body light and winged, so to speak, will cross over without suffering any harm, and will indeed attain to the place of the blessed; but those who carry about the burden of sins (and they are, as it turns out, the more numerous), being cut by the iron, will be cast down. But concerning these, as I have said, our prophet will entreat the judge who loves him, and he will obtain what he wishes; and I am now coming to relate how this will happen.
9. After the conclusion of all the business of the judgment, Jesus will offer to Muhammad, whom he loves B singularly, this choice: whether he prefers to snatch from that trench those who were of the same faith, even if they had come to us from another race and religion, and grant them to enjoy the delights of Paradise; or those who are related to him by race, even if they are found not to be observers of the same religion as himself. But he will choose his disciples rather than his kinsmen; and relying on Christ’s authority, he will quickly run to the trench, and standing on the edge, with his head bowed down, he will allow them to take hold of his hair, and from each of the hairs (you will marvel, I am sure, when you hear it) he will lift up myriads of his followers, who are paying the penalty for their deeds. C In this way, then, everyone who has hoped purely in Muhammad will be saved, blessed in immortality and honor, and blessed in the delights which he will enjoy in Paradise, which it is now time for me to relate. But, good gods, what shall I tell of first among these things? For all are divine and beautiful; and each one persuades the tongue, whatever one might first recall, to speak of it first.
10. For immediately, the variety of flowers, and the abundance of fruits, and the nobility of all kinds of seasonable produce, and the grace of ever-green plants, and the grass that in no way ever suffers decay, and the flow of the most limpid waters, with a murmur D charming the hearing more sweetly than the song of the Sirens, and all things that delight the smell and every other sense, in sum, whatever is graceful, whatever is great, whatever is splendid, as being fashioned by the hand of the immortal God, all that contributes to the ornament of Paradise; all that wondrously adorns it; all that makes the place superior to any sadness. Furthermore, two perennial rivers, most great, washing its sides, encircle it and bring forth, so to speak, a heavenly conception; and cleaving Paradise through the middle, they are afterward divided and flow apart into many parts, and again coming together into one they rush upon themselves, as if they were living beings performing a perpetual dance and displaying it to the viewers. Neither of them consists of water; but both, as you would find when you look upon them and listen to them, and as you would find upon tasting them, soothe you with incredible pleasure; for the one flows with honey, and the other with milk; which are both the reward and recompense for those who are pure of wine here. Oh, amazing!
A What a benefit, good God! For those who have rejected brief and intemperate pleasure, they shall enjoy a temperate and everlasting one.
11. What need is there to recount further the divine delights promised to us? If anyone is fond of horses, or rejoices in hunting, in bows, in hounds, or in tame birds (I speak of those hunting creatures by which we catch beasts that provide us with food), or if one affects splendor of clothes, and delights in the company of maidens, and in short, to speak briefly, whatever things the mind can conceive for our pleasure, these are immediately present to those who desire them; for they lack nothing, as the reality anticipates and abundantly exceeds even their own desires. Such a reward, my guest, will those receive from the most just and good God, the Lord of all, who have rightly kept his commandments. But the deception of temporal things persuades the many to neglect that ineffable glory and delight, and to exchange a fleeting and small pleasure for those truly greatest and eternal ones: what could be more foolish or more miserable than this? B Behold, I have provided you with an answer according to your purpose (as I think), regarding the things about which you were inquiring; if you wish to hear more, say so, and what you desire will be ready at hand. For I am here, my guest, ready to execute whatever you might command.
12. But enough, I said, you have traversed the matters regarding Eden. But see to it, my guest, that you defend your pronouncements bravely, at least against the things which I might now be able to object to you; for I do not wish to refute everything said by you, nor in general those insipid things which seem to follow from your premises; for if I wished to, I would fall into a kind of sea of words: so many they seem to me. These, therefore, I will pass over in silence: but I will endeavor to show you, as far as I am able, how weak, my guest, the foundations of your statements appear to me: for if that happens, there will be no reason for you to care at all for the rest. For once the base is overturned, I do not believe you will care about the building. C You said, therefore, that Christ will sit as the most just judge of all after the resurrection of men. Then you say that it will come to pass that He will have regard for Mohammed, whom He loves exceedingly, as he intercedes for men, and you assert that, swayed by grace, He will pass judgment regarding his disciples and followers. But this, "swayed by grace," is not just: because that which is just cannot be from grace. Whence the things you have said do not harmonize at all, but even vehemently conflict with each other. For first, that those who are held in the trench and the pitch pay equal penalties, as having sinned equally; then, that some of them are cast down to eternal punishment because they could not catch the hairs of Mohammed; then, to the others, who did catch them and ascended, to give the paradise as an inheritance (which is reserved as a prize and crown only for the most excellent men): are these things to [the mind of] a man who honors justice? D Certainly not to such a judge, and one who acts as the soul, and the breath, and the Word of God—this...
A you called him just before. And yet, if Muhammad had chosen to rescue his kinsmen rather than his disciples from their miseries, the disciples would certainly have remained in eternal punishments; but as it is, having let go those related to him, while desiring to lead out from that dark flame those who were of his own religion, he did not even achieve this.
13. For with some, the result for him matched his intention, but others were left behind in the abyss, despite his having wished to pull everyone out of the trench. But if these things happened according to his judgment and will, by what righteous decree did it occur? For all of them happened to be of the same religion, and were bearing a burden of sins that was by no means light. Therefore, it was necessary either to take all of them up on account of their faith, or to allow all of them to be punished on account of the magnitude of their sins. But as it is, he appears either to be showing favor to these while treating those others unjustly—though both are bound by similar crimes, but he does not repay them in the same way—or (which is the third possibility) he was unable to do what he wanted. Although, even in this, it was necessary that all be freed from their evils. For it was fitting that Ali, being a prophet and a friend of God, should snatch most of the sufferers from their torments and show them to be partakers of the blessed life, and furthermore that Fatimah B should do this, being the daughter of your prophet and having herself born many prophets from her husband, Ali. For each person, insofar as he is loved by the Judge, will have that much power before Him; so that one will be able to free more, another fewer, but every one of those beloved by God will be able to free some of the condemned, and each (I suppose) will be able to free as many as the degree to which he is beloved. This follows from your own argument. For if your prophet, because he is greatly loved by God, will save an infinite number of those who are being punished, the other prophets, one and all, can do the same; for there is surely no one among them whom you would not yourself claim to be a friend to the Judge of all human beings.
14. If, therefore, I seem to you to be speaking what is true and just, and if you do not oppose me—and I know well that you will not, for you would not unreasonably choose to dispute; I conjecture this from your many and noble virtues—then what could the C myriads of your prophets not be able to do, interceding with the friendly Judge on behalf of those being punished? And furthermore, will not all those under the Law be saved, if your belief is true and not some falsehood? For tell me, where will you place such a man as Moses? And David the King? And with him the entire rest of the series of his lineage, from whom Christ was born according to the flesh? Will Muhammad alone, broken with grief, intercede for those who are being punished, while these men will be in a way made of stone, looking upon men afflicted with punishments without any sense of pain? And will not his very beautiful deed, D because it succeeded well, move them also to pity? Will it not persuade them that, if they were to pray for anything, their plea would not fail, when also, besides all the other ambassadors...
A (I speak of our own), you consider the Mother of the Savior, who pleads for those cast into hell? And indeed, this Mother alone would suffice to accomplish the whole matter, if it were at all likely that this should happen. But what would you say? It is manifest that no one among the wicked men would pay the penalty, but all would be murderers and drunks, all would be robbers, and profligates, and cutpurses, and sacrilegious; and would the swarm of such as these enjoy everlasting good things? Indeed, to think otherwise is quite unbefitting.
But it is necessary, dear friend, to say one of two things: either, with the Judge keeping to justice, that no one of those cast into punishment is delivered from there by the friendship of Muhammad (for I am referring to your dogma), or else that He is equally disposed toward all who are there, and that not one of them pays any penalty. For by this way, He would indeed be preserving both His own philanthropy, and what is just toward His own mother and all others; otherwise, it would certainly limp in some way, either in His philanthropy, or in His justice, or even in all things at once, as they say; for the matters of God are confounded and confused by the argument aforementioned to you. For if the wicked appeared no worse than the good in terms of good things, it would be [in]vain to flee the ignoble name of pleasure, vain to act so as to value restraining anger, and empty, in fact, to abstain from the belongings of others. B And these things being so, it would be superfluous for Christ to descend from the heavens to judge the whole earth, so that each might receive a just reward for his deeds. How then, good sir, could it be just for a man who has his wits about him to say such things?
15. I wish now to say something also about the delight in Paradise, and about the mode of life and existence there; which you say is divine and blessed, but by the things you say in turn, you declare it to be far removed from divinity and blessedness. If, however, you wish to defend your opinion first regarding the things I had challenged, we shall gladly hear you speak. And he replied: "But I would not be able to do this now, nor could I readily offer you the defense. Yet we have received it and held it in this way; though the things you have said seem more consistent with right reason (I will speak the truth with you) than those which we say. Wherefore, if you have it in mind to speak about Eden, explain it now." C When the Persian had said this, his son, having received license to speak from his father, crying out something more barbaric and bold, said: "Did you not, sir, say to us before that God created all things on account of goodness alone? But now, having celebrated His justice, you have been silent about His goodness; and He is no less good than He is just. If, therefore, He should wish to save all because of the goodness for which He also created all, will He for that reason be liable to us for the deeds He has done?" D "God forbid, my lad," I said, "that God should be liable to anyone at all for His deeds; for to whom would He give an account, being greater than Himself? The idea is a work of manifest madness; the thought is impious. For, indeed, regarding the things...
A that proceed from God, all are fair and good. Yet those who nevertheless attempt to inquire, to search out, and to examine regarding any of His deeds, ought to do so with the proper line of reasoning, and not attribute to Him what would not be fitting even for a good man. Since, therefore, it has been demonstrated that what you have said is in conflict with the justice of God, it could not, I think, be rightly said that God, being kind toward men, ought to do such things. For His kindness is in no way opposed to His justice. I indeed thought that you, along with your father, were convinced of this, and I wished to pass on to other matters; but since you have risen up against my arguments, I think it necessary to add something to what has been said, and to demonstrate that those also who have turned aside from the way of the law, even if they were in a better religion, will be punished; and whether they be many or few, it makes no difference to the question at hand. For this having once been demonstrated, the merit of the hairs of the most venerable Muhammad will be, I think, useless.
16. You are a wise man, and perhaps yield the first place to no one among those who pride themselves on their judicial authority; this we have heard from your father. Do you, therefore, exact penalty from one who is convicted of sin? Certainly, he says. And do you consider it God-pleasing and holy to do so, or not? For how, he said, would I perform this, if I did not know it to be such? You speak correctly, I said; for God Himself also clearly punishes many here who believe in Him, if they have not lived according to His will. Or is it not so? It is indeed so, he says. B Therefore, I said, you act piously and holily by punishing sinners? Who, he asks, does not know this? What then, I said, is your custom? Do you scourge some of those who do wrong, but exact no penalty from others? Or do you take vengeance for all who have been wronged, and inflict the appropriate punishment upon those who act unjustly? It is clear that you pass judgment upon all alike, and will always do so, if indeed you wish not to be called a respecter of persons. How then will God be just, if He punishes some in this life, but exacts no penalty from others either here or hereafter? And this, when you yourself show yourself equal to all; furthermore, when it is agreed that by many, justice, and the law, and the very precepts of nature are so despised, that because of burning avarice they snatch whatever comes to hand with impunity, and live a life like beasts due to their inhumanity toward the human race, and that their malice extends even to monstrous acts of licentiousness, since they are entirely addicted and as it were nailed to C pleasures: who, nevertheless, have paid no penalty for such great perversity. And what is the main point here, these very men, commonly held to be blessed, departed from this life in extreme old age, in peace and with the highest honor, having left the labors and wealth of others to their own children!
A And those, too, who are violent—not a few of those whom they had grievously harmed have surely continued to pay them homage, as if paying, I suppose, a ransom and fee for their own freedom and life; yet you could also find many honest and good men who have suffered injury from the most wicked, and who have lived with great equanimity.
17. Since things are thus, and you attribute justice to everyone, but God seems today to act not so, if those who have dishonored God by the transgression of His commandments do not pay the penalty even there, then you are surely more just than God. Do you see the magnitude of this absurdity, and into what evils your doctrine has proceeded? If you wish to learn the cause, it is at hand. For to some sins, hardships are brought upon us here, so that we may not despair of punishment; for where there are even now those who do not wish to believe, if no one were paying a penalty here, who, I ask, would believe that they would pay for having sinned, and that these things are being stored up for others in the future? And this all men believe. For from the thing that is apparent, the non-apparent is made clear and indubitable. B There shall therefore be judgment and an ineluctable payment for sins, just as there shall be rewards for the good after the life hereafter. But someone of you might perhaps say: "If the wicked were to enjoy evils, and the good were to enjoy good things, the justice of the judge would be manifest, but where would his loving-kindness be?" And this question is not outside the scope of reasonable discourse. For He must be in act and effect what He is—justice itself and goodness itself; and since it is necessary that God act according to both these virtues, He found a way by which He might display His goodness and nonetheless manifest His justice. For into this world, one cannot say how abundantly and liberally He pours forth His loving-kindness upon all, like a rain, as it is possible to perceive from the things themselves; but He has reserved justice for the C regeneration. I do not even mention how this very punishment has been prepared and threatened with much loving-kindness and goodness.
18. After I had said these things, and the first had kept silence, the younger son, looking toward his father, said something to him in the Arabic language; and he, having approved of what was said, as it seems, conveyed it to us through the Turkish language, having as usual made use of interpreters for this. Now, that which was said in response to me was this: that it would be redundant and superfluous for Christ to come to judge the whole earth, if He were going to save everyone in succession; and that because of this, He would lose the name of "just." "For these things," he said, "have not been sufficiently demonstrated. He will certainly judge, D clearly, and will deliver to punishments all who teach a discipline contrary to the traditions of Muhammad." To whom I then said: "It is very pleasing to me, and seems to offer a great fruit of utility, if the one with whom I am conversing speaks out whatever comes into his mind; for if he were to wish to do otherwise,
he would find that his labor in the discussion was expended in vain. For a wound that is hidden cannot attain to health. I congratulate you, moreover, on having such sons; for this young man seems to me to do well in his approach to what is said. Yet I would have him know that the ungodly shall not rise in judgment A (Ps. 1, 5)—so says David. If you accept the witness, this argument is empty, for the righteous Judge will judge the unbelievers and deliver them to punishments; but He will then save all those who have lived wickedly, yet have lived in the true faith. If you reject the authority of David, let us do what remains, and let us already take up the line of argument using our own weapons (I mean by this, probable reasons). Omitting, therefore, the discussion of many things, I will add this one thing alone to what has been said, which, if stated, is enough to persuade anyone who is not entirely given to contention.
19. Suppose someone is accused of conspiracy against the king: if the matter is in doubt, a place for an apology will be granted him; the judge will grant an equal number of water-clock measures to both accuser and accused, and will give his ears equally to both parties, and the one speaking for the king will have no advantage. But if the crime is most manifest, so that it needs neither proofs nor any testimony, the accused will not attempt any plea at all, but will rather hasten of his own accord to the noose, having passed judgment upon himself, and sometimes will all but invoke death; B and this because he cannot bear the shame, the most grave reproaches of his conscience, and its intolerable stings. Wherefore no one ever sat at a tribunal to refute an enemy who had been captured, or to prove him worthy of the penalty of death; for this penalty follows the nature of the sin and is confirmed by law and by time. But the tribunal, the trial, the arguments, and the careful investigation of the matter itself, are all directed toward ensuring that he who has the power to pass sentence—being only a man—does not inadvertently kill a well-meaning person as though he were an enemy. But this, most excellent young man, will have no place before that Judge who, instead of witnesses and proofs that are exempt from any exception, uses the conscience of each individual. For all things are naked and open to the eyes of Him who is to sit upon that tribunal: Him no one will then attempt to deceive. For He will be manifest to everyone to whom He is now unknown. Therefore, the future judgment will not take place on account of unbelievers. Now, if what we have said persuades you, and you do not deem these things altogether trifling, let us state what remains: that it is either on account of the fallen faithful, or else there will be no judgment at all. But it is confessed that there will be a judgment; therefore it is impossible that all who hold to the pious faith should be saved; otherwise Christ would not be able
was to be Christ the judge, and to be truly so named. Accordingly, as the young men kept silence at this, the old man said:
C "It seems to me that this is demonstrated: speak, therefore, what your thoughts are regarding Paradise, and the condition and delights of men therein. For if our doctrines seem to you consistent with right reason, you will have no need of a long discourse; but if it seems otherwise to you regarding these matters, spare no words, nor have any regard for the toil, since from this there is hope that the fruit of truth will be perceived, which a discussion free from obstinate contention can produce. We indeed," I said, "being your guests, and having found in you a noble hospitality, and the same judgment and honor (for we could not have been treated more honorably in word or deed), what guest is there who would not endeavor, as far as he can, to return like for like? But I suspect that you may perhaps be slightly annoyed by my manner of speaking."
When I had said these things, the Persian appeared downcast at what had been said, and manifesting the state of his soul by his countenance, he said: "There is no need to fear anything of the sort; for [my benevolence] extends just as far as I perceive him adhering to the truth; wherefore," he said, "one must speak nothing while holding back from modesty." He affirmed also that he himself both does and will continue to do the same in the series of discussions; and since he not only requested, but also in turn required the full freedom of speech I had promised him, I understood it was fair that I too should keep my promises, and not be annoyed at a frank response, which I had already pledged at the beginning when he said he would give it. "Next, therefore," I said, "you also will listen to me kindly; for I did not descend into this contest in order to refute you—which is perhaps a role more appropriate to another person than to me—but I descended to comply with your wish; and besides, I know not what hope of the best things is cast into me. For all which reasons, it is not fitting to spare anything that I think I can contribute to this."
"Most correctly, indeed, you say that," all said, "and we ask that you fulfill what you have promised." When these things had been said, the second dialogue thus concluded before the morning twilight.
NOTICE REGARDING THE FUNERAL ORATION OF MANUEL PALAEOLOGUS FOR HIS BROTHER. (COMBEFIS. Auct. Bibl. PP.)
In a most brilliant oration, an emperor worthy of a better age and fortune not only clearly bears witness to his own piety and that of his brother, and celebrates his other virtues, but also [discusses the affairs] of the Roman Empire of the West in the East, and of the East and...
is a wonder how much it suggests the appearance of the rising Ottoman power. He discusses at length things by which a political ruler might counsel the empire and kingdom, and by which he might—at the very least—guard against that enemy, common to the Christian name, by whom the Eastern Empire was destroyed, now that he has begun to celebrate the war reinstated against the Christians, with new victories even from the year before. This was brought about by the mutual discords of the Greeks and those great struggles for the highest imperial power, as well as by the ill-advised zeal of other dynasts, who were not sufficiently in agreement with one another, not to mention their neglect of others, not thinking that their own affairs were at stake while their neighbor’s wall was burning. Thus, with our affairs ruined and the Christian republic forced into such straits, the beast brought that formidable empire into all parts of the world and extinguished the light of the Christian empire in so many provinces. Oh, would that even late at last this image, so fateful and so terrible as it was born, might strike fear into our people, and might provoke their valor against an enemy who, though somewhat further off until now, is nonetheless slow to act! For you, Gaul, under the auspices of your Louis the Just and "God-given," divine virtue has fought and continues to fight with such heaps of glory and such expansion of empire, so that you yourselves may bring those victorious standards of yours once again against those same enemies of the Christian name. If, under Manuel, and with him asking help from you, you had held [to such a course], and had that peer of yours, the brothers given and conserved by God, shone forth for you as it has just now, Greece might perhaps still have its own emperors, and you would have crushed those horns of the moon, that tamer of beasts. Now, therefore, may you prosperously crush them and restore, with greater glory, the lost things that you were to have protected had you remained united until now.
Of this funeral oration delivered by Manuel in the Peloponnese, when he had gone there to confirm the empire for Theodore the Younger after the passing of his uncle, Laonicus makes mention in the fourth book of his *History of the Turks*: A *I return to Theodore, the son of the emperor, prince of Sparta and the rest of the Peloponnese, who was reared and educated by his uncle Theodore. After this, he was left as ruler of his domain. Having arrived here, his father, Emmanuel the Byzantine emperor, established the boy in the rule, and composed a fitting speech over the brother who had already passed away, reciting it at his tomb and mourning at the same time for the fitting brother in Sparta.*
PROTHEORIA OF THE PRESENT DISCOURSE
ARGUMENT OF THE ORATION
Indeed, the exordium is quite vehemently mournful, and such as is most fitting for a brother speaking at the burial of a brother. But where the most divine emperor acts as orator, he mentions the family but little, and does not linger long upon that section. Furthermore, having brought the discourse to the man’s deeds—and these were neither few nor such as could be explained in a brief oration—he excuses himself, saying that because their splendor is manifest to all and denied by no one, it is not necessary to recount them individually; and in that very way he also greatly adorns them. And then, having thus approached the subjects concerning the man being praised, he first discusses his upbringing from childhood, and what his character was entirely, and what kind of man he was to everyone; then he proceeds to his deeds and actions. And first, he makes mention of those things which were formerly done by him toward his father, and toward himself, and toward the other relatives who were then suffering misfortune in their affairs, and he narrates how he acted B in those matters, then he proceeds.
A And after this, having moved his account to the Peloponnesian affairs, he first mentions his arrival in that province, noting how the mere expectation of it was beneficial before it actually occurred; and how he arrived, and how he was gladly received by the locals. In this place, while he begins to speak about his uncle and cousin, he is very careful not to say anything disparaging or harsh about them, as far as it is possible. Next, regarding the migration of the Illyrians there, and how uncertain it was whether they ought to be admitted to the province or not, he explains how—when many thought otherwise—he himself, judging most shrewdly and consulting what was advantageous, received them and made timely use of their services. Afterwards, he mentions the victory over the neighboring enemies and the capture of the prince, by which he shows that he had strengthened his rule. Then, turning to those who had fled to the Barbarians, B and having first spoken in general terms about such people, in order not to attack anyone by name out of modesty, he proceeds to the Barbarian himself and the actions he had plotted against both, abetted by the fugitives, since they also provoked him with certain things of their own. To these matters he adds a recollection of how, when he himself and his brother had met with him, necessity having compelled it, and they held an arrangement contrary to his; the danger that arose from there, and the other sad things that occurred in that place; and how he, the Emperor, had returned safely to the Great City unexpectedly, according to the Barbarian's will. The brother, however, who already seemed to be held in an inescapable snare, escaped from there into the Peloponnese with the greatest courage and ingenuity, and, having returned there, he saved almost everything that had been brought into danger, C not only things in the Peloponnese, but even those within the very gates. And how, when the Barbarian—having departed from Greece—had sent a not insignificant or cowardly army into the Peloponnese, he, not with a numerous army opposing the enemy, but having used a stratagem suitable for a commander of the army, checked it from encroaching upon the country, finishing the matter, and finally by that deed he recovered and restored to his rule what had already been conceded to and occupied by the Barbarian. Then, having returned to that common war against the Barbarian, and having mentioned how the affairs of the Romans had been gravely affected by the frequent disasters brought upon them, as much by his victory over Christians as by other Barbarians, and having also mentioned his own subsequent departure and journey to the Western lands, he narrates thereafter the deeds done in the meantime by his brother: first, indeed, how he entrusted Corinth, which was in manifest danger, to the Franks, and in doing so he both saved it from the hand of the Barbarians and, from that point, engineered no small aid for the general cause. Then, how, when it later seemed that he was ceding the rest of the entire province to them, he settled matters with the Barbarian better than anyone might have expected, and, having recovered the province, he once again stabilized his affairs D without having done any injury to the Franks, nor having inflicted any harm at all. The discourse dwells on these matters for a long time, because, in order to remove the opinion that—through ignorance of the truth of the matter—[might arise]...
among some people, it is better to mention these points alongside the others that are clearly good, rather than to pass over them in silence. A For if they were passed over in silence now, and if sometime someone were to dare to mention them for the purpose of slander, he might perhaps find credence among some who do not know the truth, as if they had not been passed over now because there was nothing that could be said about them. But once they have been spoken of, and it has been made clear how things happened, what might perhaps have appeared otherwise turns rather to [the subject's] glory.
Then he proceeds to a comparison with the ancients, at which point, by making mention of the sickness, he inclines once again toward a more pathetic tone, declaring at the same time that the fortitude displayed during the sickness was no less than that shown in [the conduct of] affairs. B And there, having granted that those of the subjects who were present might speak what was appropriate for them to say—due to the many and great benefits they had received from him—he resumes the same lament again. He does this, at once because he requires a reprieve, being constrained in his voice by the magnitude of the grief, and at the same time because he desires to hear many others also mourning, on account of the frenzied love for his brother—a love for many and great reasons, as the Emperor himself sets forth. For which reason he also begins immediately with a pathetic proem, as if he were absolutely unable to touch upon the narrative or the praises before the lamentations. C Nevertheless, descending to consolation, he brings his discourse to an end, with appropriate and fitting praises interwoven in every part, so that he neither exceeds what is probable nor falls short of any of those things which were needed and appropriate to be said, as the one reading with an eye to the art of rhetoric may observe in each instance.
FUNERAL ORATION OF THE MOST PIOUS AND CHRIST-LOVING EMPEROR LORD MANUEL PALAEOLOGUS UPON HIS OWN BROTHER, THE DESPOT PORPHYROGENNETUS, LORD THEODORE PALAEOLOGUS
(Spoken when the Emperor was in the Peloponnese.)
But what indeed shall I say to you, O those present, when I am neither myself strong enough to speak, nor do I see you able to offer a clear hearing to my words? For a voicelessness has seized me because of this greatest of calamities, and I know that you, whom he who is now lamented was accustomed to treat well, have also suffered this. But since you will by no means allow silence, hoping that what might perhaps be fitting for the present calamity will be said by me, we shall speak as far as is possible; A since we infer this much, that you are in some measure angry with me, because something commensurate has not been said sooner. For you are clearly making manifest to all, if not by your tongues—for the passion which is burgeoning in your souls does not allow this—at least by your gaze fixed upon us, and by your wailing, and lamentations, and all other things, that you are finding fault with the delay of speech.
The request, therefore, is reasonable on your part, and it should find its fulfillment on our part; for it is just to offer it before being asked, or rather, to render it even before it is demanded. And for my part, I would have rendered this debt at the very first opportunity, had I been able to do so; but it would not be easy for me to be able, since I have been struck by the suffering of this greatest calamity. For from the moment that, having put into shore with our ships, I beheld some part B of this land, which he once had trodden, whether hunting or leading his forces, tears have flowed in streams, and a voicelessness has taken hold, and my mouth is forbidden from speaking. For this very region which he, having been accustomed to treat well, has continued…
A to present his form—which now lies formless—before my eyes, it does not allow me to remain in a state of composure. And forgive me, men, having become half-dead at the loss of him who has departed, and not easily able to accomplish what is pleasing to you. Justly, however, you would be inclined to excuse me, since not even you yourselves are able to utter a word to me at all, struck by the blow and the torments of this suffering. For although I strive to pay the debt, I find myself accomplishing nothing. For I am not even master of myself, having received this vital blow from a bitter and cruel arrow—which indeed is now far more "bitter," as Homer said, than it was before.
For from the very day upon which he who is now being mourned ceased to be among men, about to receive the rewards of virtue, with which he lived and alongside which he has departed, I scarcely have the strength to breathe; for the calamity constricts me; nor am I yet able to use my accustomed faculties properly; nor is there a firm hope that I ever shall. For how could a mind produce anything sound, having been maimed by such an evil? And what could a tongue utter, being numbed by so great a calamity? And apart from the fact that the present undertaking requires something better than my own capacity—since the one being celebrated is, with great excess, above every eulogy, and those who are to perform the funeral dirges and praises must necessarily be strong in the wisdom of words and stronger in prudence—the very fact of standing in the midst of loud cries, and having my mind carried away by my own tears and the tears of all, in a terrible manner, while mourning a brother, mourning a friend, mourning a disciple, mourning a son (even if at some moments B he displayed the qualities of fathers and teachers, despite being younger), whom would it not fill with disturbance, and whose mind would it not render duller, if indeed there were anyone attempting to speak, even among those famed of old for the power of their words? How, then, could I be able to employ funeral rites as I might wish? But I think you, O mourners, would not even allow me to drift entirely away from the tomb, if it were my wish to move a little distance from it, before I had honored with a word the brother who appeared so brilliant from his deeds. For you are held fast to this, and every sense of justice compels you. Therefore, I shall follow what is just, and I shall say something, and I shall mourn with eulogies him who has left both me and you in great and unceasing grief; but I would surely not be able to fill you [with comfort]. I infer this from many things.
The principle of eulogies, indeed, urges that the orator, first, and before he adorns those for whom he has proposed a laudation, should declare to all their homeland and their parents; and this, above all, when those individuals have turned out to be illustrious by no small virtue and no moderate glory. And I think that most people judge that one should observe this law here, in this matter, more than anywhere else, as being quite the best and most excellent. For if, in order that the family and the fatherland, being of the distinguished and prominent, C D
A but not having reached the final summit of glory, and so that their deeds might not be unknown to anyone, the law is entirely good; so that such a wealth of brilliance—such that they yield the first place to no one, and their own superiority and virtue are not hidden from the ends of the earth—might not be neglected, then this law would seem to be most necessary. For that which exceeds these in all things, for the sake of all, is surely worthy of wonder. And this is confirmed for me by time, which delivers all things into oblivion, yet having grown weary here of doing what it is accustomed to do. For they surpassed so greatly by abundant renown and decorum, and by the goodness of their character, and by the brilliance of their trophies, that it is not even easy to demonstrate it. And this has escaped no one among all people; rather, it causes everyone to wonder, those, that is, for whom it has not remained hidden. Where, then, these things have converged, the law is most necessary. So it is.
I, however, wish now to say something that may perhaps seem harsh to some, but I think will appear true. For the law is truly necessary, yet not so simply in the case of everyone. For where B such a heap of good things has converged, and has escaped none of all people, and causes all to wonder, being struck with amazement at the accomplishments, this law is not necessary for him, even for the very one to whom it seems it is necessary for others. And rightly so. Why? Because I believe the law was established so that those who have flourished from a good root in good soil might be shown to be good to all, even before their life has been proclaimed and praised by the mouths of all. For like the plant, and the soil in which it is planted, by necessity it must also bear such fruit. In this respect, therefore, I think this is superfluous and redundant. For the goal of the law has, as it were, arrived of its own accord. For who among all people does not know that the greatest city, that of Constantine, I say, is the fatherland to that man, and likewise to his family, such that there is any need C to learn this from another? And who is able to mention it, and his parents, without the greatest praises? And as someone wonders at the fatherland and the parents, how would he not also wonder at the one who came from them—and because of them? Since, therefore, these things are so, and the deeds of the one now being praised have escaped no one, perhaps it is labored to construct what is excessively clear, and to attempt to demonstrate what is hidden from no one. For one desiring to teach, I think, that Constantine’s city is the fatherland of this man, and that his parents are the ornaments of that city, and that both the fatherland and his parents are good for him, would be doing something akin to one who, when the marketplace is full and the sun’s ray is warming everyone, D wishes to teach the people that there is a sun above the earth.
Not that anyone, by passing over this law established by the ancients—which is excellent—in the present case, would ever incur blame, either from those who established the law, if they were still among us, or from anyone else of sound mind. For neither does his fatherland, nor do his parents, need the honor from one another; nor, indeed, does he himself need it from them, though they have been honored by one another, and...
just as light-giving sources, by being joined, mutually increase each other's radiance and light. Thus, as I have said, while the law is good, it is not A strictly necessary here for the adornment of the man; nay, rather, he is made lustrous by his own virtue and his own particular achievements more than by his fatherland, his progenitors, or the excessive splendor derived from them. But if even the latter—the fatherland and the parents—rendered the man, already known and bright through his own qualities, even more recognizable and illustrious to all through their own virtue, and became a crown of glory to him according to the image I have already mentioned, it is also true that they and the fatherland are themselves made known, far more than at any previous time, to men everywhere on earth because of him. For to as many as he is known, his fatherland and his parents are also known; for thus it happens among the best of men: to all who know him, his fatherland and his parents are also known. Still, everything must be attributed to the root. For even if a fatherland or parents are rendered more illustrious for having produced a noble offspring, this too comes from them, and flows back to them, home to home, as they say, moving in a circle. So much for this.
B But as for his fatherland, he had the imperial city, the mother of cities; such is its celebrity that it is sufficient to itself, and does not require our praises for its own renown. For it is better than all the cities that are looked upon with wonder, and excels them, and has surpassed them in every incomparable good, as much as it once held sway over all boundaries, nations, and kings on earth, prevailing not so much by the multitude of its armies and by iron, as by virtue and reason; and that it boasts of Constantine, who held the scepters in his hands, being truly, at the same time, emperor, leader, and steward of good things for all; and, what is greatest of all, being especially dear to God, both on account of his sincere piety and for his accumulation of every virtue. He certainly was the founder of the city, and not without divine prompting and impulse; and this is sufficient for us in place of six hundred encomiums and six hundred panegyrics, C which might demonstrate the city to possess countless virtues. For where such is the builder, and the impulse for the building was sent from heaven into his soul—for the man was inspired by God, and all things were done by him with God—it would clearly be superfluous for anyone to try to praise the city in any other way, even though it offers countless arguments for praise.
As for his parents, and the chain from which he traces his lineage, I could not easily recount them in this span of time; nor, indeed, would I recount their trophies and those great deeds which obscure the achievements of the ancients with their own brightness. For anyone who pursues this attempts the impossible. To me, however, it seems sufficient to have said this much. The parents and ancestors of the man proposed to us for our argument of praise D should not be considered by the suffrage of all to be in a lower, but rather in a higher, station than any who have ever possessed praise in any age; for they are, assuredly, through ancient succession, Augusti descended from the best of Augusti in a continuous line; and they are orderly and bright, not by...
A formal dignity alone, but because they held it holy to establish their life by reason, to rule their empire rightly, and to deserve well of their fatherland and of all things good, acting as stewards for those under their hand. For even if their station and the purple showed them to be brighter, yet they, in turn, somehow made those things appear brighter, not only by the beauty of the body, but by the decorum of the soul. For they were ashamed if they were adorned only by external and temporary things, and far more by those that were from within and more enduring. Therefore, they held B nothing to be more precious than divine virtue, and for as long as they acted thus, they ruled lawfully and piously, acting as fathers to their subjects rather than as masters, and choosing rather to encounter dangers for them than that others should live at ease. But I pass over their affairs; for it was not proposed to us to praise them, but rather to show, from his own characteristics, how great in virtue was he who is now set before us for celebration.
He was royally educated, and from childhood he showed his natural aptitude; or rather, while yet a child, he gave everyone to divine what he would become as he advanced: that he would be, in every way, the best for his fatherland, his parents, his friends, and, C in short, for all among whom he would dwell and upon whom he would bestow that innate goodness. Indeed, he was so capable in grasping all learning, and ran with such sharpness, that he exceeded by far even the eagerness of the sophists, the instructors of children, and any who seemed to teach some useful pursuit. Wherefore, constantly changing from one master to another, he sought someone who might teach him something newer, as he immediately grasped everything that they could provide. And he was clearly testing the ages—not just by time, but by nature—and this even more than the former. So that, as one of the poets taught, that man differs from man in speech as much as eagles from crows, he showed by his own deeds, surpassing those of his own age by such a measure that he allowed no room for contention against him. For while still a boy, he practiced the studies of youths; and again, among those, the studies of D young men, and of men, and of elders, and, in short, those of the more advanced age while still in the preceding one. Thus he was always achieving what was needed in his deeds with experience, zeal, and sharpness of mind. He was sweet to his parents, sweet to his brothers, sweet to his companions; he was sweet to his fellow citizens and to foreigners, to his peers and to the elders; and, in short, to all in all respects, at every time and in every circumstance.
And indeed, he so far excelled in the gymnasia, in the contests, and in all things, that there was no need for comparison. Nor was such a one envied, since envy could not find in him that upon which it is accustomed to feed; rather, he was admired by all with such excess—an excess, I think, as great as was his victory. He had reached the summit. But how, you might say, is it reasonable that one who so far excelled others
A should not be subject to envy from anyone at all? On the contrary, he who has surpassed them utterly does not fall prey to envy. For that which is greatly admired ought also to be greatly loved; and how could that which is so intensely loved be envied while it is prospering? Thus, envy was absent when he was defeated, and an increase of affection was present, stemming from the wonder directed toward him, and all rejoiced in his advantages.
As for the fact that, though he was the youngest of his brothers, he yielded to none in those qualities for which one might be admired: he was prudent, just, brave, and steadfast, even in the face of what might seem most terrifying. Regarding the majority of pleasures—for he was not so far above human nature as to be always master of them all, or to despise them entirely—as far as others were concerned, he kept himself under control, not giving himself over to idleness. At the same time, he was moderate and magnificent, not troublesome, nor in any way intolerable, even to his own purchased slaves. He was grave and gentle, prudent in management and magnanimous, so that even when fortune failed him and shifted to the enemies of the Roman Empire (as is her habit), he himself remained unmoved; and when she returned to him again (for she always rejoices in changes), he was in no way puffed up. And while he was a victor, he was a stranger to arrogance, knowing the human life to be like the Euripus; yet when defeated, he did not weaken from any heavier ruin—or, if you prefer, he was unconquered, for his soul was in no way brought low B by the onset of adversities. Moreover, if his friends, through changing circumstances, were to experience an unequal fortune, he continued to maintain his goodwill toward them intact, showing the same character in all things, despite the fact that events were unfolding unevenly. For he was no Proteus, changing himself along with C the shifts of the times. He knew how to prepare remedies, and to correct contraries with contraries. He knew that nothing in human affairs is stable, and that fortune rejoices in changes; and because of this, when sailing on a calm sea, he would expect huge waves. He would contemplate the storm, and by preparing himself for turbulence, he remained untroubled when it arrived. For even in the midst of adverse winds and a threatening gale, while others believed the waves would immediately overwhelm them, he would not despair, but was hoping for a lasting calm. Therefore he bore all things, neither doing, nor reflecting upon, nor speaking anything base or ignoble D. In nothing did he raise his eyebrow, nor did he utter a word of boasting; and if someone else spoke the better of him, he would blush immediately and deliberately change the subject to other things. He knew how to preserve his dignity with complete sincerity, and to protect the order [of things] entirely unbroken, doing nothing rash, or anything by nature likely to cause distress, unless it happened to be for the common benefit—the advantage of which he always preferred to what is merely pleasant—but he knew how to mingle with all in a way that caused no pain, unless some wolf were to be driven away by him, leaping upon the flock; he was slow to take revenge, and sometimes it was better to even pass it by. Indeed, he was, one might say, quite sluggish in such matters; but as for providing rewards, and using generosity toward all, he was completely unrestrained, a Nile, watering all
A from his own springs. He knew how to attain the mean of good things in the highest degree, and not to admit the extremes; for indeed, a myriad of dangers were surely suspended from these. He loved to walk the beaten path, seeking that which was safe in all things, yet he would easily receive dangers—not always, nor just to everyone indiscriminately, for that would be the mark of a madman—but when it was not possible for these to be avoided along with what was good and what was becoming. Was he someone excessively gentle? And in this, did he not act with great excess? Was he another who mastered his temper? And further, in this we shall boast more than if it were any other man. The tongue has become a good thing for many, but for him, it was so in the highest degree. For it was not possible to disobey him when he spoke. By his gentle smile, he would soothe even one who was unjustly raging. And having used B the power of his tongue, he would change into philanthropy even the great savagery of the Scythians; for he was refined, he was most sweet, approachable, mild, tempered with all graces. He was entirely polished, so as not to provide any handle for reproach; and entirely accessible to those desiring to take hold of him for the edification of good works. For he considered it fitting for himself to be entirely unconquerable by malicious and perverse men, but easy for the good, toward whatever they might incline. And further, concerning the terrible things that befell him—and he himself had experienced many and great ones; for testing is most of all for the greatest—he was seen to be of no small, but of greater stature. And when times changed, he remained the same—which is indeed rare among men.
This man, therefore, if someone were to say he was a statue carved from adamant, he would not be mistaken, looking toward the incomparable nature of his virtues C. That he was such as the discourse has shown you—or rather, that he was not only such, but much better—he himself proved by the things he did and the things he endured through almost his entire life; or rather, by what he did while enduring, and again by what he stood for while doing. For he never neglected things that were necessary, nor was he ever seen to have collapsed under immeasurable despondency, or fear, or similar things; nor were his faculties scattered for long, neither in times of joy, nor in festivals, nor in games, nor in hunting, nor in any such thing. Nor was he idle during the most difficult times and gloomy matters; not even when he was quite ill, so that no part of his time was spent in vain, for it is impossible to recover the past once it has gone.
Furthermore, the saying, "The mean is best," and "Nothing in excess," and in general, whatever has been said by the ancient sages for the ordering of character, he, having collected these as if from a common fund, D continued to put into practice; so that each of them said one of these things, but he himself accomplished them all; thus he surpassed them in the whole. And he was so clever at
A managing all things according to the opinion of all, doing what was necessary at the right time, and sincerely dealing with everyone—not, however, in such a way as to favor some to the detriment of others (for which reason the petitioners would often confess their gratitude, even when they failed to reach their goal, more than others did for those who had received what they desired, for it is possible both to delight one to whom nothing has been given, and, conversely, to find the opposite). He was accessible to all, most charming in his social interactions, and because of the freedom of his disposition, he caused no harm to affairs in the slightest. He was, in fact, full of architectural knowledge, both regarding political behavior and public affairs; and he was sufficiently capable of associating with everyone individually according to the character of each, and at the same time with them all together. He knew how to appear relaxed, always placing the most important things first, and occasionally fashioning great and admirable works with a decorum that was not unbecoming.
Possessing such a nature, resolve, education, and skill, he behaved toward his own parents as one who perfectly fulfilled what parents would pray to receive from their children; he was most dear unto his friends; he was a harbor to all, and a steward of every manner of good. These things persuaded even his most hostile enemies to yearn for peace, and to seek by every means to obtain it; and having obtained it, they did all they could to persevere in it. B This was caused by the virtue of this man, due to whom they were now afraid of those whom they had previously frightened when they were puffed up by fortune. For with affairs having been transformed—indeed, they had been entirely reversed, and our fortunes were flourishing while theirs had withered away—it was necessary, of course, for them, too, to change their minds and serve the times. Thus, they showed him the same things that their predecessors had been accustomed to show someone in his position; and they held that day as a feast of light upon which they had received some slight letter from him by a messenger. And if he promised something, it was done with such authority that the recipients of the letter chanted, as if it were more a command than a promise, considering the deed a token of peace—which they did not love for its own sake, as they ought, but because they would not be destroyed if it were absent, which previously they thought otherwise. Thus virtue is stronger than fortune, because of which the enemies, having been arrogant and then deceived in their hopes, incurred no small laughter.
These things we have said as in a summary, and we believe it has been well demonstrated that his nature was worthy of many praises; but if it is necessary to proceed also through the details, I shall speak in summary, as much as possible. For to declare at length the deeds of this man of blessed memory would be more fitting for those whose purpose it is to compose histories of past events. C And for this very same reason, I shall not recount every deed. For just as the magnitude of the things achieved by him prevents them from being extended to [include] every single one, so [the]
number cannot easily be calculated. Although I think it will not be unwelcome to you, I say, that I do not describe all his deeds. For you desire, as I well know and am fully persuaded, just as some people wish to see the images of their beloved ones drawn on a tablet, to see the whole life of this man, as it is entirely worthy of admiration. Perhaps, however, we would also seem to do an injustice to the master architect A of these deeds if we did not describe the whole with the same precision as he had accomplished it. I, for my part, while agreeing with you, so far as only concerns the desire, will then beg off because of the difficulty of the task, if I am unable to keep pace with your desire. For the present undertaking clearly surpasses our strength, being feeble to begin with, and becoming even more diminished by the form of this speech. Therefore, from the many, fine, and great deeds which you all know he accomplished—he who a short time ago was with us but now, alas, has become the subject of these laments—we shall speak briefly and in summary, as has been said. Yet these shall be such things as will surely show the one who brought them forth to be a true fruit granted to our common nature, and a certain singular ambition. Do not, therefore, suppose that because we do not recount everything in detail, this man will have less credit for glory. For the surplus of his virtue will supply our deficiency. For it will suffice to work through the whole and each one of his deeds, so that there is nothing B among those things he accomplished that is not worthy of the highest praise; unless someone, behaving in a boyish way, looks only at the surface. I would also say this: that often from deeds which seem small and simpler, provided they are significant, his nature is recognized no less than from many and manifold deeds manifested with rhythm and order. I call "significant" those things which are indicative of natural traits, through which one has an understanding of a soul that loves what is good. Wherefore I shall hold to my plan, recounting a few of his deeds and summing them up as best I can.
That man, therefore, gentlemen, who makes every tongue attempting to praise him fall short, both while he was still alive and now that he has departed—being the son of an excellent king who showed great affection for his sons—was in every way struggling and striving not to succumb to anyone in love. Wherefore, C admiring and loving Alexander as perhaps no one else did, he was always happy to hear his words and to speak them whenever he was able. When, however, his father Philip had once said to him, "I love you very much, my son," for Alexander to reply, "And I love you, my father"—this he did not deem worthily spoken for a man of his stature, nor did he easily bear it; but rather, he was ashamed on account of his affection for the man. For he would not have excused himself when Alexander accused him, as if it were not possible to speak, while preferring his father’s love to that of his most beloved, if those words had not been ready: "I also love you, father, and shall always love you, nor will I easily yield D
A to you the first place in loving, being desirous to act justly; this, that I have received from you; this, that I am deeply loved; this, that I have been instructed and have enjoyed great goods, and have hoped to receive greater." Such were his feelings toward his father; and he had the same feelings toward his mother. For just as he was moderate toward all, and in no way contentious, he strove to surpass everyone in loving, doing good, and returning favors; and he would most easily have laid down his life to show how great the power of love was in him. Since there are many great things by which I could demonstrate the truth, I will immediately show the whole by mentioning only two; although I shall even summarize these because of the many reasons for doing so, since my speech is not, in any case, to those who are ignorant.
Misfortunes were flourishing, and grim fortune had driven us B to the peak. For by now the city had been captured (1), and the citadel was almost inviting its captors, as the Persian army clung to the walls. Meanwhile, the commander bound himself by oath, and the leading officers and tribunes likewise bound themselves, that they would return him safely to the province. This was the metropolis of Macedonia, as well as other cities; and since the parents—and I myself, and those who were concerned to deliberate about him—had consented, the matter seemed ready to proceed, but later the father began to repent: and I myself was the cause, although unwillingly. And the matter proceeded as follows.
He had received me, wounded in the head and feet, upon his knees. He remained motionless, moving his body not even in the slightest, out of affection for me. For he knew that by moving he would cause me pain in my wounds. And being unable to be torn away because of his love, he stayed, tending to me while weeping. For he did not easily bear being separated from me, as I bore being separated from him. For he has already been buried with the dead, while we still appear among the living, and endure to look upon this visible sun, after that sun of mine has set, C whom I held dear above these shining rays. When he was about to depart, someone came to announce to me that the father had changed his plan, fearing the hazard of his life, lest a suspicion arise that Theodore had escaped with his approval. Scarcely had he heard this from me, when—awaiting neither advice from anyone, nor those to encourage him, nor those to urge him not to abandon his post, which was leading to the greatest danger to his own safety and life—he preferred his father’s will, neither seeking my counsel in this matter, nor that of his mother, which is greater to good sons than all else. He sat, therefore, with his eyes fixed on the ground, imagining some D cruel executioner; and he did this, even though he was the master of his entire
(1) After the city was captured, Theodore, having been taken by the Turks—under whom he had already served, and was later created a leader by Bajazet in the expedition to Thessaly—as well as Calo-Joannes and the brother of Manuel, while both were being besieged, having obtained soldiers from Bejazet, after he had recovered somewhat from the vinegar poured into his eyes by his father's order on account of the conspiracy against him: which history Laonicus relates, book II; from which it may be seen that this leader who allowed Theodore to depart was Andronicus himself, who was hostile to his father alone on account of the injury he had received, and to Manuel, the designated emperor. Theodore was also accepted by the Turks, under whom he had already served, and was later created a leader by Bajazet in the expedition to Thessaly. See the same Laonicus; and also Phrantzes, who, flourishing in those very times, serving as a most dear and domestic member of the Palaiologoi up to the very storming of the city, was a survivor of the spark of the empire, as he himself calls it, and wrote the history of the Palaiologoi.
A to be released from that difficulty which that wretched time brought upon us from many sides; and hoping that we, too, would attain good things and would be liberated, if only he were to be delivered from his bonds. But he chose rather to be imprisoned with us in the dungeon—which in itself was death, so to speak, and threatened the sword—than to be at liberty. And so, by his own decision, he chose death over the suspicion of his father. To this suspicion he could have replied with a thousand words, had he only wished to offer a defense. For there were indeed those who spake in opposition to the Emperor, with whom he himself was aligned. For if he were outside, what would he not have done on our behalf? B The nights would have been spent in sleepless wakefulness, in counsels by which he might have delivered us; and at dawn, in setting about all that had been resolved upon during the night, considering what needed to be done, and how the actions resolved upon might attain a proper end, doing and promising everything, guaranteeing the things promised, and—should the need arise—swearing oaths to those who had the power to protect us, leaving nothing undone that would conduce to our benefit. Yet, as for the assistance—which would surely have been present to us, since he threatened the most terrible things if anyone should touch our bodies—where might one set it? There would have been nothing comparable to it for the preservation of our life. Or does his nature C suffice, and does this single fact clearly demonstrate it? For if, on account of this suspicion, he anticipated the nod of his father and effectively died [to the world] for his part—what deaths would he not have endured if it were to save him from manifest danger? Is he not a rival of Isaac? Is he not a rival of the Savior Himself? For it is not daring to say: that man stands before us as a type and a pattern; and it might in some way be pleasing to the [Heavenly] Father if one were to emulate the Son. Or, if he were such toward his parents, would he have appeared otherwise toward us? By no means. For as we dwelt in the prison for nearly three years, many D sicknesses attacked us, and vexed us bitterly, penetrating to the very depths and sparing neither our vitals nor our heads; and since there was no hope—if one considers human reason—of any future liberation, the situation compelled us so that life itself, which is dear to all, became as hateful because of the sadness and the desperate state we were in.
But while we were in such circumstances, some consolation came to us from God, and it sufficiently alleviated our souls, which were almost overwhelmed by the multitude of difficulties, and granted us a respite for a time. This consolation was (the manner of which I pass over in silence, as it were superfluous to relate) that Theodore should go out from there, according to terms confirmed by an oath; and this agreement was, through the deceit of our enemies, that he should attempt nothing at all on our behalf, but that he was permitted, for the sake of reconciliation, to speak with the Emperor and his brother about whatever he pleased. As soon as I heard this, it made me more bearable to undergo the [situation...]*
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though I was to be left alone, as much as I felt relief B from the pain because he would "come to life again," by which I mean leaving the prison. And I seemed to see him (for the imagination runs swiftly toward what one desires very much) in his accustomed surroundings, doing things appropriate for young people with those of his own age in military exercises, in hunts, in contests which provide strength and health to the training body, and living with glory. Dreaming these and such things, I rejoiced; and I thought I saw him receiving prizes, his head being crowned, and being proclaimed a victor, since there was much that everyone allowed him in such matters. For excelling in all things from which one might be crowned in competition, this had been as it were allotted to him from childhood, and it increased along with his body, as he grew toward perfection and strength. So, while I was reflecting on things that could cheer me, I would gradually forget my sorrows, as much as was possible; but it would occur to him to burn with pain, not bearing my solitude. C Yet, this also troubled him: for he who had been nourished in the fear of God could not, having spurned the sanctity of an oath, lend aid with deceit. How could he? One who had never even indicated assent through fraud or a cunning mind, even by a nod of the head; and to seem to neglect altogether those whose life he considered no less precious than his own soul, he considered this entirely intolerable. So magnanimous was he, that he had respect even for the authors of an unjust sentence. And so, since we were divided in our intentions, late and with difficulty did I persuade him, showing that it would be better for both me and for my father, who was absent at that time, that he should be there to be with friends and enemies, and to transact what was worthwhile for both parties; and I insisted that I felt that I was about to be tempted by terrible trials if he, refusing to obey me, should reject the departure from there. Thus, he did not accept it, nor would he allow even a false opinion of unseemly things to be rubbed off on him; for he feared also a reputation inconsistent with his own nature, mind, and education. He was so brotherly disposed toward us, that he preferred being with me to enjoying pleasure with others; and the narrowness of the prison, scarcely different from a tomb, was narrower to him than the royal palace, and the darkness more desirable than the sun’s brightness; and, in short, all things with me were sweeter, even if they were most severe, than all subsequent sweet things of which I myself was deprived. Yet, in turn, he would obey what had seemed good to me, so that even a mere nod was enough. And he said he would do what I desired, though he would do it weeping bitterly. And I, even if it might seem strange that I should have a calm mind while he was weeping, nevertheless felt joy for the sake of him who was weeping, and for the Emperor, our father who begot us. For I thought it would be a very bright consolation to him, that his son, so to speak, was returning to life. But when the matter seemed to be ready at hand for everyone, it did not reach the end, because God had foreseen something better for us, so that he should not leave without me and my father. For the very thing that hindered the plan became the common cause for us all to escape from the prison. But to explain the matter more accurately, neither D
is it proposed to us, nor could it be appropriately told; and otherwise, it would be superfluous to say everything to those who already know it. A Since, therefore, it has been demonstrated—to my mind, at least—by these two things already mentioned, just as one recognizes the lion by his claw, what sort of person he was toward his parents, ourselves, and all the rest of our kinship, I must move the discourse forward to matters concerning him, passing over most of his deeds but touching upon a few; yet such deeds as can make his virtue clear. For these would not be products of chance, or fortune, or times turning against his adversaries—things which might distinguish the reigns of a Nero or a Sardanapalus—but rather the achievements of a man living according to virtue. B For these things are greater than those coming from fortune, even when they are quite small; while those others are very bright, however much one might consider them. For that someone who is high-born and of noble parentage, living with great visibility, surrounded by multitudes of servants, abounding in wealth, and enjoying fame for all those things by which trophies are raised over enemies, and by which those who possess them are honored from the ends of the whole world—this is something that might befall even monstrous men and those living without reason, with whom, of course, virtue would have nothing in common. C For this very reason, he, departing to God and again caring for you, doing what was habitual to him where it was even more possible, despised all the things enumerated in order, and considered none of them great; nor did he deem himself worthy to be moved by anything that was not intrinsically good, but he busied himself with those things that would make a man noble and good, and one born of noble and good parents. For so he had been instructed, and had learned as soon as he was born, so to speak. D I must resume the subject matter.
Affairs in the Peloponnese were going badly, and it seemed that he ought to go to them; for he would indeed dissolve the evils that had arisen, just as a ray of sunlight dissolves the mist, and the decree that was ratified helped the affairs there as much—as I think no one would have easily done by their mere presence—as the report of it, having assumed wings, flying everywhere. He himself, hoping that it would turn out this way, namely that affairs would be set aright—because the Peloponnesians had learned of him—and having shortly thereafter learned that it had turned out as he had expected, decided to remain a little longer, until, having become everything and having accomplished everything, he might see the emperor and father restored to his accustomed state, having been completely relieved of business and enjoying serene tranquility; and might see his mother, along with her own father, and his sisters returned home from the prison in which they were held by the Latins. For I shall say no more, for many reasons.
Thus indeed matters proceeded, and they received a good end, with God as his guide, when in that war against the Latins at that time he displayed much fortitude and strength of a stout heart, and much vigilant diligence, and finally much prudence, for the sake of his country and his people,
A Since, therefore, there seemed to be nothing lacking in him that would be required for a man to be seen as good—and indeed to be a good man—the Peloponnese was given to him, not so much as an inheritance or a share, but as a most just reward for his gratitude toward his parents, the fortitude he had demonstrated, and, in sum, his remaining virtues. For I believe that everything one might care to mention happened to come together here, by which one might show that it was bestowed upon this man with the greatest justification. And so he received this land, not in accordance with the desire of his father, nor indeed the virtue of the son, but rather because of the present fortune and the distress of circumstances. But as it seems, I have not used words with sufficient precision. For if one were to state it more truthfully, the Peloponnese was not given to him so much as he was given to the Peloponnese. For it had no power to assist him at that time; rather, it was in greater need of his assistance. B And yet, he himself, at that time, was such that he was in need of assistance, having recently set out stripped of all protection and having been able to provide himself with nothing necessary for this occasion. By necessary provisions, I mean the strength of arms, sufficient funds to be spent on the necessary support of soldiers, and in general whatever would seem advantageous to spend. For as regards great treasures, a stuffed purse, and gold and silver poorly gathered and worse guarded—if these things flowed in, he did not set his heart upon them, obeying the counsel of David. Nevertheless, not without divine impulse and inclination—with the grandfather asking, the parent entreating, by the decision of the father, the will of the mother, and also by my own—the one you longed for came to you; C although it was not easy to be torn from the hands of his father and mother, and I will add, from my own as well; not only because of that deeper affection, but also because he had already proven by his past deeds how much he could help in the most grievous times and circumstances from which we had not yet fully emerged. But since it was worth the effort that the better course should prevail, it did indeed prevail; and by a good omen, he appeared to you, having been torn for your sake, as a single limb from the general body. I pass over the events that happened meanwhile, lest I become long-winded by recounting them.
Thus, then, he was sent forth, best equipped with the prayers of his father, as well as those of his mother and of everyone, prayers by which he had been brought up and had progressed toward better things from his very swaddling clothes until the time he was sent to you. D By these prayers he was led when, having been released from his homeland, he boarded the ship; by these he sailed, while his relatives wept and escorted him; and by these he hoped to have the alliance of God. He neither thought of nor did anything at all without them; and for this reason, he accomplished everything, as even the most difficult and fearful things turned around in his favor.
What need is there to go through each individual thing, all the evils that the cities of the Peloponnese endured from the neighboring Latins or the Turks, as they, from the c
continent, would invade with horses, or as they would attack with pirate ships from the sea? And in what ways the land of Pelops was being worn down: the brother of our mother, A a man of the best character and well skilled in governing, who held the prefecture of the Peloponnese, had already departed this life, leaving behind no son as heir. His brother had succeeded to the rule, a man indeed upright, and, if you consider his person, illustrious and venerable for his age; yet he was hindered from carrying out what was worth doing by a reckless son—for one must state the truth—and because of this, all things were simultaneously perishing, with the Arabian, so to speak, as the flute-player. But what need is there to reopen your wounds, as if using narrations like fingernails? Otherwise, these things would be told to no purpose, since you yourselves have experienced the events and therefore know them well. Let those things, then, be set aside in part; we must now proceed to speak of the events that followed the arrival here of him who put himself forward to us as the subject of the present contest.
As soon as he had disembarked from the ship and had been welcomed by all with great joy, he did not, as he proceeded, dim the love they bore him—which I think is what usually happens almost everywhere—but rather he kept it shining until the end, doing good to all. And all were in a festive state, except, however, for the enemies and those who lived their lives in much stupidity and malice. B For the former, when they thought that you were already enclosed within a seine-net and that nothing of those trapped inside could escape, then found themselves disappointed in their hope; while the latter knew nothing other than to take delight in the calamities of others, being themselves caught in the same—which is both highly malicious and none the less foolish. For they ought to have trembled for themselves; yet they were eating the lesser ones if any larger ones had escaped, just like fish caught in a net, which, having been often caught inside the wicker traps, are, it seems, unaware of their own condition, and the larger ones eat the smaller, and again these in turn others that are greater—believing the trap itself, so to speak, to be a godsend, because they could more easily fill their bellies with food in it than on the sea itself. When, therefore, all the enemies had changed from being a cause of fear to being themselves in terror, and those who knew how to do harm had slunk away into hidden places, C and the good men were rejoicing because it was possible with great security to do those things by which cities might become more prosperous, enjoying a profound peace—which is truly better than all wealth—his cousin, whom we mentioned a little earlier, set himself against him in many ways, associating himself with the Turks and the Latins. Immediately, therefore, he threw everything into confusion, appearing like a storm-wind from a calm, when affairs were not yet established in a firmer and better state. He was also dreadful in his threats, and no less so in his deeds, as he had a foreign army, and many of the locals, and held fortresses given to him by his father. And to sum it all up, except for an irrational boldness and that he was the author of an unjust war, he was otherwise not of a degenerate mind, nor lacking in military skill and prudence. When, therefore, everyone was driven to despair D and was advising flight, as though seeing
A that it was impossible that he alone should be able to withstand such an inundation of evils, he, on the contrary, was ready to die rather than commit any act that would be less than fitting for his own person and station. By so doing, he would have brought shame upon his parents, his entire lineage, and, furthermore, all those who admired his virtue—and indeed his own nature. Yet he trusted in God, in the prayers of those who had brought him into the world, and in his own character, hoping justly to repel the force of one who was unjustly B usurping the sovereignty of the invader; for in all other things, those who were fighting against him had the upper hand.
But while affairs were standing, as they say, on a razor's edge, Wisdom, which governs the whole and admirably dispenses what is beneficial to each, removed the young man (as some might say, from human affairs, or, as others would put it, from matters concerning himself) and, having transferred him from these parts, did not allow him to act according to his own judgment. Instead, it manifested him to you as the Despot, the lord of the entire Peloponnese, confirming the title by his deeds. For there was nothing at all that he did or turned over in his mind that was not becoming to a ruler acting with moderation and virtue. This fact, having become evident, compelled even those who did not know him to be temperate, and all men would have bartered much to do that which was pleasing to him—which is to say, pleasing to God.
The fame of this, therefore, spreading everywhere C that a certain marvelous man was bestowing such-and-such goods upon all, not seeking what was his own but what belonged to others (for the deeds of the greatest men cannot be hidden), many nations, both from the vicinity and from afar, flowed toward him. For virtue is a thing that creates longing, and it possesses a greater efficacy for attracting good things than does a magnet. Thus, both land and sea were bringing those who resided there, and it was a sweet thing to behold what was being done during that time. Cities and places long deserted now had new colonists, forests were being cut down by the plow, and the entire region was being cleansed. Many rugged places, which had once been useful to none save robbers, became milder, and, tamed by the hands of skilled farmers, they received planted trees and seeds of every kind. But also, about ten thousand Illyrians, having moved D collectively with their children, wives, possessions, and flocks, took hold of the Isthmus. Having pitched their tents there and spread their beds, they became the messengers of their own arrival before they were even expected. To this end, without delay, they organized a most magnificent embassy to him and inquired what might seem to him to be of worth concerning them. They declared that they were determined, provided they obtained permission, to settle and to yield entirely to whatever he deemed proper; and to enter, remain, and do whatever he might decide. He received the envoys with joy, and through these very envoys, he summoned their leaders to come before him. Then, indeed, when they had presented themselves, through a very prudent counsel he embraced them warmly and, giving them a taste of his innate sweetness, he attracted their minds to himself; and without having taken hostages or requiring sureties, he was satisfied with the oaths sworn by them—even though many were advising him, speaking not at all unreasonably, not to receive them in any way, both fearing the multitude and the [different] customs
fearing that they might prove a cause of scandal to others, since they lived according to other customs. But he, A indeed, bestows trust, as one who possesses trust from within himself. For what a man has, that he also gives; and what he is himself, that he also considers others to be. He persuades both himself and others, setting forth irrefutable arguments, that even if they should wish to do some evil, they would never be able to—and for this reason, they would not even wish to. And it turned out just as he had supposed and asserted. And these three things would testify on his behalf: credibility, courage, and prudence—in his trusting, in his boldness, and in his sound judgment. Therefore, he acquires such an army, not inexperienced in wounds, but good for warfare, having expended nothing but these three things: sharpness of mind, power of speech, and goodness of character; each of these is a treasure utterly inexhaustible. B
Having them, then, in addition to the strength of the Peloponnese—which was not small even by itself—as a very great reinforcement, he arranged everything according to his will with greater ease than one might have supposed. For if a small impetus often achieves the whole, what would such a one, great in numbers and excellent in martial experience, not have accomplished? For he did not—even though they were of themselves eager and good soldiers—neglect to make them better; but he increased in them, just as the affection toward himself, so too all better things, both by speaking and by demonstrating what must be done. And the deeds performed by them for him make this clear, even if I do not attribute everything to them. For how could I? Did he not capture the cities of his enemies, some by besieging them and bringing them to submission, others by the very clamor of war and the first burst of an assault; and many even surrendered, having realized the approach of the army before it had drawn near? Did he not cause those who were accustomed to terrify others to be terrified themselves? Did he not make all these [enemies] feel that those who, before his arrival in the province, had become more insolent due to their previous victories, now appeared thunderstruck and confounded, with that boldness and those things in which they had taken such pride having turned to the contrary? Did they not beg for mercy? Did they not do him homage? Did they not return everything they had seized, even with additional compensation? Did they not pay tribute, they who, had they seen this in a dream, would have leaped from their beds, struck by the unexpected sight? Was this not sweeter to them, as it kept them free from dangers, than that which they had previously received? Did they not serve under arms, for whom it had been a festival day just to plunder our land even while unarmed? And I pass over the great pride of the prince, proved by the very facts. Was he not walking on tiptoe and in arrogance? Was he not above the clouds? Had he not promoted himself to the height of haughtiness? He, nonetheless, while having such sentiments of soul and words, C and in his speech, inflection, and bearing, and in all things by which a man reveals a swelled soul, was shown in reality to be someone else, and that not long after. For when he encountered a few, among whom was a band of horse-grooms and some who perhaps had never drawn a sword against enemies, that bold man, that arrogant one, that boaster, who with many cavalry D
A and being surrounded and fenced in by a strong force and iron-clad phalanx, did not even think to stand his ground to engage in combat then. But I believe he was the first of all to turn in flight before the engagement began, judging it to be the time to make use of spurs and a whip instead of a spear and a sword. And so, having turned his horse back by the reins, and having presented his back to those who wished to pursue, he fled until one of ours took him with his hands, but not with a spear-point. And who is this? The general? Not at all; for if the prince of Achaia at that time had used his hands, as he ought to have used his arms, I believe no one among all of them would have taken him except the leader of the army. For he was indeed a good and brave man; for that noble man was Raoum, who, while serving with me, and when he had traveled to the Peloponnese, provided to all a clear example of an excellent man. But since he was intent on nothing but flight, casting himself entirely into it, it was not permitted for the general of the army to abandon his ranks to pursue him further. But was there any nobleman among us, or any brave man at all, who accepted this deserter? Not even that; no one such; nor even someone endowed with any spirit at all, but rather he who had the trumpet to signal the duties to the army, and a herald, to whom the wretch ignominiously surrendered himself, begging only for his life.
B Furthermore, certain noble-born men, although they were then fighting against us contrary to all propriety, were captured, a fact which also provides cause for wonder. For on the contrary, it should have been otherwise for many reasons. What reasons? They were related to us by blood; we had obliged them, although they had contributed nothing beforehand; they had enjoyed no small honors; they had of their own accord bound themselves by oaths, the sanctity of which even a savage man would revere and wish to keep whole; they had taken offense when they had been in no way wronged. Instead of paying the penalty, when it was in our power to take vengeance, they had instead obtained our assistance, being at that time at war with him who, a little later, when war was waged against us—an act shameful and cruel to commit—they joined with their aid. Truly it would have been worth the effort for them to despise even life for our sake, should C the need arise; but they, having reflected on nothing, as it seems, thought all such matters to be trifles; things which not even the smallest portion of would be considered to be overlooked by anyone possessing a mind. But he, D to whom this bright trophy also stood in addition to many and greater and finer others, showing nobility and kindness toward them, permitted them to depart for home, although he expected to receive no token of gratitude from them. For although from the things that had preceded, a clear understanding of future events could be had, he nevertheless, possessing a nature prone to goodness, was not content with himself unless he should oblige even his enemies. Wherefore, even if the preceding events clearly indicated what would follow thereafter, he himself looked only at what was honorable, and that he might not in any matter depart from propriety. Those, moreover, who refused to be good, he feared indeed as little as possible, but pitied as much as possible.
A For what is violent by nature? It is not easy for anyone to drag it in any direction he wishes or to bend it toward the opposite side. It drew them toward the good, and, joined to that weight by the accumulation of a better disposition, it held them both perfectly to the purpose of earning the favor of all.
What, indeed, is there to say regarding those who fled to the camp of the enemies and, so to speak, lived among wolves, desiring to eat the flesh of their own kin, and actually eating their own? It would be a long task to recount their deeds, and it is better to pass over these things than to insult those suffering from black bile. But, in truth, just as they had no reason to commit such vile acts, so I have no call to lash out against them. I will, however, state what gave them the spirit to grow so insolent against us, having no complaint to level against us other than our refusal to be subjected to the rule to which it was B rightfully expected we should be subject.
You well know that Persian, I mean Bajazet, the ruler of Asia and master of Europe, who, being grave and intolerable, did not even think it bearable for a Christian to be named a leader. This man gave them courage. Relying on his power, and furthermore on the hostile cruelty of the Latins who border us, they threatened our affairs; but that most savage beast himself, trusting in both sides, attacked our matters; and he whetted and provoked the one part against the other, like the teeth of swine.
But I wish, however, to speak in general terms, passing over this person and that, and I say that the Christians who have deserted to these enemies of ours, who are disobedient C to us, are clearly insane; or rather, they act even worse than those whose minds are damaged. For the latter, even if they draw a sword against themselves, do not harm their own souls, and they attract no hatred, but rather a great deal of pity from those who see them; but it is a necessary consequence that the former must stir up hatred among all right-thinking people, by voluntarily polluting their own souls through all their senses. For they desire to find that for the sake of which they initially came to the enemies of the faith—I mean wealth, and glory, and all that is typically delightful in this life; yet it is impossible to obtain these unless they endeavor to render themselves acceptable to them, unless they perform all the things in which they take pleasure; and that is, in every way, to live like a barbarian and to contaminate their D own souls with nefarios actions. The things that happen to them, therefore, are far worse than those that happen to the insane, and they will be judged by all as worthy of much hatred and no pity, both because they surrender themselves to evils of their own will, and because they harm the soul instead of the body. And the most wretched thing of all is that it is a necessity for them to destroy their own souls, and to insult their own honor, and to bring shame upon their entire race; yet the cause for which they are led to do these things either does not exist from the beginning, or, if it ever did exist, is not destined to last very long. Wherefore also, like bubbles that are quickly inflated and swollen—I mean those who seem to have found an excellent and secure position among the infidels—they are quickly burst, becoming empty.
A For if they are somewhat sluggish toward their [the infidels'] will, they become suspect and are straightway held in contempt, as not being in agreement with them; and how do you think they are looked down upon? But if they readily accommodate themselves to whatever the barbarians might wish—and they would wish them to use their own laws and customs, and to destroy their own race without sparing—they are hated, and most justly, because of such cruelty toward their own race and kin. Yet for this change of character and transformation of life, they do not gain praise from them, as they appear merely compliant to whatever anyone might desire. For this cause, neither are they trusted as though they would remain steadfast in their second state. And rightly so. For one who has so easily trampled upon the customs to which he was accustomed, by what reasoning could he carefully preserve those which he has only just adopted? Furthermore, he who is wicked toward his race and his own kin is assuredly so toward himself as well; for the part is contained within the whole. And he who is wicked toward himself, toward whom else could he be good? B Nay, more, if we look at this more carefully, such a man becomes hateful even to his own conscience. And how, then, would he not be to everyone else? But why do I say these things, when I can show something even greater? For they are not even able to keep their confession and faith in Christ pure. Why so? Because while making a covenant with Christ, and promising Him the utmost friendship and enmity toward the demons, they subsequently act in the opposite way. Or rather, one must speak more clearly and reveal the extent of the evil: for those who desire to live among the followers of Muhammad, and who join with them in deeds against us—who are the enemies of the faith—they fight against the Savior, who is the Author of the faith, and openly wage war against Him.
C There follows also another thing that is not good, unless one deems it very evil. Through their own affairs and deeds, they declare Muhammad to be a prophet. For that wicked man promised the nations, who had been deceived and compelled into error by him, victory over our race and the Christians. Those, therefore, who give them aid toward victory are certainly confirming the lie as truth. Wherefore, as I said just now, those of our enemies who have deserted to the camps of the infidels are clearly led by an insane frenzy, and they make things worse for those who are already damaged; and, as it were, driving the sword into themselves, they attack their own souls far more than they attack us.
D But let us resume the discourse and proceed with what follows. The satrap and those who had deserted to him were provoking one another toward evil; and just as one who is traveling by boat and using oars both steers the craft by rowing and is, in turn, carried along by the craft, so, too, they, while driving those infidels against us through the greatest injury, were in turn being carried along by them. And so, by provoking and inciting one another, and becoming a goad to both sides, they fell upon you as though upon children; and they thought they would overthrow [you], dragging away everything concerning you with great force, but they accomplished nothing, however. For the virtue of him who was being attacked stood firm.
A His excellence in this was so great that, God being propitious to him, it granted him victory wherever he wished. But when all the efforts of the wicked against you came to nothing, and the barbarian army stationed in Europe seemed surrounded by many difficulties on all sides, unable to invade the Isthmus easily or to do so continuously or to serve the satrap’s plans, those who were bereft of counsel suggested that he cross the Hellespont from Asia into Thrace, and having passed through there, arrive in Macedonia, and from there summon my brother to come to him through an embassy, and threaten grave things in a deceitful manner through certain people, unless he should arrive and obey; but that he should openly promise many great things, some through the envoys, others by short letters. And these were the things to be promised: that he would not distress him at all; that he would increase his honors greatly, and send him back in a very short time, and that he would no longer disturb him at all regarding anything whatsoever.
B Thus those men spoke to the satrap; and he was persuaded. And he does everything more maliciously than they had suggested to him. For if one calls evil upon evil, or good upon good, in the Lydian plain, as the saying goes, he himself, having been provoked to the evil of the Romans, or even of humanity as a whole, ran more eagerly of his own accord, and with much malice stitched together his deceit. For how was he not about to run, and not merely run but even fly, as if it were possible for wings to grow on him, he who was serving Satan, for whom there is no other work than to weave plots and schemes against the faithful? Although he himself brought forth nothing from within other than tricks, until the Divine power taking vengeance exacted penalties for the injuries with which he had vexed the faithful. Putting on now the lion’s skin and now the fox’s, and frequently alternating between them, he thought to hide his purpose. But that too was very clear: for he was attempting to catch the one who was running, and to seize his cities, and to destroy souls and bodies alike.
These things, then, did not escape my brother; for how could they? Yet, for fear of seeming more a lover of life than a lover of mankind and a lover of honor, he accepted the danger for the sake of the many; which he did not undergo first, just as it was not his last. For he always cared little for his own life in comparison to glory, and his people, and simply for everything that ought to be done, knowing and understanding this accurately, that the advantage of rulers lies directly in the interests of those they rule. Whence, considering their happiness to be his own, he became all things to all men, so that all might fare well. Thus, what was for their sake, he considered as if it were for his own, and he acted accordingly, doing good; he endured painful things, and readily undertook dangers that brought glory.
Filled, therefore, with such thoughts as [might occupy] both Platos and Alexanders, that father of yours, that friend, the teacher, the overseer, the guardian, the master, the one who...
to sum up all in a word, lacked no good thing: he, disregarding his own self for the sake of A his own and indeed many others, betakes himself to the satrap, having given him no prior hope of his arrival; on the contrary, he had even forbidden the journey, so that he might appear all the more delightful by being least expected, and might find more favor with the tyrant through the unexpectedness of the event; and that he might show that he had arrived by his own will, and not because he had been deceived by his flatteries or threats. He finds him, therefore, in B Pherrae, and us, who had arrived earlier, with him. For we had arrived on the fifth day, since a certain strong necessity had sent me there at that time for the sake of warding off dangers from those under our care. And yet, this was absolutely forbidden to us—I mean, that both of us should arrive before him at the same time. For it did not seem safe that our arrival should occur in this way in the presence of one who had long been brooding over an unjust slaughter against us. And yet, the terrible thing happened—I thinking that he was still staying at home, and he, in turn, thinking the same of me—and we had gone forth from home, as if by appointment, on the same day, if I remember correctly, or, if you like, at the same hour. But something worse also occurred. For all the leaders of the Christians, C at least those who were accustomed to come to him, were around the Persian. For he had gathered them with great zeal, meditating the common destruction of all. Furthermore, they had thought it more worth their while to undergo the hazard of his assembly than not to comply with his order. The matter certainly seemed full of danger to all, as was rightly thought, for them all to congregate to him at the same time. For there were none who did not know the man and his disposition toward them; yet they considered not complying with his commands to be of a far greater danger. For they knew that he would not bear the injury of a scorned command, nor would he be able to impose quiet upon himself; but he would wish that all should perish, and, wishing to destroy [them], he would be able to. Choosing, therefore, one evil over another, and committing their lot to God, they traveled on in hope, and committed themselves to the uncertainty of D the road. Indeed, the fact that they remained persuaded concerning me and my brother—that we would not be approaching that most savage beast at the same time—greatly dispelled their fear, for they knew that it had not happened by chance, but by our set purpose, and this encouraged them to come, dispelling a just suspicion. For they knew that he, gaping like Hades and desiring to swallow everyone, would reasonably fear lest his purpose turn to the contrary should he behave shamelessly toward everyone while not having us in his hands. But when they arrived and saw my brother with me at the Persian’s side, and realized that the matter had fallen out contrary to their expectation, they were incapacitated by silence for a long time, and were unable to offer any mutual speech to one another. But when they had recovered, late and with difficulty, they let slip...
A this as their first utterance: "We have despaired," they all cried out.
When they had been gathered together with us at that time (oh, how everything converged, and, as one might say, drove our fears to the very peak of their intensity!), the nephew of the emperor arrived from Selymbria. This, in turn, confounded us to such a degree that it drove us to complete desperation, and compelled us to turn to the drafting of wills, as is absolutely necessary for those who have cast away all hope of life. And we were as lambs in the midst of wolves, just as the oracle of the Lord describes the disciples, treading upon the heads of enemies, directly maintaining a place for asps and scorpions, and suffering no harm from them, walking in the faith of Him who has the power to save. B That beast of a man did not, however, receive my brother with gladness; for he had a grudge hidden deep within his breast, so that he might bring it to completion. Nor did he receive him exactly with ill-will, according to appearances; for he felt shame—if not for the promises made to his brother, then at least for me—and did not want to appear unable to contain the poison within himself even for an hour, but rather to vomit it out immediately.
Being thus disposed, he conceived a plan. I will not say by whose instigation; let it be said that it was by the devil, whom he carried in his heart, that he might destroy us and our entire household, and also kill those who were leaders of the faithful. For having long harbored this in his mind, he thought that the time had come to carry out the evil deed, so that, as he said, by clearing his territory of the "thorns" (meaning us), it might be permitted for his own children to dance across the soil of the Christians with unbloody feet. He was indeed devising this plan, but the true Lord—and not a mercenary shepherd—was deciding otherwise concerning us. He commanded the leader of the army, who was a eunuch, to kill us by night, and not to fail the task in any way; otherwise, he threatened that his life would be the forfeit. But God ordered him by no means to do this. And it happened, I believe, similarly to what once occurred for Sarah (Gen. XX, 2). When the murderer learned of this, far from punishing the servant who had not obeyed, he even gave thanks to him for having delayed the deed well, affirming soon after the sentence was given that he had repented of the matter in no light way; for this change clearly came about through no other source than God Himself. D With these things thus settled, the Ethiopian was nonetheless unable to wash the blackness from his soul. But first, having vomited out his rage through the means by which he had insulted our people—having gouged out eyes from the sailors, cut off hands, and brought down many distinguished men to shame—and having by this means calmed his irrational fury, he then most foolishly attempted to reconcile him whom he had wronged and disgraced with countless misdeeds, smoothing him over with gifts and sending him homeward, just as one might appease weeping children after a flogging with sweetmeats. His intention, moreover, was not obscure; for
A he deemed it unsafe to extend his hands against both at once, a thing he was able to do, yet being blinded by God, he knew not that he had this power; just as he did not understand that he would no longer have my friendship. But he thought he would deceive me with words; what extreme folly! To heap so many injuries upon our people, to still hold my brother in his hands, to demand his major cities as if they were some paternal inheritance, and to dictate terms that no man in his right mind would impose even upon prisoners of war!
Having such a disposition, he traverses Macedonia, passes through Thessaly, and reaches Hellas. There, having again led out his army and wishing to encamp—since he saw the region to be rich in pastures, suitable for hunting, and abundantly convenient for the necessary provisions—on a certain day, no longer unknown, he lays bare his character entirely, using it more boldly than at any time before, no longer being able to cover it with any color. Having therefore sent one of his lictors, who surpassed all others in ferocity and cruelty—Mures was his name—he demands that the city of Argos be given to him, along with several others. For he had already taken Monemvasia, which had been given as a hollow price of ransom, along with the adjacent towns, which were neither few in number nor lacking in valor. He had indeed promised to set me free once he had received them; but upon receiving them, he asked for more. And he did this continually, unwilling to set him free, consuming everything—a man in soul truly a Cyclops, having impiety as his blindness and shamelessness as his cave. For he too was a shepherd, if not of sheep like Polyphemus, yet of men who differed scarcely at all from wild beasts.
What, then, was it worth for my brother to do in the meantime? To call this man a deceiver and a liar? To convict him? To push him away? To spit upon him? To omit no type of reproach against him? For what advantage would he have gained from that? Moreover, he did not even abandon the hope of proceeding even to an engagement. And was it really necessary to be obstinate and to contradict him to the end? He did that too, as long as it was possible. But was he in no way to yield, whatever might have happened? Indeed, it would not have been the act of a sane man to remain stubbornly persistent while a naked sword hung over his head. For that would have been nothing other than to drive him upon himself. But was he to perform what the enemy wanted, and surrender everything, just for the sake of survival? But those who say this speak nothing healthy; nor would he have ever consented, he to whom it was held dearer than all else never to commit any base act, and who would gladly have exchanged the longest life without glory for the shortest life with glory. Furthermore, such was not the mind of the murderer, that he would take everything and then remain quiet: but that, after taking them, he would kill the giver. Thus, Hellas during that time appeared like the Strait of Sicily, and the madness of the satrap, and the threatening counsel of the executioner, combined together, appeared more grievous than Charybdis and Scylla, at whose very names, even, dread is compounded.
A But this new Ulysses, entirely good and ingenious for you, has experienced many and various kinds of wanderers; rather, he has willingly experienced terrible things for the sake of those who pertain to his own form and the root from which he sprang. Having escaped from all—from the cave, from the straits, and from the many things which, like many rain-clouds, pour down terrible and difficult things (for one must still hold to the example)—he sailed by unharmed and passed all his perils. And having once arrived home, he found Penelope, the Peloponnese, guarding herself for him with exact purity; not unravelling the web and feeding those who tempted her with hope, but openly turning them away—a thing which by far surpasses the former, and excels it just as much as she is not seen to have polluted her chastity even by a word, which you would seek in vain in Penelope. For constant prudence, not failing, will easily accomplish everything, since reason is superior to all things.
B The good despot, therefore, was not exasperated by the demands, although they were as unjust as the one demanding them was most unjust; for they poured down thickly, like snow from a winter cloud, nor was he terrified by the threats. These were always newer and later, worse and more savage than the former and earlier ones; yet he showed nothing morose, nor harsh, nor refractory, nor again ignoble, nor soft, nor lax, nor in any way revealed [such things] or even spoke [of them] at all. To speak briefly, he showed nothing inconsistent with the occasion; but doing everything at the proper time, he showed himself simpler than the very boys, who, out of impudence, would think he should be mocked just as a small child would be. He uses his prudence in this way: C he does not entirely disobey until the end, a thing that everyone else would reasonably have done, having despaired; nor does he give in at once, so as not to provoke the raging and inflamed passions of men by an excessive resistance, nor, by yielding so readily, give the enemy just suspicion that he was indulging him because he had some hidden design—saying one thing while harboring another in his mind.
Using his understanding in this way—as I think could not have been better, nor could any other among all men have used it—avoiding equally both harshness and its opposite, softness (of which, as it usually happens to those who are wronged, they suffer now one and now the other), he walks the middle path very wisely, and proceeding steadily, he tames the dragon for the time being, although he was not able to show D that mildness for long. Having thus made those who guarded him as if they were tame, he deemed it the time either to die or to escape. The latter event happened, as the discourse further on will show. For he sends letters home, such as those who were sending them wished. But with those sent by the satrap to take the garrisons and the city once called Agamemnon's, he sends along companions who were of the opinion that they would surrender the citadels to them. They, however, proceeding slowly—for so it had been ordered for them—I believe they had scarcely reached Corinth
when they saw the noble man, beyond everyone’s expectations; though not, indeed, beyond the expectations of his mother and ourselves. For we were not ignorant of the man's nobility, nor of his love for honor and his spirit for danger; and the affair did not take place outside of my own expectation. Thus, we held our hearing in suspense, B waiting either to hear a bitter report or to see that which no one would have believed possible before it had actually come to pass and been witnessed.
Time has indeed revealed many who have slipped through the fingers of their captors, and it has shown shackles, chains, and prisons to be of no consequence against their ingenuity. Some who escaped even seemed to surpass the miracle-workers themselves, given the strength of the security with which they were guarded. But if one were to compare the present attempt of Theodore with those of predecessors, he would not find it to be in the least degree less noble, if he carefully considers both the one who held him—what sort of man he was in his wickedness—and the manner in which he held him, and how the captive made the efforts of his captor appear empty.
Thus specifically was he held. A tent had been pitched for him C by order of the tyrant on the bank of a certain river. The name of the river is the Spercheius, which flows with a deep current everywhere. Its bank, rising high across the entire region, and being surrounded on all sides by the stream, was almost like an island. The night watch, which consisted of a large company, kept the tent encircled in ranks and held that small isthmus under strict control; and by employing fires and singing, they did not fall asleep even for an hour. For they did not merely stand watch, but spent the entire night without sleep, as the satrap had ordered. And so that I may not draw out the narrative too long, all other things were exactly as difficult as these, D and whatever was considered sufficient for security—not only when organized together, but even when taken individually. Yet all these things the virtue of one man rendered useless.
Although it seemed neither to the enemy—who considered the probability—that there was anything to fear, or that he could ever escape, so many were the obstacles, nor to our own people that an escape attempt should even be contemplated, yet one might also rightly admire this: that in this deed he yields to none of his other accomplishments. For often, when he could have escaped alone or with few companions, he could not endure it; but he chose either to return home with those with whom he had set out, or to die with them.
Everyone knows how he escaped, in a way that no one else ever could, without losing any of those who followed with the baggage, and without leaving behind anyone whose strength of knee was less sufficient for the necessary journey; and how, having slipped away like a bird, he overtook those who had set out before him, and by doing so showed that those who were pursuing him had made their journey in vain, and he poured scorn and contempt upon the heads of the enemies’ schemes, as if upon the remains of yesterday’s drunken stupor. It is clear to all that he carried out the escape as no one else could, and the means and the method by which he showed the expected outcome to beworthy of contempt, and how every thought and action regarding these matters was full of wisdom and full of
A the greatest skill, though the formal structure of our speech does not permit us to set it forth. Yet it is by all means both sufficient and just to say regarding all these things, that it is evident to everyone that this work—so well conceived at the beginning, better executed, and brought to a most noble end—could not have occurred without divine guidance. For that many things should have converged toward a single glorious end is neither a matter of human power, nor, indeed, something that occurred by chance or accident. This achievement liberated the entire Peloponnese from the impending servitude; it liberated Thebes, Athens, Megara, and other cities of Greece, of which the despot’s brother-in-law, a man of sound mind named Raneres, was in charge; it liberated the whole of Illyricum, and many other barbarian nations as well. And it is clear. For he who held my brother—the tyrant I mean, the Persian—had sworn and asserted with high-minded arrogance that he would by no means return home until he had subdued and destroyed everything. And he did not seem to be boasting of things greater than his power, nor of things he could not easily perform—the man, I say, who later turned his eyes toward the ground after the blow; for the flight of my brother was a blow directly to him. Nor, if any spoke such things to curry favor, did he willingly listen anymore, since he clearly recognized such words as the ultimate flattery.
C Therefore, your Despot is glorious for many great reasons: for having chosen to face death for the sake of his office; for this was truly what it meant to have confronted the murderous barbarian for the sake of the salvation of both his own people and those he was leading; for having escaped his hands, since he had been captured and was held in nets that were believed to be inescapable; for having made completely ineffective and empty the belly of the beast, which was agape to devour everyone and believed there would be no obstacle; and because, when he was in danger, many nations and cities saw the manifest peril, but when he had escaped the barbarian’s throat—into which no one who had once entered had ever returned—they were openly delivered from servitude. D Yet, those whom he had saved did not contribute any help to him as he was always laboring on behalf of all (I do not even speak of his own affairs), nor, while he was in danger for their sake, did they contribute any help in delivering him from evils; so that the salvation obtained for them—by his own effort, freely bestowed—is understood as being from our elder Theodore, and thus he considers Phrantzes to be at odds with Laonicus, whereas in reality they both say things that are in the greatest agreement. For Phrantzes had already pursued the affairs of Theodore the elder; indeed, he was also proficient in the affairs of Manuel, who survived Theodore for a long time. The name of Porphyrogennetos was common to both, from whatever source it was that children of emperors were so called, though not all of them, nor only the firstborn. Besides these Theodores, there is a third, the son of Andronicus, the grandson of our Theodore, and his successor as despot, whom that other son of Manuel and his cousin later succeeded.
A And yet, this man is also a martyr in his resolve, for he delivered himself up for the sake of the many, and he drew near to dangers, and he has tasted the bitter, and underwent ignominy, and other things that bite the soul, and capable of bringing down those who do not mock the present situation. From all this, it is manifest that his survival and well-being was indeed the survival and well-being of a multitude of men, not only of those under his rule, but also of those who were set under others. Thus he was most admirable; thus he was useful to many, as necessary to his friends as breath; but to his enemies, he was unconquerable, and one who turned back their incursions. B And the fact that he was able to turn back and divert that great [Sultan] by merely occupying his own territory is proof of this. For as soon as that proud man learned of this, and despaired of achieving anything, he lets down his eyebrow that had previously been raised from many sides; he casts off a spirit that was base and overly proud, which had been amassed for him through frequent triumphs, which had stood for him and his ancestors against many and great nations; and he forgets those boasts which he had made while carrying his neck high, and moving his head with lack of composure, and shouting louder than the heralds. And there was a certain calmness, then restored from his wildness, and he was nearly bleating. He who previously had been more savage than wolves appeared like tamed beasts, suddenly having reached this state, he who looked with a grim face and roared against men. C And he desired to get away quickly, knowing that he would accomplish nothing; but he was ashamed of the sudden change, and that he might seem a Euripus [a man of fickle character] and a strange man, fearing those who were then fleeing from him, and fleeing himself, pursued by no one, and showing that his deeds and words were contrary to those that had come before. And to sum it all up, he appeared in everything, in his thoughts, his words, or his deeds, to be nothing like his former self. He fashions a noble pretext to cover his shame and his deception. He claimed to have received letters from the Sultan calling him to the East, so that he could assist him, as he was being warred upon by the Scythian Temer [Tamerlane]; who was the one to whom he himself would a little later pay the penalty for what he had impiously done; and this with very just interest. D But since the Sultan's letters were a pretext and a play, he would say he was hastening to cross the Hellespont, while in fact he did not wish to. He consumes no small amount of time, marching slowly; but if he had been...
A willing, he would have slipped away secretly. Meanwhile, he lingers in Thrace; he assembles an army, from wherever and however he was able, consisting, as is supposed, of all those things which were against you, such as it was. He sends this force to plunder the entire country—that of a man who had done him no harm other than failing to offer himself up to death and to take pleasure in his blood. He gives orders to the general, Branzes by name—and you know this man’s character, and his hatred toward the faithful, how it is incomparable—to spare no one; such was the anger boiling within him.
Yet there was also something necessitating that he assemble and send a great army very quickly. For it was not possible for the forts to be preserved, and the cities which he then held, unless they had the swiftest assistance. For they were in need of all kinds of relief, being besieged by you, and suffering from the scarcity of necessities. The preparations, therefore, were dreadful, and the general was cruel; the army was numerous and no less well-equipped with horses than with arms. Our own affairs, meanwhile, were, in many respects, decaying; and it happened that the enemy had many leaders from the country, encouraging them, B as you can imagine, and inciting them against our interests, or, to speak more truly, against their own.
Nor was that most terrible thing absent, for there were those who were calling them to enter the Isthmus, promising that they would supply them with abundant provisions. Each of these things was not a small matter, but enough for the one sending the army to provide good expectations, and to those expecting its arrival, to bring about despair. Matters were, therefore, as I have said; but the undertaking did not succeed according to the man’s design. And why do I say "according to his design," when the outcome of his expectations even turned out to be the exact opposite? For the army was not able to enter, since you had occupied those territories where there was a narrow path, stony and steep and altogether impassable; and the fact that it returned empty-handed rendered back to the one who rightly and justly possessed them, and who had possessed them before and acquired them later, all the cities that had been seized by the Turks; and most excellent of all, that he recovered them with interest. I call the captive garrisons the interest, which were not a negligible portion of the enemy.
These things are so, and are proclaimed in many parts of the world. But the great success of the ungodly—or rather, the misfortune of the pious and those who worship God, resulting from their offending God—constituted the wretched, hateful man as master of many, of whom he was, in fairness, the servant. C This circumstance made his army, in both number and virtue, much greater, since it was not even originally small, nor cowardly, nor unskilled in warfare, having been hardened over a long time and by labor to endure bodily hardships, and trained to dwell more willingly in another’s land than in its own, even if you were to call it the most fertile of all goods. These forces his father left to him, he having received them from his father, who had in turn inherited them from the one who begat him, just as he himself had from his own progenitor. Ertoghrul to him D
A. Yet all of them have increased up to this point, by dint of study, and toil, and dangers of their own; for one must tell the truth; yet they have not done so through superior and more perfect virtues. This, indeed, gives us confidence that good fortune will one day change, and that it will again take its stand with us, leaving them abandoned—just as affairs were in the time of our ancestors. For since virtue everywhere is the prevailing thing, and since it is within our power to live according to virtue, it would be quite just for us to hope that we shall prevail over those who now prevail over us, having come to hate wickedness and having become friends of the virtue of our ancestors, and lovers of good works. Nevertheless, as affairs progressed for that man—I mean Bayezid—ours reached the point of diminution, with all things falling away, not without reason. For the successes of the enemies B and the diminution of our own forces have, in a way, an equal power, just as their opposites do.
I am coming now to relate something that truly calls for tears. For some—not those of the common folk, nor those who are considered base people—have joined themselves to the enemies; at first, as far as they could, in secret (for I think they were ashamed of the deed), but then openly and freely. For things done in secret are accustomed, as time goes on, to become bold. They became an incurable wound to us; and I do not know what you will call them. Are they Romans and Christians because of their race and baptism, or, on the contrary, are they enemies because of their intent and their deeds? Are they enemies because of an intent toward their homeland that is perverse and akin to madness, or are they friends because they have become the authors of your glory, even if it did not happen from their own intention? For from the impious things they committed against you, your own good has shone forth by contrast. But perhaps it is better to omit these things; let us proceed with what follows from here.
The evil grew, and the barbarian would not accept a treaty; rather, he was unbridled in falling upon us; and there was no one to restrain him, nor was there anyone to bring aid to his brother. For he relied on me alone, even though my affairs were afflicted in many parts, and my strength had been worn down by the long duration of the war, so that it seemed to have reached the very extremity of evils, and, humanly speaking, it seemed that not even any hope was left. D A double fear, therefore, took hold of both me and him, as each of us was anxious both for himself and for both of us for one another. For, moving forward like a giant, the calamity had almost entirely excluded every hope of safety.
A But it seemed best to me, and to those of my own, and furthermore to the wiser among our allies, to set out for Italy, and indeed for the lower Gauls, and for Britain itself. For it was reasonable to persuade, through my own person, those who were able to assist us, that they might be willing to employ their power, and not proceed to delays and procrastinations—a thing which they were accustomed to do. Therefore, when everyone praised the plan—for just as the initial approach was made by me to the most excellent among the officials and the allies, so in the same way, transmission was made afterwards to those to whom it was necessary—that which had seemed good was carried out. For I shall not speak more about myself, nor shall I prolong the discourse, dwelling upon other things and those pertaining to that long departure. Yet I did not leave the ship to sail or to be steered however it might happen, by one of those who had been set in charge by the casting of lots for some small boat, whether by selection, inheritance, or by chance.
B But since I did not have a son of an age capable of ruling, having reconciled myself with my nephew by the best of fortune, I placed him at the helm until, God willing, I should return. My brother, however, being deeply struck even by this—I mean by my departure—was more distressed than before. For the affair was, for him, directly equivalent to being orphaned. For the sea voyage was long, and the travel by land throughout the continent was by far longer. And the state of our affairs was so uncertain that even my return after a long interval of time was, one might say, something to be prayed for. So all his affairs were in hopes that were not good, in anticipation of what would befall the circumstances of that time; but he, not entirely collapsing, as another might have suffered, wrestling with one of the evils to which he was subjected, and appearing steadfast in times that admitted no delay, sought how he might remedy the grief. And indeed he found it. The method is now evident to all, since the matter succeeded; but at that time, I think, it was known to very few. For the interest of the situation forced it so. For if the scheme were at all suspected by the enemies—for the thing was truly a scheme—having been brought about through the best of craft C at that time...
FUNERAL ORATION FOR DESPOT THEODORE
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it would never have been profitable. For to be able to carry it through, the whole matter depended on it being hidden. Hence, even the many who looked only at the appearance, and did not understand the depths of the matter, suspected something that was not actually the case. For they supposed that, being no longer able to bear the successive dangers, he had planned to withdraw from them, setting security before what was noble. Thus, he for a time sacrificed his own reputation for the sake of the common good by concealing his design, he who always accepted dangers for the sake of reputation. Well, we shall make the drama clear as we proceed; but for now, we shall lead the narrative to a higher vantage point so that we may proceed in an orderly manner.
B There existed in Rhodes a community of men who promised chastity, poverty, and obedience to the Savior, and to fight against those who fight against the cross—which they were accustomed to wearing on their clothes, on their weapons, and on their standards everywhere, so that their dignity might be preserved. They had been in possession of Corinth from my brother for three years, I believe, with the consent of our mother and our own. But let no one wonder at this. For we are not so wretched, nor are we such soft and foolish men that we would prefer them to ourselves. However, since it was absolutely necessary that the city be either taken by the besieging Turks, or surrendered to others who might be able to save it from the impending danger, since we ourselves were unable to do so, it seemed best to all that they be preferred before all others, as those who were favorably disposed towards us, and who had a reputation for keeping their oaths, and possessed sufficient power for the task at hand, and were more eager for such things than those who were stronger than them. C And as for the actual deed—since there is talk about them not keeping their oaths, and since I know they have power sufficient for the requirement at that time, and are eager for such things—let no one judge us poorly. D That faith, certainly, was not of the kind which a man who is a friend and a Greek, a man of most sincere faith from the Areopagus, and no little ornament to Greece as it were dying, has recently shown excellently in a published book; but it was such as some reproach the Greeks with, and of which not a few are guilty; for no nation at all is entirely free from blame in every respect. That he rescinded the contract with a certain force in order to settle the tumults of the Spartans, not being able to restrain them, no one could rightly blame. Manuel himself corrects this, so that something was indeed done in earnest, with Theodore acting, so that in reality the Peloponnese would have ceded to the Rhodians, if it could not defend itself from Bayezid, either by overcoming him or by compelling him to peace; under the yoke of the Latins and the Hospitaller brothers, which after all is Christian, and in many respects preferred to the Turkish and infidel [yoke]; which I wish had seemed so to all Greeks, and that the great insolence of some of our own people and their mockery of sacred things had not made it hateful to some.
This finality, which it attained, contributed as much to the Peloponnese as A time subsequent has clearly shown. This, so far as experience proved, warded off the incursions and invasions of the enemies. For neither could the neighboring Barbarians gather a strong army from their own resources, nor, indeed, were they permitted by the fear of the Rhodians—unless they had first assembled in great numbers—to invade our lands; yet to gather such a great army over time and from many places—for that is all that remained—and to escape the notice of the border cities through which the report would have to be carried to our own, was, I think, nearly impossible. But if the enemies were detected, it happened that they suffered something more grievous than the harm they might have done. This contributed far more to the affairs of that time than when the man, this admirable person, added to the Roman domain a city long ago torn away from it. This shows his wisdom and his skill in public affairs to be no less sublime than when he made other cities his own. For there is a time to gain and a time, in any case, to give up. And this is a Solomonic opinion, if one remembers him who assigned a time for all things; yet the latter of the two—I mean giving when it is time—is a lofty thing, and one for the few.
Since for the most part, C indeed, most men look only to present things, neglecting those of the future as uncertain, it is surely the part of the few to suffer a small subtraction from what they possess so that a greater thing, not yet present, might be acquired. But he was not like those who look only at what is at their feet; rather, pre-seeing the future as no one else did, he gave heed to all things in succession. Seeing, therefore, the city weakened in its strength by a long siege, and having before his eyes what would surely come to pass—namely, that the besieging Barbarians would possess it in a short time, and that, once taken, they would immediately, with the evil growing in an amazing degree, capture many others—he deemed that letting this one go, so that more might not be caught with it, was no small gain; and in doing this he resembled those who, seized by a violent storm, cast many of their wares into the sea with their own hands and count the loss a gain: not because they delight in the deed, but so that, not wishing to keep all the wares when the time is adverse, they might not lose everything miserably. Wherefore, as he was shown to be great when he had previously received this much-celebrated city, having done so with great expenses, and more toil, and very many dangers; so too then, having given it up, when and to whom it was fitting, and as it could not otherwise have been better given away—for it was no longer possible to save it—and having given it to the Franks, who with magnificent promises pledged that they would assist us throughout in every way.
How deservedly, therefore, is he to be admired, that what was entirely going to fall into the power of the enemies, and those infidels, he entrusted to friends and Christians, and by that very act acquired them as allies for the war against them? For we already had a relationship with these men long ago. Whence, since...
at some point it was necessary for us to seek every kind of aid for our safety from our friends, they provided us no small amount for the sake of generosity and the prevailing situation. For they were not under any obligation to help us by duty, nor had they sworn an oath concerning this, as in the contracts that were made concerning Corinth; and how great the difference is between these two is clear. For A to receive some assistance from those who give by duty is far superior to receiving it from those who give by grace. Thus, he did not so much give the city to these men, as he secured the men themselves by means of it.
But nevertheless, I think it is necessary to point out more clearly how great the evil would have been if the matter had turned out otherwise. For if you remember the times and the circumstances accurately, the city was certainly about to be immediately plundered by the hands of the barbarians. But even if for a few months—by some ruse—the enemies were to save it without damaging anything by fire or sword, that appearance of clemency would have immediately become a present occasion for the neighboring cities to surrender themselves as well. For it was likely that, deceived by such cunning of the barbarians, they would prefer to serve them rather than be captured and devastated. For the fact that Corinth, being their metropolis, had suffered nothing grievous upon being captured, would have justifiably broken their spirits, and at the same time provided much hope that they too would not suffer B anything. For indeed, you would not find it easy to be led by reason, nor would you find it easy to be corrected by the example of those who are not wiser. And if this had indeed occurred, the evil would have certainly advanced to infinity. And so, for all these reasons, he permitted the Franks to take this city for the sake of the safety, most of all, of other towns and cities, but no less for the safety of the city itself that was given on behalf of others. So that, as the saying goes, he snatched it away from the hands of the enemies—who had already anticipated it—by handing it over to the Franks. And if this is beautiful and glorious when considered in itself, especially since it rescued other cities from many dangers, how could it not be most glorious?
Now that they held Corinth, a city strong, beautiful, and great, occupying the Isthmus, on which it was well-built, a desire entered into them to occupy the whole of the Peloponnese in succession. And the plan was a good one—at least, if one were to look at their words—as they affirmed when they revealed their intentions to those in whom they confided. For with sworn oaths, which were abundant, they said they would expend their entire substance, as well as their bodies and their lives, if it were necessary, and in short, that they would perform great things for the glory of Christ if they were to fully undertake the war for the Peloponnese. C And they would have been believed, and deservedly so, even without swearing, for their words did not discord with their own excellence, nor with the reputation concerning them that had spread everywhere, nor, indeed, with the way of life in which they live, think, act, take pride, and are honored—and have been honored and hope to be honored for all time to come. Let no one, therefore, looking at Rhodes and the few triremes there, judge the power of the Franks to be small and feeble. For they are many, and when it pleases them, they are gathered together from the parts of the world which they inhabit, scattered as they are; men, indeed, for whom...
nothing is more urgent than what concerns valor, arms, and nobility. For they hold it much more honorable to die with glory than, by being turned to flight, to delight their enemies with scars upon their backs. A They also possess cities, neither small nor few in number, and that they may be able to spend the greatest sums of money, their treasury is collected from the taxes of these cities, and from the religious munificence of pious men, for the sake of one and the same religion, with these same funds granted as a subsidy for war, of course, against the unfaithful and the impious. These things, when they came together, were for the Rhodians the cause of their seeking the Peloponnese.
But even this, moreover, added spurs to the desire of the Brothers: B namely, that the peoples of the West—Gauls, Spaniards, and Britons, and, to speak in a word, all the princes of the Latins, and the nations subject to them—are not generally moved very easily, but when some very small occasion arises, it easily provokes them; and once aroused, they are subsequently carried away with such impulse that they cannot be held back. Furthermore, when they will to do something, they can do much; and that passing time has clearly demonstrated many times. It occurred, therefore, to the Brothers that many would follow their incitement, and that those who possessed great power would no longer sit in quietness, having given themselves over to hunting, banquets, and various contests of arms, but would desire the rest, to which a greater deed for glory, ancient and long-solemnized by their ancestors, might return after an interval.
They hoped, therefore, and with great confidence were persuaded, that they would rouse a great power from thence, C and that the business they were managing would appear like a spark born to be kindled into a great flame, and to consume the forest, and that the undertaking initiated at Corinth might recoil upon all the unfaithful. These movements of thought, therefore, they could not contain within themselves. But since it was not permitted, and the matter was by no means easy, to use their power to claim the lordship of the Peloponnese against our will, they form a plan to acquire it through ready money, with the consent of that prince and the agreement of his subjects. For the miserable state of our affairs at that time encouraged them to undertake what, had conditions been better, would not even have entered their minds. D It seemed indeed rash that they should declare their counsel by themselves, without any intermediary. But because they thought it was not without danger to explain it through others, they approached the Despot themselves, though not entirely free from fear; and constrained by the uncertainty of the matter, they could scarcely bring themselves to declare the reason for which they had come. They ask, first, that if they should not speak according to his mind, he might grant them pardon, as they were moved by a good intention; then, secondly, that he might keep the matter to be spoken of secret with himself; and thirdly, that he might answer quickly whether he wished the thing to be done or not. When he had agreed to these things, they proceeded immediately; however, not directly and simply, but as if advancing in a winding fashion, they attempted to hunt out his mind, if perhaps he were worn out and discouraged, and might wish to be freed from difficulties and dangers. And to foresee this...
A was not possible for a man adorned with much prudence and endowed with no small experience of affairs, to see whither these things tended. They subsequently disclose the whole matter, unfolding their every problem, and their own desire and judgment: as though they wished to receive the entire principality of the Peloponnese, if he were willing to hand it over to them, and if he were willing to depart easily from the province, to which—since misery was heaped upon misery, and disasters had preceded in a continuous accumulation—he could no longer preside. Having therefore promised a large sum of money, and [asserting] that they would assist his family in every way, and leaving nothing omitted by which they could draw him into their opinion, they finally ask that he declare what appears to be for the common good; and with these words they make an end of speaking. When he replied to them that they would hear from him on the morrow—for it was not becoming that he should answer so inconsiderately—they departed happy, because he had not at the first meeting said that all hope of the matter should be cast away, and that they should not presume upon what was not granted. And yet there is cause here for us to wonder: for it was reasonable that they should rather have taken annoyance at the delays imposed, and that a firm hope of the business being accomplished had not been made immediately.
For since he was then using the most difficult circumstances that had ever occurred, it was altogether certain that they should have trusted that he would most willingly embrace their proposals; yet because, having seized the occasion from the time and the circumstances, they had dared to approach and speak for such things, C thinking the man’s mind to be inflexible and most tolerant, but contentious and harsh, they thought clearly that he would prefer temerity and vain glory to what was honorable and useful. Therefore, they gladly accepted the appointed term, and because they had not immediately heard from him, [they were like those who] seek wings for a wolf. Thus, therefore, with confused minds, doubting about the future end of the matter, they departed. He, moreover, considering their desire and their alacritous minds in the matter to be a huge windfall, gave thanks to Christ who assisted him. Indeed, he greatly desired to hear the words breaking forth from them, hoping by that occasion to be able to deliver you from present evils, and from those things which were causing fear in the immediate future: which, indeed, transpired just so, with divine grace from heaven assisting the endeavor. D Yet because he knew they were desirous of the matter, he did not wish to put it forward, so as not to give them [cause] to boast, as if he himself seemed to have invited [the offer], as we are accustomed to do with those whom we know to desire [something] only casually. Whatever, therefore, was in his prayers, but he had no way to bring about—namely, that those former men should begin from themselves—seeing this happen of its own accord, he attributed that expedition of the business, as was fitting, to providence. Had the matter not succeeded well and according to the heart of the man of blessed memory, I would have been reasonably afraid to use my words so simply as I have used them above; nor would I have been about to speak of his good desire: good, I say, if you consider the time, with which all things are good; nor indeed that that huge offer was to be considered [as such]; which, clearly, the brothers themselves, from
their own accord hastened to fulfill; nor finally, would I have affirmed the economy of providence, had not the difficult undertaking turned out easily. For most men, not considering what anyone did, or why, or in what manner, attend only to the outcomes of events: but because the matter now supports me from its conclusion, I have spoken these words with confidence. It must, however, be said more openly henceforth, and among other things to be narrated, the promise I made regarding the fable must be fulfilled. For it must be clearly explained, for whose sake this matter was established, and how, through this fable, affairs were restored to a better state.
B He saw that whatever was under his rule was weakened by many incursions of misfortune, especially by the invasion of the most impious, which had been drawn out for a long time. On the other hand, he knew that they did not suspect any power in them as much as that of the Latins. For they were not ignorant of their affairs, and that these are branches of a noble and most great root, which, so to speak, occupies all the Western parts. With reason, therefore, he thought it plausible that the infidels would judge—as was consistent with the truth—that such an undertaking would bring a destructive fruit to them, but a useful one to the pious and faithful. Knowing this, the admirable man thought it worth the effort to take on a bad reputation for a time, so that, with glory subsequently accruing from the salvation achieved, he might become famous having been established in dangers. Therefore, he summons the Rhodians; he speaks what they greatly desired, having composed the beginning and the end of his speech according to their will. They hear him gladly, and straightway hurry to the agreements; they complete C them, return with the speed of birds, and report the deed to their superiors. They, for their part, boarding great ships, fly quickly into the Peloponnese; and—to pass over the things that happened in between—they receive some cities under due oaths and a portion of money paid down; a very necessary precaution, so that they might not only possess [them], but also in some way be possessed [by them]; and so that, by the possession, either an injury might be seen as being inflicted, or that they might inflict none at all. Thus far, however, the matter proceeded: for so it had seemed to the author of the fable.
D When the fame had spread everywhere, much rumor was sown, and many words were tossed about by those ignorant of the fable, truth being hidden by arrangement. Wherefore no one could justly reproach them, that many, looking only at what was seen, and not seeing what was hidden, happened to be offended. But if there were those who seemed to offer resistance and to stir up crowds, they were driven entirely by a will averse to strangers, and an excessive love for their own savior and despot, and naught else. For no one was so much a boy or so stunned of mind, as not to seek him as leader, and to decline the rule of all others in his place. And this, clearly, with reason. And when the brother knew this, he was angry with no one: for he was gentle, even toward those who...
had offended in whatever manner. And he immediately granted pardon to those who asked, for he was a man of philanthropy. B Others, indeed, of those who did not know the facts of the drama, thought differently, and many believed that their own destruction would be the outcome of what was happening. But he was of good courage, and hoped greatly that every terrible thing would promptly turn in the opposite direction. For he believed that the satrap, once he learned that the Latins were in danger of becoming masters of the Peloponnese, would be overcome by great fear and would immediately arrive at terms of peace. And this, not out of any true intent—for what has he in common with truth?—but because he would much rather have the land of Pelops under our rule than be ensnared by the claws and reach of the Latins. The cause of this was not that the man had easily changed his nature or that he had deliberated and become persuaded, being a lover of tranquility—for I shall say again that there was nothing in common between him and any good thing—but rather [his fear] lest the neighboring cities inflict some harm upon the Peloponnese from the Franks, who were more powerful than we are. For they are like streams of perennial and greatest rivers—I mean all the Western nations, from which these people have sprung. C This to the brother, who knew it well, gave the confidence that the drama would turn out for the good. For it was not possible for that serpent to be unaware of what was happening at that time, nor, once having known it, for him to remain entirely unmoved and merely look on as these things reached their end. Thus he was hoping, and thus it turned out. For when the man learned of the situation—he who would not even receive letters from you, nor speech, nor anything else calling for peace—he was altogether changed, and sent an embassy from Asia to Sparta itself to my brother, bringing instructions for the making of peace and a long petition for the amending of what had occurred. And this is exactly what happened; and having happened, the Despot shone for you more brightly than at any time in the past, in that he had foreseen the matter and managed it so; and the drama began to be celebrated, as well as the wisdom of the one who had brought it about; and that he had neither lost the dignity appropriate to his person, nor uttered even a word that might reveal bitterness by even the slightest sign, so as to offend anyone for any reason whatsoever. D And the Despot was rejoicing with his subjects who were rejoicing; it was a most pleasant sight to behold. For though he was already much loved and admired from before, at that time he was loved and admired with an extraordinary addition. And the wonder was sung, and all rendered love back to him in return. And deservedly so. For those to whom not long before their very life was not sufficiently secure, had suddenly turned out to be happy; and this naturally makes things that are sweet in themselves seem sweeter than many others. Who, then, would not value as a thing full of miracle and pleasure that work which was done for the sake of your salvation, when you saw that the very same things which you thought would place your affairs in a worse state, had in fact made them far better? For you desired peace as much as possible, yet you hoped for it as little as possible; yet you have obtained a very deep peace, and one far better than before, with the addition of no small glory, in that he who could not even bear the sight of anyone from among you if they came to him on behalf of peace, has now sent ambassadors to you. You know those whom
A you have sent, maltreated in word and deed, to a man who is insolent. The deed, therefore, with God’s help, has reached a good conclusion; and that which we prayed for has come to pass. And he who has performed the deed well, as a savior might be termed and named by those saved by him, so too might he reasonably be honored by them after God, and receive the greatest honors that could ever be or be thought of among men.
Someone might bring forward against us the mask and the stage-play. B Yet not so, for anyone who possesses reason, or knows how to judge rightly, looking not simply at the actions, but at the intent of the one acting; and, in general, at those means by which the end could be shown to be good or not good—if one must express it briefly. For it is not the case that what has escaped the notice of some while it was being done is immediately to be blamed; no, it is possible for a good thing to be concealed, even from those most beloved, when it is necessary for it to be so. For just as I think that nothing is good—even things testified to as being the greatest goods—if it is not done well, as they say; C so also are all things good, if one might grasp them with a good mind, should one look to the intent of the matter. And I say this regarding friends; for regarding enemies, what need is there even to speak, whom if someone, having deceived them, routs by the laws of war, is he not praised more than if he had openly defeated them? For in the former way, the victory is attained by the general without loss, while in the latter, there is a necessity of losing many of one’s own men. And history and poetry bear witness for me in this regard, and Holy Scripture and the writings of orators and philosophers are full of such D things. That even toward those who are not enemies one might choose to do such a thing, this whole life of ours confirms. For so too do physicians, and all those whose work it is to provide aid, often act, by doing what is beneficial in every way; and one might find, if one searched, that not a few of the best men have assumed masks, so that those whom they have not wrongly deceived, but who are indeed friends, might be rescued from the greatest and most evident evils, and might perhaps even attain to good things, without having to experience terrible ones.
Yet, one might see many good and sensible men counseling others to act in such a way, as it is necessary; and [one might see them] admiring others who have acted in such a way, so much so as even to commit the deeds to writing. Since, therefore, these things are so, and we possess many of both the more recent and the ancient ones, in many ways supporting this matter, it is manifest that this our drama, having been most excellently conceived, most excellently performed, and having resulted most excellently, should not only not reasonably receive any blame, but rather the greatest of praises. For it benefited you, it harmed the enemies, and it caused no loss to the friends. I hesitate to say that they even profited somewhat—those who themselves were the ones who made the expenditures for the soldiers, the triremes, and everything else they wished—and they themselves, in turn, calculating these expenses as they had desired, just as we
A gave them back, making no account of any display of pusillanimity. Now all these things, far from bringing any blame, redound to the greatest glory for the one who acted in the interest of the common good. And yet, this entire calculation of his does not, in truth, even appear to resemble a stage play. For he was indeed very hopeful that this excellent plan he had conceived would turn out as he intended, just as it did come to pass and brought some benefit.
Nevertheless, fearing the future—for it is unseen—and the frenzy of the enemy—for it was terrible against us—he also took thought for a secondary possibility. This was the second course: that if he should fail in his primary objective, and could neither soften that hardened soul with blandishments nor terrify it with pretense, having the Friars near at hand and expecting the arrival of the Latins on their account, then at that point, as they say, to set sail on a second voyage and do the following. To assemble all those who possessed wisdom and, having removed every veil and set aside all artifice, to disclose sincerely and clearly his purpose from the beginning: that everything had been done so that they might not be separated from those they loved, demonstrating the failure of the attempt and how no hope remained of reconcilement with the man. Then, to stir up their spirit with all the words and ways as far as he was able; to counsel them to be unwilling in any way to betray themselves to the infidels, who happened to be completely opposed to us in customs, dogmas, laws, and everything else; but that before such a great evil, they should be willing to devise, to act, and to suffer everything; to promise them that he would die with them, provided they did not throw down their arms, but rather strove with a brave spirit to defend themselves, so that they might die with glory or set up a trophy of victory over their enemies. B And if he should be so persuasive that he could bring them over to his own opinion, he would push the matter no further, but be intent only on this: how he might send off the Rhodians as graciously as possible. But if, after having done and said what fell to him, he perceived that they were struggling in vain, as they say, "raking fire and sowing rocks," then truly to grant them permission to do something for their own salvation, once they were unequal to the evil and could no longer resist; and to advise them that, since the intense evil and the weakness of their strength compelled them to seek those who could help them, the hope of providing such aid was set more in the Friars, who had come on that very mission, than in any other mortals. For in this way, it was in all respects more advantageous.
Therefore, I spoke rightly when I said that the matter did not entirely resemble a stage play. For how could it strictly be the work of one calculating with deceit, when the affair was balanced in every way, such that it might come to pass and it might not? Since the peace depended on the decision of Bayezid, who had shown himself most inhumane in all preceding times, it was not unlikely that the godless one would remain in his former contentiousness, telling it to fare well with what was expected; and if he remained in exercising his will and his nature, it was likely that the hopes of the Friars, in which they had been moved to come from home, would once again reach their end; since it has been shown, I think, that for the needs of the Peloponnese—which is not able to be saved by itself—the Friars were before all others C D
B But, I say, it is better now to look at what does the least harm. Neither, therefore, on account of the drama, nor of the cause for which there was a drama, could anyone justly blame C him; so that he did not even fail in what he desired, if he was disappointed in his good hope. For as if already summing up, having gathered together what has been said before regarding these matters, I would gladly ask anyone who knows the state of affairs at that time and possesses a moderate share of intelligence, what he should have done, or what counsel he should have given to his own people, after having performed all that was required well, yet being able to accomplish nothing, when the enemy possessed great power, D and at the same time much malice and sorcery, and when all the Illyrians, Mysians, and Triballians had already been conquered, and the great army, I mean those collected from the Paeonians, Celts, and Western Galatians, had been struck down at Nicopolis—whose mere names all the barbarians dreaded—and when his allies were not experiencing good fortune, but some had been defeated with the worst luck both on land and at sea; and to me it seemed that things had reached the extreme of evils through such a confluence of misfortunes, and this over no small period of time.
"It was necessary," some might say, "to consult for his people, and by every means to persuade them willingly to embrace death for piety and glory, with him being the first to show readiness for this." Excellent, indeed. For what else had he been doing all the time that had already passed, as long as it was permitted to him both to advise and to do what seemed best? "But," they say, "he ought to have used flattery, and promised great things with excellent management." And how could he have used counsel otherwise? "Granted," they say, "but he ought to have been more burdensome to them, and, as I say, to have pressed them harder, occasionally even berating them, adding threats, reproaching, shouting, and doing all such things with great excess." But he knew that these actions would be entirely harmful and would not profit in the least. For which reason he refrained from applying a harsher remedy to wounds that were then inflamed and swollen with ill humors, having often previously applied it beneficially and with marvelous skill. What then, my good man, by God, has he left undone of the things that ought to have been done? Do you think it best for them to yield to the yoke of the infidels? But he considered this the worst of all, and completely out of harmony with his own virtue and status. But to accept Christian rule, which was about to agree better with their customs and would suffice for their help, was by far the best. For since evils abounded, and it was not possible for him to persuade them or force them to imitate their ancestors, one of two things remained: either to submit to the rule of the Turks, or, as we were saying, to the rule of the Christians. It seemed, therefore, in every way better to prefer the Friars.
A For since evils were pressing, the lesser B evil is the better, according to the common adage. Thus the lighter choice was taken, and this with great benevolence and a heart full of goodness. For he wished to allow those who desired to accept that aforementioned rule, neither becoming angry nor failing to shed tears from his eyes, both at the separation from his loved ones and at his inability to protect them while running risks on their behalf. This is what happens to parents also, when they send their dearest pledges into a foreign land, since safety cannot be secured unless they are separated from one another. But if they chose the better course—that is, to wage war against the barbarians, holding out the good hope that they would either conquer through the alliance of God, or, for the sake of liberty and glory, undergo all difficulties—he would praise their resolve, and encourage them as best he could, promising to die with them, and would do this very readily, considering himself as following them.
Who, therefore, having such a disposition—whether regarding himself, his own people, his friends, or everyone—could have provided a just cause for accusers? Who so prompt to calumny as to be able to slander him in the usual way? What excess of insolence, what reckless and shameless person would not be easily confounded by such abundantly glorious deeds? How could such obstinate and insolent people not be struck dumb? What mouth, having nothing else to do than to rave against everyone in turn, casting aside all shame, would not be blocked? Or rather, what mouth, what slanderous tongue, would not be converted into blessing and praise? For were not all things done by this man with the accompaniment of prudence, goodness of character, and political science? He plainly strove as long as the ship was able to obey the rudders; nor, when the storm took hold, did he depart from them, omitting nothing of a worthy captain—speaking, counseling, warning, lifting up those who were faint-hearted, rousing the sleeping, commanding those who were intent, provoking all to the urgency of the work by his precept, himself acting and providing so that the ship, tossed by the adverse wind and storm, might escape the danger of imminent shipwreck.
D Pursuing these things, therefore, beyond the expectation of all, for a very long time he averted the evils; but when, afterwards, the winds raged with fury and the sea grew fiercer, and some of the equipment was damaged and others were shattered, and the ship, so to speak, was breaking its bridle and all but crying out that it must sink immediately unless fortune changed—he, nevertheless, although the situation was more exasperated and becoming more severe than he himself, persisted in providing, and opposing his own all-surpassing virtue to the difficulties, he attempted to save the ship and bring it to harbor, as it were, into the serenity of peace. Though he barely failed to cast away all hope of peace. For there was not one who did not know the nature of the enemy, and what…
A ferocity and other things incited him to the pursuit of arms.
The enemy then was indeed such, and his intentions were of that same kind; evil, that is to say, both in his actions and in his designs. Yet the Despot, though he knew these things well, and was aware that the enemy would persist in his innate savagery unless some necessity imposed from without removed all hope of inflicting harm, was nevertheless not despondent, but sought terms of peace with him. For he deemed it incumbent upon himself to omit nothing that lay in his power, nor to neglect any artifice whatsoever that might lead to peace. B Since it was therefore so resolved, embassies were frequent, as well as everything that might naturally tend toward reconciliation. The satrap, however, was acting exactly according to his own nature, and no hope remained that the mind of the beast would ever turn to anything better. But Theodorus, by virtue of that prudence with which he was filled, discovered a way to force the man into the necessity of desiring peace. And pray, what was this method? It was, in fact, the pacts entered into with the Rhodians, and their arrival here. He drove the Barbarian to such a point that he finally lowered his puffed-up, haughty brow, and, departing from his former designs, sought to make a covenant with you, preferring even to achieve the matter by pressing on, as they say, against the current. That was the primary reason for the arrival of the brethren. For the fact that you would have them prepared for your safety and aid, should that effort for peace not succeed according to the Despot’s wish, was truly a secondary point, and the last resort of desperation.
C I seem, nevertheless, to be not sufficiently precise in my choice of words, when I call them auxiliaries and saviors. For while it is true that they were to be preferred to the infidels, and the rule of the Latins was held to be better than their dominion—a conclusion clear from every comparison—still, there is a great difference between the two; yet they could not be called saviors and auxiliaries in the absolute sense, if, in delivering you from the yoke of the infidels, they were in turn to subjugate you against your will under their own. It was a good thing, indeed a very good thing, that the monstrous beast should be restrained from swallowing, as he intended, the whole of the Peloponnesus in succession; D yet because he provided a harvest of tears in a different way, it was neither a matter of pure aid, nor was it, absolutely speaking, the help that it might have been. For a remedy is not, I think, to be judged entirely good if it delivers the body from one ailment only to introduce another, which, though lighter than the former, nevertheless afflicts the body. And this also makes it plain. For if the matter were absolutely good—I mean, the fact of their ruling you—we would have chosen it long ago, and we would have willingly yielded the throne of our own rule to them, even if no condition of affairs had forced us to do so. For we have never judged our ruling you to be more important than your own advantage; such is the high regard we have for you. But what was done was clearly a matter of necessity, and once that was resolved, the whole business immediately became useless. Wherefore you preferred...
A to remain, as you are accustomed to do, in those things which are noble, crowned as perhaps you have never been before, with the divine favor assisting you. But enough on these matters.
Yet I shall not pass over in silence that advice which was given at that time concerning the Latins to the indigenous people of the Peloponnese; it was fitting that it be spoken only by the one who devised it. For it had something deeper and more artful, as can be learned from the outcome of the events themselves. For it does not resemble that counsel devised by Agamemnon at Ilium, by means of which he desired to strengthen the camp for endurance and courage when they were suffering hardships from the long war and the scarcity of provisions; B instead, he cast into them such a desire for their homes, their fatherland, and the most precious things they possessed, that the intention clearly turned to the opposite for him, and everyone ran to the ships, casting aside their ambition and spirit, and provided much repentance for the architect of that plan. But this more recent plan is truly unlike the older one, and the difference between the two is neither small nor regarding trivial matters. For that former one needed the wisdom of Odysseus, and indeed his hand as well; for he even stretched out that man's scepter against some to prevent them from launching the ships and sailing away as quickly as possible; but the good one went entirely in a good direction and ended; and its success is shown by the fact that the Peloponnese was saved through it. For with the most accurate knowledge, he expelled from the minds of some the corruption that had settled there, exacerbated by certain external evils. C For the very fact that he spoke such things, and that they seemed almost to be enslaved to others to whom they were far superior, became a kind of goad for them toward desiring the things that were necessary, and it immediately renewed in a way the love for him. And rightly so. For when nobility, having become exhausted, inclines toward something baser—and many such things can happen among humans—it often runs toward that; but having come near to committing it, it hates the shame, recoils, and takes up the impulse toward the good with greater fervor, and the previous intensity returns with much addition; and turning back in that course, it seeks to find it with greater eagerness, and once found, it clings to it tenaciously. And it has clearly happened here as well.
For immediately upon hearing of what seemed as if it might happen, even if it was not going to, D the torch of love for him was kindled in them, as if from some spark hidden by abundant ashes by the accidents of time; and the desire for glory began to be agitated more nobly, and that gadfly of love for the Despot began to grow strong, which time, darkening all things, had rendered as if exhausted and obsolete. The Peloponnese would therefore have been like something defective if it were seen to be willing to receive other masters in his place. But they began to declare war openly against the Rhodians, and by common conspiracy a decree, confirmed by oaths, flowed forth...
A that for the sake of necessity, not only was the work to be admired, its fame running everywhere, but the one who was the author from the beginning and who had brought it all to a successful conclusion was especially praised. Returning, therefore, to Sparta from Monemvasia, he persuaded both the Romans and the Rhodians, who were occupying certain cities in the Peloponnese, not to struggle against one another for the time being. For he knew that this would end in a good outcome for him, just as indeed it ultimately did.
And so, a truce having been granted for the war between them, he himself attended to the matters of the war against the Persians, hoping for assistance from God, yet also welcoming death willingly, as a cause of salvation for souls and of immortal glory. "Let them fight as those about to die, and they shall not die," the Spartans once wrote to their own. This motto, sounding in his ears and which he approved, he proved true by his actions. For he had not yet reached Sparta when envoys sent by the satrap came in haste to Lacedaemon, made peace, promised many things, and demanded nothing in return B other than that the Fratres should return to their own province.
And indeed, the strongest of treaties having been made—as strong as it is permitted to speak of treaties with the Barbarians—that war was completed for you with no small glory. And things that had been as if dead began to put on new life, and things that had withered began to bloom again, and things that had been brought low to flourish once more; and in a short while the whole Peloponnese was adorned with much beauty and became full. Wherefore, the architect of such things, far from appearing to be free of blame, is worthy of the greatest praise C at such a judgment, not only by men of sound mind, but also by the choirs of angels, and by God, by whose nod the whole matter was arranged. For that he should have formed such a plan, and carried it out well to the end, and been able to finish it, was without a doubt the work of someone to whom divine assistance from heaven was abundantly supplied. But although difficult things first came upon him for a considerable time with intensity, even this was a proof of God’s benevolence toward the man. For God did not wish his virtue, than which nothing is more precious, to remain unrewarded and unmanifested; but being able to cast off the evil at once, He permitted D
it to be tightened and to increase, and granted courage to the athlete, so that he might prevail and be crowned. A This athlete, then, with whom you too struggled, just as limbs with a head, happened upon two things at once, either one of which one might have gladly reached; for each is splendid, and the facts themselves make this plain. For the satrap who was an enemy, having laid aside his wildness in part, endeavored to show himself gentle (for he had put on a sheepskin, while being a wolf in plain sight), and the whole Peloponnese took on a certain extraordinary glory, as if it were a brilliant tunic—not only on account of all the previous things, but also on account of the very impulse and resolve for the war against the Persians, in whom the strength of power was strongly flourishing. All B may therefore justifiably admire both the head and the limbs—I mean you and him—on account of all things from the beginning to the end, if I must speak concisely.
So be it. But since it was absolutely necessary that the cities still held by the Rhodians be recovered for the Roman Empire, and since this has also been accomplished—with the matter so soundly arranged that their friendship toward us was not lessened, and they granted us to reclaim the cities, and after this, to surrender the citadels voluntarily—whom could one then praise? A man so prudent, so just, so brave, so unyielding to pleasures, not given to sloth, so constant in labors and dangers, so skillful in all things, and wholly replete with many goods alongside great modesty; who considered nothing sweet for his own pleasure except C that which he knew to be for the common good, as the whole discourse completed has declared, and as experience itself has clearly shown—what tongue, what voice, what mind or prudence would be enough to praise him, even if all commentaries and poets were to come together at once, and all the Nestors and Odysseuses, and Antenores, and all the choruses of orators, and Pythagorases, and Platos, and all those like them? These deeds themselves, I think, will suffice well for his glory.
But if he also requires a memorial stone and an inscription, he himself erected and fixed one for himself, carving and polishing it with great industry, better than the art of Phidias; I mean this Peloponnese. And let no one think, D as some are said to have told King Alexander, that he had fashioned everything above to his likeness, in a form befitting so great a king—for that is impossible—but I speak of a Peloponnese that is ensouled and rational; I mean you, the upright assembly, who, like a statue, preserve at all times for his celebrity of name an excellent honesty of morals. For those for whom the science of political virtue and the fellowship of proven morals have had him as a shaper, and trainer, and teacher of the best things, they are plainly, as one singular inscription, many gathered, whom he has polished and cultivated to one immense beauty.
A Since such is the man, I would be doing a wrong both to him and to the virtue itself with which he was adorned, if I were to compare him with the men of the present age. I do not speak of those who gave him birth, but as Homer says, "after the blameless son of Peleus." Therefore, he should be compared with those ancients, and with those among the old to whom all men might wish the rewards of virtue to be accorded. I consider these to be the men who, for the sake of displaying their virtue, undertook that long voyage and all the grave events that followed, and who, being themselves the authors of no injustice, laid waste to Ilium. Furthermore, we think it should be given no reproach if we compare our brother with those most excellent men. For their deeds were truly glorious, to the extent that they deserved to have Homer as their panegyrist. For this reason, the admiration for them remains vigorous even to this day. But our own deeds are of a like nature; for the possessions of brothers are common. If one were to compare each of the glorious deeds of one with those of the other, one could not say that he has been bested. And indeed, let us submit the man to an examination, so that we may not seem to some to be using hyperbole, as if out of favor to a brother; but we shall arrange the comparison having collected as much as possible. Our speech will not be about piety, for in relation to it, I think it is not even fitting to compare the virtues; since they are not truly virtues if that is not their root. C Agamemnon was a king, a shaper of a most numerous people, great-hearted, magnificent, and steadfast. The son of Peleus, Achilles, was courageous as none other, swift of foot, fair in form, of a brilliant lineage, a lover of honor, and one who preferred to live a shorter time with glory than a longer time without it. Protesilaus, a man for the sake of glorious renown, holding death itself in contempt, took it as a friend and, by his own death, caused the Greeks to be victorious over the barbarians. Nestor, Ulysses, and others after them were possessed of much prudence and were adorned with the power of persuasion. The son of Tydeus D took great pride in his spear; Ajax in his strength and the greatness of his body; Teucer in his archery. And in turn, others of these seemed to be far better in other various advantages among the Trojans; and indeed Hector in nobility of spirit, and Antenor in rhetoric. And among the allies, many other brilliant men also appeared in horsemanship and in many other advantages and for other reasons. Many of these, because of their overflowing virtue, were called demigods, although they were full of passions. Yet I must speak of what is better regarding them. For I am not now speaking of sordid gain, narrow-mindedness, love of pleasure, and, in summary, all those passions which one might find, if one searched, scattered and sown among them; and this does not contradict my speech, even if I attribute vice to those men who are admired for their virtue. For each one is not good absolutely and simply, as those who have truly received this appellation; but only in regard to those things in which they are truly so, and for the most part. And so, some of them excel others in some quality of virtue, or perhaps in two of the more general ones, but others in possessing more of them: for certainly a heap of many virtues is better, as one might conclude
A than the few but more perfect ones, or at any rate not inferior. For since it is impossible for anyone to surpass all men in all respects (for Achilles was certainly inferior to Nestor, and Nestor to Achilles; the one in experience and prudence, the other in arms and courage, and in general each of the aforementioned men was surpassed in some respects, while surpassing in others, by one excellence or another), if he who is being lauded by us should seem, upon comparing one or another virtue, to be inferior to those admirable men, yet if he surpasses them all in succession, or the many in the majority of virtues, I think that the fact that he has brought forward many such virtues, both numerous and of every kind—I will add also by his avoidance of evils, in which he outstrips them—will grant him the status of an admirable man, and he will not be left short of it. For if we wish precisely to compare men who have gained a good reputation from their character, we must calculate not only the qualities of the virtues within them, but also their number. And even if in some cases the superior virtues are present, while in others many are present, we must set this multitude against the magnitude and qualities of those superior, yet fewer, advantages. For indeed, many drachmae, if one brings them to a scale, might certainly be equal in weight to a talent; and a talent of gold, although it surpasses all other metals in the preciousness of its material, might become of less value to those wishing to grow wealthy than a large amount of silver. Since, therefore, these things are so, I consider it far more just that he who has surpassed others in many advantages should be preferred to them, rather than that the whole band of the rest should outshine him, just because each of them shone B more in a few virtues, or perhaps in one of the higher ones, and that while being entangled in strange passions.
However, one must also remember this. For the time then, which was fertile in heroes, incited men studious of virtue with much ardor to display their own nobility, since they looked toward those who had been crowned through it as athletes, and the great honor with which they were endowed. This, however, in our own age, does not occur at all. For when that C contention for honor has perished in the majority, then sweet things are everywhere preferred to honorable ones. And so, if anyone considers both times, and the men held in admiration within them, and the deeds done by them, and also the things that encourage virtue, he will admire this man more, having appeared as such, than if he were looking at the others, who received from the virtue of others a stimulus. For he who does not have many rivals with him in the demonstration of virtue becomes in some way more listless toward laboring for the sake of glory; and a good thing, the more rare it is, the more it is everywhere a matter of admiration.
Therefore, from these reasonings, I think it right D and necessary to conclude also that he should not be thought inferior or secondary to any of those men; for let me use a more moderate expression out of reverence for the ancients.
of the most noble A men; he who is already being compared to them. For what was divided among them, this in my own kinsman has come together as if by agreement and has been established. But what is the utility of comparing the virtue of one man against many and diverse and such men? For when, as the saying goes, even for the son of Alcmena it was not a light matter to fight against two, how great does he show the Despot to be who competes against so many and such great rivals? I shall not yield the first place to those B who were long ago admired by all, neither to barbarians, nor to Greeks; nor indeed to the best among them, nor to any at all of them.
However, although I employ such superlatives on behalf of my brother, let it be also for my own sake: for we were both joined in a kind of greatest possible unity, in prosperous things and in calamitous ones, in joys and in sorrows, in the victories of others and in our own, in every vicissitude of fortune, and in as much as fraternal kinship, being in itself indivisible, is naturally inclined to be united and intertwined even more, so that it might appear more united and stronger in itself; nonetheless, I shall not seem boastful, nor shall I provide any suspicion that I am being carried beyond what is proper, since I speak what is true and known. For this reason, I neither considered the comparisons C to be feared, nor shall I so consider them. But with what reason, I shall show immediately. Yet, out of reverence for prophecy, and because of the multitude of signs, I will pass over all who drove the chariot of Israel; but I will mention in addition to those already spoken of, Cyrus, Alexander, Pyrrhus the Epirot, and Agesilaus, who reigned here, and who, having appeared great in his deeds, has been justly called "the Great"; for he was no small man. All these, indeed, and those who achieved great things in Rome, and wherever in the world, being good and born of good stock, by genuinely attaining to virtue, like ever-living trees, have left us an unfading memory of themselves. But those men accomplished everything D while their bodies were healthy and capable of serving the desires and movements of the soul. But he accomplished these admirable things not only when he possessed a healthy body, but also after he was afflicted by the worst disease; which, as soon as it appeared, dreadfully attacked his whole body, and traversing it frequently, after no long time—oh, how can I bear to say it!—laid him upon his bed. But one must diligently consider how great a specimen of bravery and of a noble spirit it is to be fettered by disease for so long a time, while it was tearing every limb like a dog's teeth, and yet to perform all customary duties as if nothing were hindering him. For every noble man is simply great; but when, with many evils attacking him from without, those from within also rise up against him, such a man will astound you, even if he overcomes one side, let alone both.
Yet I believe that our Theodore has achieved things no less than those of Hercules, if indeed his deeds are not merely fable. For the latter finished many labors, and such as to be praised throughout the whole world; yet he finished the best of them.
A And yet, he did not sink into decay in old age, nor did he struggle with a disease like Theodore, who was far more troublesome than the Hydra. And what is much more terrible is that, although this man compared now to this Hercules had many Iolaises, he nevertheless had no one to help him in the contest up to this point. Why? Because the very nature of the matter made it impossible. For how could anyone have become a sharer of his disease by choice? Or how, if he had become ill—even if his intention had followed this path—could he have relieved him of the disease, or at least provided him with some comfort for a time?
Such a one appearing, he was admired by all, being the pride of his lineage—or, if you wish, of the common human race—but by no one, though he performed wondrous deeds that no other did. And rightly so. For it is indeed a great thing to become such a man, and one capable of providing astonishment to those who have experienced his nature; but I do not believe it is right to admire the one who appeared superior to others by surpassing this one in this thing, and that one in another, and, in short, all of them in turn. For doing what is one’s own does not give the observers cause to be astonished; B where it is right to admire someone performing wondrous deeds, is when one knows well his pedigree, and whence he sprang, and how he was reared, and with what deeds and studies he well alternated the ages of his life. For it was fitting that he should have gathered all good things together by means of the greatest natural talent and a zeal that overcame all toils; not only things from his mother and those who brought her forth—whom she brought into the world as the best of men—but also those of his father and those from whom his own lineage was descended, so as not to lack anything of their virtue, nor to appear in any way second to the courage and nobility of his father, who obscured his brilliant parents no less by his virtue than by the form which the purple, and the diadem, and the scepter adorned. C But he surpassed all those who were admired for their endurance with great abundance when, alas! the disease descended upon his whole body; and he was an unceasing wrestler, just as, indeed, you are, his son, until old age and death, as if envying the prosperity of the Romans.
But having arrived at this point in my speech, I cease narrating his deeds; not because I lack things to say, but because I lack the time and the occasion for speaking, as I am forced to turn to mourning and to recount such things as will fill both myself and you with many tears. For I am proceeding to speak of the most burdensome things, of which the man whom we are now mourning had much experience from his companion, the disease, from the time, so to speak, when he passed the first years of his adolescence. D This disease, O dearest one, showed you to be by far more admirable, consuming your most beloved head over a long period.
A It made you more illustrious than your lineage and dignity, and the grace diffused throughout your body, and that multitude of benefactions which is praised in every part of the earth; and, if we may be permitted to say so, it rendered you more patient even than that Job, the man truly blessed for the endurance he exhibited above all others, when his body was dreadfully sliced apart. He was first admired for his overflowing wealth and for his excellent deeds, but much more so afterward when he had lost these, and endured calamities courageously as no one else had. For, sitting upon a dunghill, he completed a bitter and long course from many quarters, as if he did not bear a body, but were an image painted in colors, or a statue of bronze, or iron, or some adamant B—and it is more fitting to say: "then, because of its form, inscribed as a man." He shone, therefore, more brightly because of his afflictions than because of that countless generosity of his and his other good deeds; and with the lightning of his soul he extinguished all the radiance of gold, and showed that transparent and precious stones were as nothing. Let these things be said by us in passing concerning him.
But it was useful for those inspired by God to speak, who also call you "iron" for an endurance that surpassed all the brave men who have ever existed. For it was surely necessary, O best of all men, for you to have possessed the tongue of those men, and then your case would surely have appeared well, whereas now it is disadvantaged by that man, having my tongue to praise it—a tongue weak and earthly—while he possessed a heavenly and powerful one. C But these men will praise you before God, with the angels applauding and the chorus of the blessed wondering at the spectacle; as for us, let this be an encomium for you in another manner: that, desiring greatly to show you as you were, both in character and in tolerance of evils, not only are we unable to attain your good qualities, but we cannot even approach near to them, or at least keep pace with them in any moderate degree. Let us hold to our goal, placing you alongside the statue of patience; for there is no envy in good things.
Sane, you yourself did not utter a word that contained murmuring. And why do I say murmuring? When you actually gave most abundant thanks to Him by whose nod the disease D encroached. And if I do not seem to be out of my mind, driven by my intense love for you, I would assert that you knew how to give thanks to Providence more purely than that man. For a piety of an extraordinary kind prevailed in you. But as your limbs were dying—oh, how shall I sustain this discourse?—and your joints were afflicted, you appeared stronger than a statue, although your body, unequal to the ills, as one composed of dust, was being consumed. That part indeed was conquered against its will; but your soul, which cannot be compelled, was in no way harmed by the disease. How could it be? For it was even becoming more illustrious, just as if gold were being turned in the fire. It was not, in fact, slipping away or being affected; yet it voluntarily endured the evils, nor was it [misled].
A For to suffer something involuntarily, but to bear it willingly for the sake of piety, does not merely result in lesser rewards, but in rewards strictly greater than if one had chosen and voluntarily endured a calamity of evils. Such things, then, befell you, and your very limbs were the loss. Yet that thrice-great and truly blessed man, Job, was in no way deprived of his limbs, nor did any of them remain useless, wasted away by the disease, even though his whole body was eaten through by a swarm of worms and by the density of his wounds. B You, therefore, dearest one, did not wrestle with lighter pains than those that consumed his body; rather, you were worn down by them for a longer time than he was. But to those pains of yours was added this: that, as they were at their most acute, there loomed the care of the commonwealth, which you, a most illustrious man, did not neglect. Wherefore, as I was saying, you shone forth more bravely than a statue. Yet a statue could never be said to bear anything great or small, since it lacks sensation; you, however, reared with royal care and then advanced through the ages, have borne the troubles of disease with a gentleness that I think no one in the world has ever possessed. For, being mortal, you judged it best of all to bear with a great spirit those things that are prepared to attack mortals.
Since you had thus shone forth as brave in all your deeds, when your limbs were later undone, you were revealed to be far braver and more enduring. C For, although you handled weapons with your hand most skillfully when you were in good bodily health, and your feet vied in speed with those of deer—yet these things are not yours alone; but the way in which you bore the loss of them, so that you could not bear to utter even a bitter word—this indeed is entirely your own, and belongs to none of those who are praised for their patience.
Furthermore, even under the furious impression and violence of the disease, when the force of the pains was at its most intense, you bore them as if you were not clothed in flesh. D For instead of fleeing, or crying out, or railing against life, or cursing fortune, or hiding yourself in a dark room and groaning while covered in your bedding—which someone dealing with far lighter pains would undoubtedly have suffered—you instead kept the doors of your house open to everyone. And you persevered in doing things that, even to a healthy person, might seem to invite some sort of disease. And what is more, you applied yourself not only to urgent and important matters, but also to those which anyone, having received your permission, might easily arrange; you had such zeal in everything. Moreover, this was exceptionally clear: that when you had given the common people access to yourself for their humbler business, you did not subsequently conduct such matters negligently or half-heartedly; nay, rather, knowing that even the very smallest things were great to those in need, you did not dismiss those requiring help, no matter who they were, until...
you had provided them with whatever was considered sufficient for their relief—neglecting, perhaps, food and banishing sleep from your eyes, and, in general, scorning all bodily comforts, just as if you were healthy and vigorous and capable of jumping and striving for the greatest of goals. A And that was precisely what caused such astonishment: although even the physicians were crying out that you were clearly doing violence to yourself, and that you ought not to set aside all necessary bodily comforts, you were none the less intent upon your work. For you lent a more ready ear to the injustices suffered by your patients than to those who were advising you to look to your own health. You had, so to speak, cast aside even the medical remedies that might have benefited your own hands, for you were striving on behalf of justice. For you considered this—rightly thinking so—to be an auspicious medicine for the soul, which you did not deem worthy of being harmed for the sake of the body. B You were, therefore, unconquerable in the most terrible circumstances, and you did not allow the superior part of you to be tyrannized by the inferior. O you athlete, O firm heart, O diamond in your resolve, O iron in your strength, if anyone were to look upon your readiness and natural choice of will, he would not look upon the infirmities of the body, to which it was necessary for it to yield—a composite and mortal thing. Rather, if one were to look even at these, he would marvel all the more at your nobility. For you endured the intolerable as if another were suffering them, or as if you were seeing these things in a dream. C And indeed, since many of your intimates stood around you—those by whose hands your suffering body was tended, when your failing limbs could no longer perform their office—as soon as they perceived the intensity of your pains (for you did not show them, knowing that it would greatly grieve those who loved you dearly), they were unable to provide the necessary services without shedding tears; but beating their breasts with their hands and bathed in a flood of tears, they watered the floor—and this was done in silence, so that they might not grieve you against their will, sensing that they were grieving on your account. For it is natural for one who loves to rejoice with friends who are rejoicing, and to suffer with them when they are pained. But since these things did not escape your notice—indeed, how could they?—you gave yourself no relief until you had sent them away in good spirits. For you thought it a terrible thing, a terrible thing if, while you were the one suffering through illness, they should suffer along with you because of their concern, and yet you, loving them so dearly, would allow them to suffer on your behalf. For this reason, while the intolerable pains were gripping you, you yourself, smiling gently with your innate dignity and with words sweeter than roses, would soothe them; and claiming that you were feeling easier, you would send everyone home filled with better hopes. D Because of this, the love everyone felt for you was constantly growing, as they marveled all the more at your nobility and your love for them. Thus your whole life was a struggle for virtue and for that which is good, and your light shone before men, you who were not only rewarding your own people as well as could be, but were also overcoming enemies—as far as was evident from your deeds; yet even in that same [struggle]...
being in such a terrible state that it could not even be expressed in words, you were yet behaving so nobly, that the beholders were struck with amazement, and you never ceased performing both your duties toward your own people and those against your enemies. Thus, in all things, he was the best man, and remarkably glorious to you.
No satiety, indeed, should ever take hold of you regarding those things that demonstrate his greatness; but I am unable to say more, or to advance further. For when I gaze upon the small plot of earth that covers his noble body—which once served as a vehicle to that admirable soul—it is almost enough to drive me out of my senses, and I know not how to compose myself. I wish to speak, but my tongue is numb. I want to utter sounds, but my voice cannot serve me, failing under the weight of the suffering, nor do the rest of the organs of speech obey the urge of my will, having been conquered by the pressure, while neither my mind nor my reason maintains its proper state. For there is nothing you desire now among the present things—and I myself above all others—more intensely than these lamentations. The reason for these is the eulogies of the departed. For the praises that commend excellent departed men are the very same that both kindle love for them and reveal the magnitude of the loss. And indeed, what increases the loss and the damage also increases the sadness; and in turn, what increases the sadness also increases the lamentations. B Even if, therefore, someone were to bring forward sources of tears; and even if all things devoid of sense, and altogether everything insentient, and the dead in their coffins, were to lament with us, if that were possible—and that, too, without end—this would not be an addition to your sorrows, but would appear somehow to take away no small portion of them. For to souls submerged in the waves of grief, there is no consolation more readily available than to weep. For weeping is not a terrible thing when one lets loose streams of tears from one's eyes; rather, it is what bites the soul so as to require tears. But weeping in streams becomes a kind of relief for those overwhelmed by calamities. C But for me, being unable to proceed further and to mourn my brother as he deserves—for in addition to all the other terrible things, my mind is also crippled by my grief—it must remain for me to find assistance from you, as much as is possible. And this consists of your also speaking whatever might be appropriate to the time and to the sorrow, until, having recovered my senses, I too might mourn as is fitting.
As many, therefore, as have experienced his goodness—and you have all experienced it—send forth with me one voice, with one heart, with one soul, as if from a single mouth; and embracing this coffin of one who acted toward you no less as a father than as a despot and lord, utter words congruent with the time.
Lamenters. What is this? Do you bid men, almost dead themselves, to break forth with a voice? D
A Orator. Quantum, I say, as much as our strength allows. Lamenters. We shall be obedient to the word, so that we may emerge somewhat from the grief that overwhelms us. Indeed, it would have been best for us to have departed this life before you; for even now we cannot truly be said to live. For although we have not yet died, we are consuming our lives by dying every day, and we consider our departure from here more desirable than life, and we pray for the end. For there is no one who would not desire to be delivered from things here, even if he does not slaughter himself, provided he keeps the laws of piety. B It is not possible for a man who has tasted of your good things to live. For a long time, O Despot, and continuously, you shared your goods with us, and you distributed all good things to all in great abundance. Yet you did not entirely satisfy us, nor did you ever bring those who had partaken of them to satiety. For the matter did not allow it, nor was there any prospect of it. For you possessed from God virtue, an immortal wealth; and for those who were with you in such things, it was not possible to arrest the longing for association with them. So while you granted us every good, you left us thirsty by departing. You gladdened us with many things, and you caused us to emulate your own toils and dangers, even while you mostly had to deal with adverse fortune; and although many who were gaping to swallow you up and all your subjects together thought it would be easy, you turned their opinion to the contrary, as the demonstrated facts proclaim. C But now, O heaven and earth, who could possibly lament this calamity with enough tears? Or who would worthily bewail the loss of you who were excellent in all things? Who has a heart of iron, who has an adamant soul, so that he could endure to bear this grief to the end? Alas, alas, alas, for the convergence of evils, for you alone to have departed from among men! For he who yesterday and the day before yesterday showed the Peloponnese to be happy, being its despot and its lord, D was followed by a similar lamentation. Many, indeed, Chrysostom (Hom. 4 on Hebrews) and in other places inveighs against the custom of wailing at the funerals of the faithful, threatening even excommunication against the mourners, especially women, who were accustomed to be hired for that purpose, as if that custom appeared contrary to the faith in the resurrection which the Church most augustly proclaims in the office of burial. But even if Chrysostom spoke thus, in part exaggerating and in part castigating those who indulged in such lamentations more than was right, and did not keep moderation in them, he was treating those who were mourning in truth and showing signs of grief and sadness as if they were people who had no hope, and as if they were not Christians. The laments of Nicephorus Gregoras are similar, which he lamented upon the passing of both Andronici, and of the great Logothete Metochites (books 10 and 11), so that you may know that this custom was especially celebrated under the Palaiologoi and in the final times of the empire. But let someone now, besides the Manuel mentioned here, come into the part of the monody, and also the chorus.
A And king, and savior you were, you immediately changed the affairs concerning it to the opposite once you had departed from here. You mixed obscurity in place of brilliance, and darkness in place of light, into this life of ours. For just as by your being with us, you were for all the source of all good things, so by having passed from us, you showed us to be destitute of those customary good things. For as it seems, the good things flew away along with you. O you who left this land in much orphanhood, of which you always preferred the advantage, not in the way of sloth, and ease, and luxury, but also of those things which were necessary as much as was possible! I will add indeed, also of safety, and sometimes even of life! B O you who, by the simple fact of being separated from us, have shown us to be separated from all good things together! O you who, while you were truly living when you were with us, by dying, have made all your subjects as if dead! O you who darkened their eyes, those who saw yours—those sweet and beautiful and radiant eyes—completely changed by being veiled with death! O you who, upon your death being heard, immediately made all hearing deaf to a greater degree than any thunder for a long time! O you who shook and struck the hearts and all the inward parts like monstrous thunderbolts for a very long time! C O you who extinguished all the senses of the body and all the power of the soul, either for a long time altogether, or through the very rumor of your departure, made them constantly dull and obscure! O that hour, justly to be hated, which presented you dead to us: shapeless indeed from death, and consumed also by a complex and long sickness throughout your whole body! Who, thinking of that appearance of your body once blooming and vigorous, and that brilliance of beauty, and recalling the graces diffused in it that were by no means failing; and then remembering again that gloomy day which delivered you to corruption, will not be found to be completely a hater of life and desiring to die? D It would have been better, therefore, dear head, for all your subjects to die with you, than, while living, to see you dead; or at the very least, which should be placed in the second rank, for the earth to have received us all together, to be buried with you in one tomb. For what has man to live for, who has suffered the loss of such a great good? Thus far we have lamented, for since the wound pervades the whole body, and consumes, so to speak, the very souls themselves, and biting and devouring everything every which way, we cannot say how great is the work.
A Well, then, what shall I do? For evil fortune and pain have wounded me so that it is unbearable; yet it will not heal, as it once did for Achilles regarding Telephus. And since the wound is incurable, this too is added to my uneven state. For this unbearable suffering forces me both to compose a tragedy and to put together the laments that arise from it, on account of a loss that is common, yet a loss that is mine alone. Yet, by another method, it again compels me to weep in silence, causing numbness and deathly stasis. So, by urging me toward both, it allows me to attain neither. For it forces me to pursue opposites at the same time, ensuring that I arrive at neither. So varied is the power that overcomes me, and it is a pain beyond pain. Indeed, it blinds the reason, disturbs the intellect, and, as it were, confuses and confounds the whole mind. B But, O one admired and loved, not only when you were alive, but even now that you have departed—and indeed more now than before! For good things, when hidden, are wont to be the more yearned for. Why, then, you who existed as a rule of justice, did you appear to have wronged me, your brother? For by departing to where we shall all inevitably arrive, you have left me to follow behind, and in this way you have shown my life to be unlivable and utterly full of hardship. Yet, I have also wronged myself in another way by not having departed from this life before you. For it would have been better for me not to have become second to you, who were younger, in departing from these things. But you went before us, as you ought not have done; and we, as it seems—we who said we would be inseparable from you—have been proven liars. For you departed to God, leaving your body to the earth, while we still linger here. Yet it was right, immediately upon receiving the first report that your spirit had departed, for me too, putting aside the body, with a light and naked soul to pursue yours, so that by quickly overtaking it in this way, I might continuously be with it. C The matter therefore proves that those of us who survive you have shown ourselves to be more lovers of life and body than truthful and loving brothers. This, too, must be considered: that I ought to have seen this as something worse than many deaths—for the word is to be understood piously—and it was fated for me that this misfortune should occur, to receive through you a blow that is truly a mortal one, and greater than those many bitter ones that preceded it. These things, as it seems, are a collection of our sins, against which it is not fitting to kick. But since it has so pleased the Father by grace, and in his nature as Lord and guardian, we shall continue to give thanks in all things; D and we shall return to the season and the calamity what is worthwhile, so far as is possible for us. O ill-fated day! O truly unhappy hour, in which you, dearest of all, who were left to me alone of my brothers, departed, with relatives having passed away before, and friends having passed away before, and my father having already passed away, and to crown all, my excellent mother, whom who does not...
clearly know to have been left behind, like a soul, both to public affairs and to our own, and who was all but left behind as one dead, once she was taken away? Oh, how I now feel myself stripped of a kinship that was great, and good, and manifold! For even if she had departed to God long ago, still you remained, having been left to me as an abundant comfort, being in all things admirable; but now your arrow, striking with a heap of sorrows—even though it might have been sufficient by itself to destroy—has nevertheless abundantly reopened and renewed for me all the wounds from those others, or rather, has even irritated them further and made them worse than they were before. Now, in truth, being pricked by many and all-manner of wounds, how shall I live out the remainder of my life? Is it not clear that I shall live it bitterly, painfully, and as one almost deprived of both mind and sense, just as some enemy and envious person against us might have wished?
B Oh, that bitter news, which, rushing through the ears into the heart, shook it straightway and rendered the greater part of it dead! You, indeed, have departed to Him who loved you and who called you, to receive the rewards of the virtue by which you adorned that station; but you have deprived this world of its most beautiful treasure—you, I say, and your assistance. For the rest of the evils shall cling to the mind like a seal impressed in wax; the wound shall remain immovable in the memory as things difficult to bear are imprinted upon the soul. What, then, could life be for a man suffering such things, and reflecting on such things concerning himself and public affairs?
Let the soldier, and the merchant, and the husbandman, and the monk, and the presbyter, and the poor, and the rich, and every age and every order, lament with me. For he who has survived was, as it were, a soul clearly for all men; and departing, he left as dead those from whom he parted. To the soldiers, indeed, he provided victory, being present with them everywhere where the force of danger was thought to be greatest, and meeting it first. For the merchants, he was the cause of gain, on account of the peace which he provided to those under him, at times by wisdom, and at times by arms. For the husbandmen, he provided a free opportunity to plow the land, which they were not even permitted to tread upon before he himself had trodden it.
C And as for monks and presbyters, who honored them more than he? Or who more clearly than he suggested the means by which they could maintain their order without concern? The poor had no need to beg, for his munificence anticipated them while they were still at home. But neither did he neglect to earn the favor of those also who flowed with riches. For he deemed it fitting for himself to share benefits with everyone. For he said that even the more affluent have need of the gift of higher things, in the same way, as they say, that things born in the waters have need of the rain from the heavens if they are to bear fruit.
Who, then, having such a disposition toward all these, ever refused to make himself available when the need of the occasion called for it? Not at all, I say; but he was always ready and prepared for all, in such a way that he was not for one alone. For where, in truth, are those great goods? They have departed together with the goods, just as, with a merchant ship, the wares it carries depart with it.
D Oh, what terrible darkness and black night, which fills our life with much bitterness, and is—
A enduring! O gloomy and dense cloud, from which hail was sent down, destroying in its turn every sprout, and every beautiful thing, and the crops, and every plant, and, in a word, everything that grows from the earth for the need or refreshment of men! O repellent thunder, that shook the mind with its crash! O typhoon, that blinded the eyes of the heart! O dreadful lightning, that quickly ravaged the mind! O destructive blast, turning the intellect to ashes! O plague, showing every medicinal remedy to be a trifle! Oh, the mourning for me that has no end! O life not to be borne, except for the sake of piety, such that it is no longer desirable to live, for me most of all, and then for all those who knew your nature, friend of God, for how exceptional it was! This, then, was what those things from afar were signifying: the change of events for the worse. We, indeed, seeing them, were elated, thinking that the evil would befall our enemies, as some predicted. But now that the evil has fallen upon us, and has touched everyone openly—being as it is so great, so bitter, and irreparable—nothing else is left but to live in despondency, mourning and lamenting for all time. Not, however, for his sake—who, having departed from these human things, which differ nothing from mud and deep darkness, has passed to that serene, endless, and ageless life—for how could we? But for our own sakes, who seem to have been left behind for the sole purpose of mourning. But let us examine more accurately that the matter B stands thus.
He, having departed from us, has attained unto God; he has been inscribed in the choir of the blessed, among whom are many of his own kin—a father who was a most excellent man, and a mother no less so; for so does their piety and the uprightness of their character compel me to be confident; and an excellent fraternity, and a company of ancestors, and not a few friends. Even though, therefore, he has been separated from us, whom he followed with love and whose company he delighted in, yet because his being with his parents and many of his kinsmen and acquaintances—who, to be sure, are no worse than we—and, furthermore, his being with the blessed and God Himself, is surely far more pleasant to him than his being with us, it would be improper to make any comparison between these things. To us, however, who have suffered the loss of these things, nothing of the sort has occurred. For what could we ever obtain that might be C better than that man? It is clear that we could obtain nothing; for how, when such a man is nowhere to be found? But neither will any sorrow befall him, who has become a participant in the interminable life, and in turn of the glory and delight that pertain to that unending life. But for us, still inhabiting the body—which Plato said was the cause of many evils—it is necessary to be involved in many hardships, from which those who have passed on have been liberated.
Not only, therefore, has he been liberated from the many perplexities which it is necessary D for a mortal to traverse in this world, but he has also attained to things far better than those which are called "good" here. For the things that are beautiful in that age
A surpass those of the present, as much as incorruptible things surpass those subject to corruption; and this distinction between the two is such that it can neither be taught by the tongue, nor revealed to the mind which is bound to the flesh and falling inward. The pleasures of that place are superior also in this, that they are altogether pure from our present filth. For here there is not even the least bit of joy, but rather it is devoid of all pleasure and full of trouble until the very end. And so, if we carefully consider such things, it will be clearly evident that the more painful part is stronger. Indeed, that evil pressing upon us adds a heap, making the sadness far more painful. For the sorrows of the present age, by which we are overwhelmed as by an enormous wave, become in many ways more severe; and even those things which we call "good" and "pleasant" in human terms no longer appear as they are by nature. Yet why do I even remember good and pleasant things, when it is unbearable to enjoy even those things that contain delights without that man of blessed memory, nor even this ray of light, of which he is deprived? Nor is even good health, or whatever things are good in themselves, of much account to us anymore. How could they be, for those to whom not even life itself appears to be a good? For that the bodies are separated, from which the souls were joined by an inseparable bond, allows none of the delightful things to remain pure in our present state, and even that which is called delightful is allowed to be judged as such, and as still, it is said in reality to be B.
He, then, with great dignity will lead the dances with the companion martyrs, he who could not even walk here, after the disease had prevailed. Much could I say of his contests for virtue, as long as the opportunity remained: but his soul shines forth not only because of his zeal for the faith—for there was much of it in him—and the dangers for the people, for he undertook many and frequent ones; but because, with his body itself being cruelly torn by the bitterness of the disease, he did not utter a single word, big or small, that was ignoble or hinted at cowardice; or rather, not even anything that was not filled with much thanksgiving, as the discourse has previously shown. So that he has been called from the wrestling-ground to crowns and rewards, and from the worse and flowing things to the better and unmoving ones; whereas we, as I said before, are to fare ill for all the time to come; bereft of him, whom we would have ransomed with everything, and bereft of the goods of which he was the author, partly by providing them as if from a fountain, partly by advising and providing for everything in every way C.
But I feel that I have not drawn a sound conclusion; and I ask for forgiveness for my error, both from you, the present gathering of listeners, and from those who perhaps might ever read this essay with diligence. Perhaps this grief was the cause, having made my mind duller with distress. And what is that error? I shall say it now. I have declared that the man who was most excellent for us and exceptionally beloved ought, by all means, to be endowed with immortal goods. That is clearly true. For thus I think it is proven to be fitting to hope. But we, who have suffered his loss—he who was the author of the greatest and most numerous goods for us, and would have been, if he still survived
A in the time to come—are to be spent in sorrows. But this truly seems most absurd and clearly like a riddle: that, when he whom we wished every good, and for whose sake we would have endured every evil, has attained eternal goods, we mean-while should be saddened by his deprivation for some time. Let these things clearly be an argument that we value our own goods more than his, and that we gladly had his presence, not for his own sake or for what would be advantageous to him, but for our own selves and our own utility. It follows, therefore, that what was concluded in these words is not of sincere affection, but far removed from it, and as it were, abortive. For it was altogether B necessary that we should not put his affairs after our own. For I think this is what becomes us, who insist that we love him more intensely than ourselves.
And so, having reproached myself and, I think, sufficiently entreated pardon for the error, I come in turn to offer exhortation, for the sake of my own correction and for your benefit, that you should rejoice together with your despot for that joy which he enjoys there, and not abuse your grief by looking toward your own loss on account of his departure. For it is of all things most unreasonable that we should be saddened here with him when he was suffering, but when he is rejoicing there, not rejoice with him. For men are wont to be envious; or rather, I think it is not even fitting for those C to grieve if someone has attained eternal goods upon his departure, just as no one at all would envy those drinking from an inexhaustible spring. For to be envious of those who are faring well, usually comes from the fact that those who are envious think that their own affairs are diminished by the prosperity of those who are fortunate. But as for us, setting our own goods after his happiness—which is no longer liable to any change—we ought by all means to rejoice with him. And here, indeed, let us begin our admonition. I say, therefore, that it is fitting for us, not indeed to bear his deprivation with no sense of pain, as if we were senseless—for we are not about to say anything grave or D violent—but to endeavor to bear gently what has seemed good to Providence, and to be moderately delighted with the good expectations that we all hold concerning him. For if we thought that the things after this life were nothing, the discourse would be different; but since we have been fully taught, and believe more than anything, that this life is a shadow and a road to the one that follows, we ought to take little thought for the things here and make all our discourse about the things there. For, indeed, one of two things is necessary—for surely, those who love him as much and as greatly as each one shows by his deeds must either not believe that he is with God, and therefore mourn him excessively, held by neither reason nor logic, or, holding the contrary opinion, should act contrary to their lamentations. But we believe that he is in a place void of all sorrow; that he is in choirs of friends and relatives; that he is in the light, which, when it appears at the proper time, will obscure this sun by its great brightness; and, which is superior to all things, we believe that he is joined to the Savior Christ, the head of the entire Church, which is his body and his fellow-heir...
according to the teaching of Paul, with every building being joined together unto this one Savior and God who is the cornerstone; for I will again use the words of Paul: "it grows into a holy temple." A And if this seems good to you, let it not be that when it was fitting to rejoice because of his journey to God, and because of the good things he has attained, we then, on account of ourselves and our own loss, fill ourselves with long sorrow and despondency; lest these things should be stubborn, with one preferring his own pleasure to the profit of the one he loves. For one who truly loves must endure much stinging, so that it may be possible for the beloved to be in glory and in ease, free from detraction.
B You might perhaps see a mother, after a widowhood, sending a daughter, only-born and beautiful, for whom she would even have given her life, to a foreign land to be joined to a distinguished man; and she sheds tears from her eyes at the separation from the child, as it is neither easy nor perhaps possible to see her again; yet she nevertheless prefers her happy fortune to her own pleasure. She rejoices, indeed, even while she weeps, as her dearest child is about to obtain good things; and pleasure overcomes the unpleasantness: for otherwise she would not have sent her. For I believe that sorrow is defeated by joy if it happens that those who are most dear fare well, in return for the fact that those who love bear something stinging and painful. If we imitate this mother, we will obtain a great deal of comfort; or rather, joy instead of a more ignoble sorrow. I wish, however, still to use arguments, so that with greater comfort a better opinion may prevail.
C If, therefore, we believe that our loved one is paying the penalty for evils there, we should give no truce to the sorrow that consumes us; and if anyone else should try to comfort us, we should not lend him our ears. Even if he be an orator, even if a philosopher, even if he can and prides himself on having great power of persuasion, we should consider him to be insane for hoping to persuade us. Even if he persists in his raving, we should drive him away with stones and insults. But if he feared God, and kept his faith in Him most sincerely, and continued honoring his parents, and doing good to his own, and indeed to strangers as much as was permitted; and his life does not permit us to doubt at all, but we are persuaded that he is dancing in a choir together with the martyrs, D and is enjoying the goods of paradise, we should not, therefore, become filled with immoderate sorrow at the death of this illustrious man, "as those who have no hope," says the divine head, Paul; but let the more sorrowful things be either completely swallowed up by the better hope, or let it at least prevail, as the things that are hoped for and contemplated by the mind are better than present things and those that are seen. And why should I not say what is greater? For I am convinced that if the choice were given to you, either after many elapsed years, and having administered a kingdom, and having perceived pleasure, and having enjoyed the greatest possible happiness of heavenly goods, or immediately
A obtaining an escape from these things, before having shared in any of those mentioned, you would surely have been of the second portion, having chosen those things over these. How then is it not entirely absurd, if what each person wishes for himself, he does not wish for his friends? Let us consider also this: if, because we dearly love him, we lament when he has departed and consider life worse than if we had been the ones to die, it is clear that he too, loving us—with a power of love no whit inferior to this of ours toward him—would have desired to depart as quickly as possible, for us to have departed before him. And with good reason; for if it were possible for us to find consolation for our grief, it would be possible for him also; if it is not possible for us, it would certainly not be for him.
The conclusion to be drawn from what has been said is that it is B better to depart before one's loved ones than, while living, to be deprived of them by their migration from life. Nevertheless, I will use a more moderate argument. I say, then, that if someone were to propose a choice to us and to him—whether we should depart before him, or on the contrary, he before us—he would have provided a subject for both of us that is not easy to judge. For although it is good to live, to live with constant grief is entirely unbearable; and although it is desirable to be released from things that cause pain, yet the means of death, which every human fears, does not seem to me easy to desire. Since, therefore, it is in no way easy for us to find out what is better when we seek it, I content myself with what has seemed good to Providence, which disposes our affairs better than we ourselves wish. For God knows, and can, and wills what is beneficial to all; but we often reach out for the worse things, despising the better ones even when they are at hand, and through ignorance we perform acts against our own interests instead of those in our favor. Therefore, I believe that what is better has by no means been stated here.
C Let us not depart from the temple before we allow our grief only to such an extent as not to provoke God by an excess of despondency, nor to grieve the beloved. For he will indeed be grieved if we provoke the Divine, and that because of him and his migration from here. Let us rather show ourselves as his lovers by expending whatever each of us can and deems fitting on behalf of the soul of the beloved. For this is the only thing we all have to contribute to him, and this remains the truest demonstration of our love for him; and it will benefit him, having been a man and having lived in this base body, with which no one can be found D entirely pure while living with it; and it will benefit you also, as you fulfill your duty toward an excellent man and a master, and one who has been the author of many and great goods, and who now has a great place with God, and will attain a greater one when the common home and mother of the race, this earth, restores to the spirit the body that collaborated with it for good things, for glory and eternal joy, of which we also
eternal, which we pray we may attain by rendering the God of that man propitious to us.
These things, O divine soul, we offer to you, who have already received many and fair commendations, and will receive more in the future from many good men, for nothing else can be contributed to the glory of the departed. Indeed, seeing what others had written, I was pleased; for they were very fine, and bore witness to an excellent command of language in those who spoke, even if those speakers fell far short of the matter at hand. For this is an unavoidable fate for those trying to praise your nature. As for these words of mine, I do not know how they will appear to others. Nay, I know quite well that they fall far short of the dignity of the subject, and of celebrating your virtue as it deserves, or even of drawing near to what is required. But I know well that, because of the zeal of your love for me—by which you rejoice more in my offerings than those who pursue such things do in idle ease—you will receive these with joy and will prefer them to all others. And do you also, O present company, grant indulgence, considering the steep difficulty of the undertaking, if we have not measured the ocean with a small beaker, but have, as it were, drawn from some perennial river as much as was possible, and have given it to you to taste, so that its drinkable and clear quality might, in part, become evident.
WISE SENTENCES AND AS IT WERE PROVERBIAL SAYINGS
By which, as by most illustrious gems, the speech of Manuel is adorned and shines with notable splendor.The greatest things most befit a test. It may happen that while giving nothing, you delight, and conversely, while praising, you displease. Thus is the virtue that fortune provides. The affairs of great men do not lie hidden. Virtue is a thing possessing desire, and in attracting good things, it possesses greater efficacy than a magnet. What a man has, he gives likewise: and what he himself is, such he considers others to be. What is the nature of a violent thing; and, as one surely would not wish to drag anything, he would not easily bend it into an opposite direction. Whoever is evil to his family and his own, is surely so to himself: for the part is contained within the whole. But if one is evil to himself, toward whom else can he be good? Work well conceived from the beginning, and better executed, and endowed with an end, is clearly not done except by divine will. For that many things should concur toward one certain marvelous end is neither a matter of human virtue, nor of those things which come by chance and fortune. Prosperous success for enemies has the same weight as their diminished forces and their slaughter; and conversely. Things done in secret are accustomed to change their countenance afterward. If enemies are detected, they carry something sadder than what they have done. It is much better to receive from those who bestow it out of duty than from those who do so out of grace. Where a noble spirit, weary of evils, has inclined itself toward something less worthy and more abject than its own nature: it indeed runs back into that: but now, being about to act immediately, whoever is ashamed of the baseness of the thing recoils, and with greater fervor resumes the impulse toward the good, and the former struggle returns with much increment. The clever response of the Lacedaemonians: Let them fight as if about to die, and they shall not die. He who is destitute of many things, with whom he might engage in the ambitious contests of showing virtue, emerges as one more relaxed in undertaking labors for the sake of glory, and the good, the rarer it is, the more it is everywhere an object of admiration. A man truly noble is a great thing absolutely: but when many evils have attacked from without, and internal ones have also arisen, this man seems like a portent, such that he has struggled through the one side, to say nothing of both. That one may be affected against his will, but willingly bear it for the sake of piety, he obtains no common reward, but rather one altogether greater than that which one might sustain by his own counsel and will in the harm of evils. Friends are wont to rejoice with rejoicing friends, and likewise to be sad with the same in their sadness. For minds overwhelmed by the floods of sadness, no consolation is more present than that grief should occur. Hidden goods hold a greater desire. Even the more opulent themselves have need of the gift of superiors, by which, they say, in the reason that it is born in the waters, they have the celestial rain necessary so that they may bear fruit. The fact that their bodies are separate, whose souls have functioned in an inseparable bond, allows nothing to be entirely delightful, so that even now what is said may be considered truly delightful in reality. That envy is stirred up by the happy success of things is so arranged, because the envious think that their own affairs are diminished by the prosperous things of others. I think that sadness is overcome by joy, so that it may happen that those most dear fare well, than by that from which lovers suffer something troublesome and sad.
PRECEPTS OF ROYAL EDUCATION OF THE IMP. CAESAR MANUEL PALAEOLOGUS AUGUSTUS TO HIS SON JOHN
From the library of the esteemed Joannes Sambucus. Translated by Joannes Leunclavius.
To this is added the book of Belisarius, Duke of the Neritini, on the same subject, with others pertaining to the studies of princes, never before edited.
TO FRANCIS MEDICIS, GRAND DUKE OF TUSCANY
(Basel, from the press of Petrus Perna, 1578, in 12mo.)
TO THE MOST SERENE PRINCE FRANCIS MEDICIS, GRAND DUKE OF TUSCANY.
Amidst the manifold applause of Italy and the auspicious acclamations of foreign nations, Francis, Duke, on the recent birth of your son Philip, the pillar of the Medicean family, our Muses have not wished to remain silent, having especially found an interpreter and messenger who, on account of the majesty of his imperial lineage, would not be excluded from the entrance to your court; and who, beside this duty of congratulation, brings with him a gift which, for an infant of noble character being educated in the hope of the succession to the vast Tuscan realm, could provide great tools for correctly administering and preserving his paternal empire. This man is that distinguished light of the Palaeologan blood, the Byzantine Emperor Manuel, a prince of the highest intellect and the greatest learning, whom no one will doubt—if we wish to rightly value his virtues—that those times produced no equal. I shall not now recount at length the line of his most noble family through his deeds. Known from the histories is Michael Palaeologus, who first brought the splendor of the imperial name into his family, which, if you except the incomparable good fortune of the Ottoman line, God alone blessed with a continuous succession of nearly two hundred years. Following him in the kingdom was his son Andronicus; after Andronicus, Michael the Second; after Michael the Second, likewise Andronicus the Second; after Andronicus, John, who had four sons in all: Andronicus, Demetrios, this Manuel of ours, and Theodore. While John was reigning, the Barbarians began to have greater success against our people than ever before. Therefore, the excellent prince, in order to consult for the safety of his own people and of the entire Christian commonwealth, decided that aid must be sought by which he might repress the formidable progress of the Barbarians. Thus, he boarded triremes, set out for Venice, approached the Italian princes, and warned them all of the common danger. From there, he traveled into Gaul and Britain, remote from the rest of Europe. Everywhere he zealously fulfilled the duty of his mission for the public safety, but with an unfruitful, alas, result—due to the detestable discords of Christian princes, by which we see our own affairs being ruined even today. For Gaul was at that time laboring most grievously under internal strife, being under King Charles the Sixth, who was a boy, and whose nobles were exercising ruinous clashes against one another. Having attempted everything in vain and returned to Venice, he was received with extreme insolence in an unworthy manner even by the Venetian merchants, who declared they would not let him leave until he had repaid the money lent to him for his journey to Gaul and Britain, with exorbitant interest. A truly wicked deed, you will say: but he found his son Andronicus even more impious and ungrateful toward him. For when he was about to set out from home to seek the aid of our nobles and had placed him in charge of Byzantium, he later signified to him the straits in which he was involved: but the son took no account of his father's calamity, and in such great troubles allowed the author of his birth, next to God, to be held fast by the most wicked of mortals. In this fatherly case, the singular piety and virtue of this Manuel, whom we now send to you, shone forth. For when he was administering Thessalonica, having collected money from his own dominion that would suffice for the redeeming of his father, he set out for Venice, and having delivered him from the injuries of the usurers, brought him back to his homeland. By this deed, he bound his father's heart most tightly to himself; and this piety possessed...
A such rewards from the Divine, that Manuel might possess the paternal empire, while Andronicus the firstborn and John, the son of Andronicus, were entirely excluded. For although these two fled to Bajazet, the son of Amurath, the tyrant of the barbarians, and aided by his auxiliary forces seized Constantinople—while the Emperor John, the father, and Manuel the son, who were captured, were confined in harsh prisons—yet it happened by the favor of a propitious Divinity that, after three years had passed, they eventually escaped safely, despite the tyrant Bajazet repeatedly ordering in vain that they be put to death. Assuredly, human cruelty cannot rage against those whom Divine providence covers. Bajazet himself, his original intent changed, restored Manuel; Andronicus and John were deported to his court, where they might have provisions as long as they remained alive. Now, the Emperor Manuel was endowed with such magnanimity that when Bajazet demanded from him an immense sum of money, and furthermore ordered—with grave threats—that he appear at his court, he complied with neither of the tyrant’s demands. For the most steadfast prince believed that, even with the strength of the Byzantine empire weakened, nothing should be admitted that was against the dignity of his position and rank, into which he had been placed by God. For this reason he again came into danger of losing his kingdom, when he again felt the manifest aid of a benevolent Divinity. For Bajazet, stirred by barbarian fury, besieged and attacked Constantinople with all his might; and this siege lasted for ten whole years. Meanwhile, Manuel in no way lost heart but, imitating his father's counsel, entrusted the care and defense of the besieged city to John, the son of his brother Andronicus, and set out to Italy to see the Pope, the Duke of Milan, and the Venetians. From there he went to the Gauls, where he found King Charles suffering from madness. Nowhere did he obtain any help. And when he foresaw that the king's illness would be of long duration, he returned home through Germany and Pannonia. Destitute of all human support, he experienced God as his most present help. For Bajazet, the besieger of the city, was defeated in battle and fell into the power of Tamerlane, the prince of the Scythians, and until his death he could not in any way reclaim his liberty. This immense benefit of God, Manuel celebrates with a hymn, which we read here at the end. Not long afterwards, in order to protect his people from the injuries of the Barbarians, he closed the Isthmus of the Peloponnese with a wall, and upon the death of Bajazet, he made a perpetual peace with Mahomet, his son. B Such a prince, and so great, and so dear to God, we send to you, Francis, the glory of the Italian nobility, that he may offer you these his books, which contain the methods for educating royal offspring: not because you are in need of these precepts, you who have long since fulfilled the measures of a mature and wise prince, but so that they may one day serve for the studies and use of your Philip, when he has happily grown up. It will be, I hope, no ungrateful guest for you, who have joined the praise of learning with the ornaments of your august family. For it has always been a special trait of your Medici house, that they should embrace liberal learning and the men who became famous through it with great humanity. To that great Cosimo, who was the first to begin to shine forth among his ancestors, Chrysoloras and Argyropulus, men of Greece and propagators of Greek letters through Italy, Germany, and Gaul, were a delight and beloved. But how much in honor did his grandson Lorenzo hold Janus Lascaris, born of the Greek imperial stock, Demetrius Chalcocondyles, and Michael Marullus Tarchaniota, that illustrious man? Finally, Cosimo the father, to omit others, insisting on the footsteps of his ancestors, benefited the republic of letters with other boons; he then shared with us, to his own immortal praise, those most noble books of the Florentine Pandects, preserved so sacredly for so many centuries. You, without a doubt, will always imitate the examples of these men, you who have long since in other matters not only equaled the ancestral and inherited virtues and excellent deeds of your forebears, but have also added a great heap of praise and glory to the dignity they have amplified. Farewell. A.D. VII Ides of January, Vienna of the Pannonians.
Jo. Leunclavius Germanus.
MANUEL PALAIOLOGOS, THE MOST PIOUS AND CHRIST-LOVING EMPEROR, TO HIS MOST BELOVED SON AND EMPEROR, JOANNES PALAIOLOGOS: PRECEPTS OF ROYAL EDUCATION IN 100 CHAPTERS
PROOIMIAL EPISTLE
A When I left you in the Peloponnese, returning from Italy (oh, how could I bring myself to do it!), you were still a small child, and because of your age, you were but slightly seasoned in letters, as fortune had been an obstacle to you in this regard. Nonetheless, I instructed you with precepts that were suited to your strength at that time. As soon as I arrived here, having finally grown a bit older, I promised to give you other things hereafter, more appropriate for a more mature life. Now that you have entered your youth and recently returned to us—bringing with you a by no means trivial portion of learning, along with skill in archery, hunting, and other such things—the things concerning all military pursuits were sent to you by us as soon as you had stepped off the ship. B But those other things—the ones I had promised—have not yet appeared. Some might think it strange, I suppose, that those things which pertain to strength, war, and the care of the body in general are considered preferable to that by which the mind and soul might be made more brilliant. Yet, it was right that those things which I had never promised you were bestowed upon you, for a simple reason; but as for those promises, by which I made myself doubly obligated to fulfill them, I have not yet brought them forth. For while a noble horse, a hawk, and a hound were provided, the hortatory discourses and paternal admonitions—which would benefit both the son himself and the state—seem to be procrastinated intentionally. I, however, confess that these things are not unseemly to say, but they come from a person who has not considered all things correctly. For it was fitting that your delicate soul, which had been weakened as much by a long voyage as by the prolonged absence of your parents, should be afforded the means to be somewhat cheered, so that, having expelled its sadness and recovered a vigorous alacrity—not to sloth, but to
A receive these words—it may embrace what is good. This has been done by my reasoning; but, if I must speak the truth, it has proceeded further than I wished, due to the business that has pressed upon me. Seeing these things moving at an accelerated pace, and fearing lest the obstacles might persist for too long, or rather knowing clearly from what had already occurred that I ought to carry into effect my promises, I thought it best to act as I could, even amidst a flurry of affairs. It was, indeed, expected that even now I should not prescribe for a youth the precepts of mature men. I know this; it does not escape me. But since the outcome of the future is hidden, it is better to pay the debt in full while I am able. We shall speak, I think, with God directing the course of the discourse, of such things as will be useful both now and in the future, and which will be pertinent to young and old alike, and to every station, rank, condition, and life, both present and to come. And let no one accuse me of arrogance, as if I were promising great things. For our present thoughts will not be entirely our own (I will not hide this, nor is it worthy to do so), but B the greater part will be sought from men adorned with virtue, whose goodness of character and wealth of wisdom—even after they have departed from their bodies—is preserved in memory with praise. And I speak not only of our own people, but also of many of the ancients.
Again, someone might perhaps say to us: "It would have been enough to order you to visit these men, and to read them as quickly as possible, and to adorn yourself with their teachings, and thus be relieved of this labor and annoyance for us." And I confess that nothing absurd is offered by this man. For it is truly very necessary for you to look upon these admirable men, and, having made them masters of your character, to add them as helpers to those you already have for the investigation of noble things, if indeed you wish to become a good and excellent man. For who could better lead youth by the hand toward the good than these mentioned men, who, with prudence, skill, diligence, ingenuity, and care, have searched out what contributes to C discursive and political learning? But I thought that mine own contribution, although otherwise not of great moment, would here avail more than theirs: I mean the paternal affection, the fire of which, quite effective in itself, vehemently amplifies those things which you permit me to prophesy concerning your nature. And may God cause me to be—I will use the poets' books, not as dogma, but simply for the sake of the story—more truthful in this prophecy than Teiresias and Calchas. Moreover, all your conduct toward us, adorned with unspeakable obedience, could be an incentive for us to prescribe what must be done. A father, therefore, and one who loves more than is the way of fathers, instructing and explaining to a loving son—and one who loves even more than sons are wont to—those things which will be useful, how will he not achieve a great deal? For it is not right to detract from faith in any precept, nor to refuse a command, even if something should offer itself that seems to sting, nor to refuse to comply with deeds when you yield to D words. Besides, there is something else by which we are...
superior to those others. For to speak with authority—which has great command and power—is something that I, as a teacher, or indeed anyone who corrects or fashions the natures of the young, may fully possess; but they may not, not even if the wisdom of all people were to come together into one. For how could they speak boldly, faithfully, and confidently, in the manner of a king, a father, or a friend, since they are bereft of that status which grants fearlessness, and also of that connection which prevails over all things through the natural tie of affection, and of the intimacy of friendship that gives courage?
Dio, Isocrates, and many others demonstrate this, having written many "regal" speeches (for so they are called) to the kings themselves; yet, wishing to preserve what was fitting both for themselves and for the kings, and not to appear arrogant or rash, they soothe the royal eminence with long-winded art, and even then do not express what needed to be said with sufficient freedom. B From them I have gathered these maxims, and moreover from more divine men—having added something of my own as well, perhaps not entirely base—and I have delivered them to you with such freedom and paternal care (as one might say), as both a debt and a gift, arranged in a century of chapters by means of an acrostic. In this there is a part of a prayer, which I hope God will not reject, if indeed it is necessary to pray about prayer, according to the wonderful prophet and king who said: "Hear, O Lord, my prayer." If you turn your mind to the advice contained here, you will provide yourself with great benefit. C It was possible to explain everything a little more clearly, but I surely thought it better not to remove the bone entirely from the flesh, so that there might remain something in this feast that would stir the mind of the guest to seek out food of greater importance. For it was not fitting for us, exhorting you to vigor, to offer you ineffective and soft food. But do you, by the sturdiness of your mind, dissolving what is more difficult, render for yourself the edible marrow, which will surely show your soul to be much better than the fabled lion-marrow of Achilles. For I am persuaded that there is so much profit herein that, if you should pluck it industriously, you will easily turn out to be the most excellent of men and kings. D But if I, the author of these things, am much inferior to what is written here, let this not be an obstacle for you toward virtue, nor hinder you in any way; but if anything of a better quality is found with me—since no one is entirely devoid of all goods—assume it as an inheritance, and try to increase it much more studiously in accordance with the standard of propriety than your paternal goods or the kingdom itself. Wishing also to derive something from my defects (which are indeed many and great), observe them and wish to perceive some profit from them, appointing them, so to speak, as a kind of tutor for a better and safer conduct of life. For you will do rightly if you imitate those who are saved by the shipwrecks of others, having been taught by their faults and adverse events what needs to be done, while they say "farewell to long voyages" or take counsel for themselves according to their strength. Moreover, it sometimes happens that...
A one who is near a slip, by seeing another who has already fallen, himself avoids it; and the fall of others thus becomes a source of salvation for those who have a mind to see. Moreover, some have even cured others of stubborn diseases better than doctors who pride themselves greatly on their art, having gained experience B solely from having suffered those same things themselves. Yet even the sons of doctors have in some way refuted the proverb, having lost a tooth or an eye through some medicine, or suffered some other calamity, and having subsequently become more experienced from their own mistakes; and having been healed of ailments on their own bodies that they previously could not cure, they have delivered many others from the same, having overcome the evil through the experience added to their art. The conclusion of the argument: the man who wishes to be wicked will be benefited by no one, but the good man will be benefited by all things.
ONE HUNDRED CHAPTERS BY ACROSTIC
A CÆSAR, TO CÆSAR, MANUEL, TO JOHN, FATHER, TO SON, OF SOUL, TO SOUL, FRUIT, FOOD, OF MINE, TO THY, WHATEVER IT BE, FLOURISHING: COUPLED WITH: MAY GOD BE THE GOVERNOR.
1. A It is evident that there are diverse kinds of living for mortals, which arise and are distinguished B partly from prudence, discipline, and probity, and partly from stupidity, ignorance, and depravity; and again, these are divided and subdivided into a number and variety that cannot be grasped by the power of the mind. Yet one thing seems most excellent to one man, and another to another, for two causes—and no more—either for the sake of the good, or for the sake of pleasure, and sometimes, for some, for the sake of both. It is difficult, however, for the soul to incline equally toward both, if one looks accurately toward that which is most perfect. And yet, even if someone should grant this, he who is divided between the two will be "half-wicked," while he who gapes entirely after pleasures is altogether wicked. But he who pursues the good is, by that very fact, good.
II. The first of the lives mentioned is by far the best—the one that appears to be altogether the most rugged, because of the B battle against pleasures, though it is not entirely so in every respect. For it is not devoid of pleasure, with the conscience...
and the hopes A knowing how to delight. And to this there is added dignity and perseverance, since it is altogether good. Such are those goods that have not been debased. Whoever once takes them as his beloved is mastered by them, and does not allow his desire for them to wander toward anything vain. But for the second one, having pleasure as an end, nothing sound belongs to it, nor will follow it. It is impossibly the case that anyone should be delighted throughout with one thing, while desiring others at other times, since there are none that are truly pleasant, and for this reason they are always sending one off toward other things. The third, however, and the middle path, let it be allowed; B so that we might not, by being harsh from the beginning, command those who are not yet practitioners of the good. Let the pleasant be, for the time being, not entirely to be rejected by us, where evil does not stand against it.
III.
Know clearly that the choice of ways of life is a matter of judgment, not of nature. For nature happens to be one and the same for the Ethiopian, the Scythian, the Celt, and all men in succession. And it is only to a few that special qualities make a difference according to their races. But it would be difficult for the resolve not to be divided even among brothers. Therefore, as we have said, lives are not divided among men because of an undivided nature, but because of a dividing C resolve. But I believe that the most pleasant element in every life is brought about by habit, not by being inherent from the very beginning. For you might see a laborious and bad life loved by the one who has used it, which he would not exchange for one that is unaccustomed, even if it were full of pleasure and free from blame. One must therefore use the better way of life, which use itself will gradually elicit as pleasant and agreeable.IV.
You ought to know that, being in the prime of your age, this is the most opportune time for you to choose the best life, to go through it in the best way possible, to imprint it upon the soul, and to demonstrate it as unchanging; for the difficulty has not D yet overtaken you. For before you have soiled yourself with evils, it would be easiest for you to accomplish good things. But if you partake of depravity, you will toil doubly. You will labor much, and it will be a task to be rid of the worse part, cleansing it with both hands, and to appropriate for yourself the better part through an accurate adjustment, which comes about slowly and with difficulty.V.
It seems to me entirely clear that the happiness of those in power depends upon the almighty hand, since they say that even the heart is held by the same. You must, therefore, if you desire happiness, seek to know this, from where it is possible to take it—namely, from God—while rendering yourself not unworthy of enjoying such prosperity. For whoever is not in harmony with the circumstances of the things he desires, either he will not acquire them at the beginning, and especially since theseA are not attained, or he will lose them badly after he has obtained them; which is, without doubt, worse than not attaining them at all.
VI. It is a matter of primary utility to do all things for all people at an opportune and fitting time: especially when one must petition for something from God. For it is much more beneficial to seek nothing at all, in no way and by no means, than to seek that which is not right or just. For one would more easily provoke God to anger by petitioning in this manner than obtain anything that is desired. For God provides that which is becoming, and not that which is unseemly. Indeed, He is accustomed to listen and provide not when someone is shouting, weeping, beating his breast, and pressed in prayer, asking for something that could be a harm—while the person himself thinks it to be beneficial (for we often ask for many such things from God due to the greatest ignorance)—but when, studious of the common good more than his own, he acts in such a way as to become master of his desires. This, clearly, is for prayers to have the strength of efficacy. For he who does the opposite of that which he prays for, being in discord with himself, how could he have God in agreement? B
VII. You will be blessed with an abundance of goods from God, if you acknowledge that you have received the scepter from Him, and know clearly that you are His servant, and that it is more a pleasure to serve Him than to rule over others. But you must know that you are a servant to God much more than he, whom you have purchased with a price, is to you. And the difference between the two servitudes is as great as the distance between the blood of God and silver. Nay rather, aside from the dignity of empire, the slave redeemed by money is your fellow slave, and brother, and equal in honor, by reason of a common nature made from earth; and because he who was formed by the hand of God is the first father of all, and by reason of the one and same baptism, and of the death of God undergone for the sake of all. Certainly, one must not be exalted on account of an inequality of rank, clay above clay, and one gift of God above another gift of the same, which is granted to all equally. C
VIII. Before all else, if you desire that those under you serve you with both love and fear, and that they consider what seems good to you as law, it will be necessary that you yourself serve God in the same manner. For as you wish those who are subordinate to you to be, such, presumably, will you be toward the Lord of all; otherwise, you will truly labor much, but you will achieve very little at all, and the outcome will result in the opposite for you. For as for you, to want those who are subordinate to you to be subject to you in judgment, while you yourself are subject to Him to whom all things are naturally subject, this is the most effective thing of all; and to offend God is to incite against yourself even nature that lacks sensation. This is evident from the examples of Jonah, Dathan, and Abiram, and other such cases, which it is not the time to recount now. D
IX. Do you wish that the boons gifted to you for free should remain wholly unshaken, and that you should receive even greater ones from God? Act toward Him according to your strength.
For it is absolutely impossible for us to attain to the magnitude of the A benefits received from Him by our works; yet eagerness, as someone said, even if performance is absent, is worthy of honor. Do not, therefore, become the basest repayer of a most beautiful loan, neither fulfilling what is present nor what is lacking by mere will alone. God receives what is owed to Him by us not with His own hands, but with those of the poor and those who are otherwise in need of help. For it is thus likely that He receives from us, and that He in turn bestows upon us. If, when we have the ability to pay back a few things—and these are from those things granted to us by Him—we live in long-standing negligence and defraud Him willingly, how could we justly receive another grace thereafter? And how shall we not certainly lose the one that exists, and be inexorably penalized by the punishment that follows?
B X. That which is to be said is clear from the outset; let it be spoken indeed. He who does not wish to love God is hated by His creatures. He who does not fear Him dreads even the shadows of things. He who does not keep His laws, even if he be great, even if he be brilliant, even if he be filled with all wisdom, shall not have those who obey his decrees, but rather he shall serve those who are no better than slaves. Therefore, let him who wishes to have the goodwill of those over whom he rules, always remain in goodwill toward Him who holds power over all breath, and who furnishes life, and moves every soul toward the good. C For in Him we live, and move, and have our being. And He is the One who exerts in us both the willing and the working for the sake of his good pleasure, as the divine Paul declared.
XI. You must place the Church before all things, for it places you before all things, and it is to you, after God, equal to all. It is for you mother, nurse, teacher, creator, trainer, way and guide, and fellow-worker, and consolation, toward whatever is most beautiful and most lasting. For nothing of those things which its teaching receives is fleeting or corruptible, but is eternal, unpolluted, incorruptible, befitting things eternal, D and unpolluted, and incorruptible. For all things are spiritual, and for this reason eternal, and good, and immovable; which must be preferred to bodily things, as being co-allotted to the present life and being nothing more than that.
XII. To fight against the dogmas of the Church is the same as if one wished to kick against the pricks. Therefore, having bid a long farewell to those who do this—if indeed they cannot be corrected—observe the madness of these men, into what kind of evil it has cast them. For they desire to strike with their heels the Church of God, which He acquired with His own blood; nothing else remains for these men than to wound their own feet with the rashness of their frantic behavior. But I wish you to know these things as a harbor D and a bulwark, and a defensive weapon.
A For when we are pelted by the storms of conflicting thoughts, as soon as we take refuge in these, we find a pure serenity. By the same means, it is permitted to drive away every proud tongue that advances with lying words. Who, then, who truly loves and cherishes the Church—the cause of such great and mighty blessings—and shows an excess of goodness toward those who belong to her, could ever render the gratitude due to her?
XIII
B It is remarkably advantageous and beautiful to do nothing evil, for the excision of evil things is a kind of stepping stone to virtue. It is better to perform some good action, for ends follow upon beginnings. It is most beautiful, when accomplishing some great thing, to attribute the success to God, without whom it is impossible for any of the good things to come into being. The person who is endowed with virtue conducts himself modestly; he renders his soul more splendid. But as for those who, on account of their own deeds (which are indeed great and admirable), exalt themselves magnificently, it is to be feared that, while they perform praiseworthy acts, they themselves might be a detriment rather than a benefit. For they will find God opposed to them, and, as we use the words of the prophet, how shall they be able to stand?XIV
C It is an evil thing not to perform some good when the capacity to do so is present. For we were not created in vain, nor to pass our lives in idleness and be of no use, like stones lying in the deep. It is worse to act wickedly, for we were fashioned for good works. It is the worst of all, when one has committed some evil, to endeavor to attribute the blame to someone else. This evil harmed our first parents in the human race more than the fact that they violated the law in the beginning. Truly, we should not, as they say, pile evil upon evil, as if by intention always heaping up something harmful; but let us either do what is good, or, if we indeed commit evil, let us attribute it to ourselves. For every man who wills it is good; and he who wills it is evil.XV
D Isocrates gives a piece of advice, exhorting one to be pleasant to everyone, but to associate with the very best. Since this maxim is praiseworthy, though not indeed easy, a wise method must be demonstrated by which it can be achieved. For every man thinks himself better than others, and deems himself worthy of receiving greater honors and gifts; and it becomes quite difficult to be considered pleasant by all. One must, however, persevere in labors, spend money, and use dexterity, so that you might succeed in this. For a man who desires the greatest things should not only admire the causes, but must also strive to attain them.XVI
Now the time has come to speak of that which is beautiful to state in itself and which confirms the orator's counsel. Deny no one those things of which he himself is worthy; but be popular toward all, and easy of access; and share—A in honor and treat others with urbanity, and assist all as far as you are able. And if it should be necessary to spend money for the sake of men, do this gladly and cheerfully, so that the work itself may be thought to be one of magnanimity, and not of compulsion. Those things which, when done by a friend for your sake, would be a pleasure to you, these you should perform for others. Thus, you will amass for yourself a friendship that is both as extensive as possible and not least of all, honorable. B
XVII. Indeed, that also seems to relate to this opinion. For I think that those who suggest a beneficial course of action by their advice should be embraced, even if they are of lowly fortune, and even if they are not known to you from anywhere at all. But if anyone should counsel something harmful, if he does so with the intent to deceive, he acts the part of a bitter enemy; but if he does so out of ignorance, while otherwise being well-intentioned, he should be praised for his good intent (for it is by this that our actions are judged by God); yet for his lack of foresight, he should be neither held in contempt nor reproached. For not even God will sit in judgment to pass sentence upon foolish and deranged men. C
XVIII. Now, in this way, the best and most useful of men, and those contrary to them, would, I think, become evident to you, which is of all things most useful for a ruler. Having thoroughly examined their relations—those toward God, those toward life, those toward friends, those toward those related by blood, and toward citizens and strangers, and how they have managed their own affairs, and what things they rejoice in, and at what things they are vexed—you will discover the natures of these men. And having hated no one, you will love those who are to be loved; and using those whom it is better to use, you will not neglect the others. Thus you will love in an orderly manner, and you will remain in the state of loving and being loved. For he who is easily joined to another is more easily separated from him. D This, however, is to be avoided by those who are sensible.
XIX. He who chooses to trust no one would easily destroy himself by this very act; for we all need one another if our life is to endure. Conversely, to trust absolutely everyone is ruinous, since it is impossible for wickedness to be absent from this life. Therefore, anyone who trusts either everyone or no one is lost. But since both are deadly, if one must necessarily choose one of the two, it is better to suffer something on account of confidence than to hold all men without exception as suspects. For the former is an indication of immoderate simplicity; the latter is a clear proof of excessive depravity. Indeed, the smallest part of depravity surpasses all simplicity, as it schemes nothing but the desire to inflict harm. And generally, in the former case, the evil is in the simplicity because of its excess, not its nature; in depravity, however, it is evil for both reasons.
XX. Since the extremes regarding the trust we place in one another have been shown to be blameworthy, one must walk the middle path; I mean, to trust some and not to trust others, so that he who does not wish to be corrupted by either of the two evils may--
-- avoid both. For if you distrust good men, you will certainly trust the wicked, since it is necessary to trust someone. By alternating in an unseemly way, both distrusting and trusting where one ought not, you will easily be destroyed, to a degree that is difficult even to imagine. For flour is produced from grain when it is crushed by two stones; and in this case, it is terrible not only that one stone might destroy, but that either one, even separately, has a marvelous power of destruction.
A XXI. Assuredly, a true friend to you is one who, admitted into the partnership of conducting affairs, puts flattery after what is expedient. But he who serves to capture favor in a way that is harmful differs in no respect from those who pursue with hatred or from enemies themselves—if he is not even worse than enemies, since he deceives by sycophancy and ruins the mind. Indeed, he holds a great advantage over those enemies in this aspect, in addition to being harmful. For those enemies are troublesome and burdensome to us, and each of us is so constituted that we desire to be delivered from one who causes us trouble. But this man, even when he harms, is considered pleasant, and for that reason he seems more worthy of love than of hatred. Furthermore, an enemy can be reconciled, and it is not impossible to bring him down; but this man, being able to remain hidden, stands beyond the reach of any weapon, extending himself toward deceit, from which he feeds while doing injury, and becoming bestial toward those he exploits. And this is a very terrible thing: that he gains by deceiving, and by gaining B he is invited to further deceit; and so the evil proceeds almost infinitely.
XXII. The beauty of the meadows belongs to the flowers; C that of the heavens to the choirs of stars; and the beauty of a ruler belongs to the love of truth. The strength of ships consists in the keel, and of houses in the foundation; but for him whose constant care is the salvation of peoples and cities, it consists in this: that whatever he has promised with a nod of his head, he must keep even for his enemies; and he should consider that it is not worth living if his faith is violated.
He shall truly be considered a lover of truth, not one who turns the fulfillment of promises into a source of profit so that he may feed himself or gain wealth from it. For when the goal set before him is not truth itself, but money, then when he thinks that the truth will not be for his own profit, all pacts and agreements, every promise, every document, and finally everything done, are immediately trampled underfoot; and oaths, and whatever D makes one shudder, are despised, so long as the money is not diminished. Therefore, he who genuinely pursues truth with love is not the one who traffics in it, but the one to whom falsehood, malice, and guile are hateful, as things worthy of hatred in themselves. For lying is something multiform; and those who wish to be immune from this variety and craftiness—the lovers of dear truth—must prove their thoughts, their gestures, and their actions to be free of falsehood in their very deeds, and, in accordance with that Word which forbids swearing, must surpass themselves by keeping faith.
XXIII. Just as iron produces rust, so a rivalrous and envious soul produces hatred, fraud, and other things of that nature.
Sometimes these even injure outsiders, insofar as the envy might touch them; but as for the parents of such envy, it is impossible that it should not eventually consume them entirely, since it is perpetually ingrained within them and naturally accustomed to acting. Yet in the former case, the damage that ruins him is involuntary; but this A latter envy is something of which men are not ignorant. And for this reason, our case is worse, and almost undeserving of forgiveness. For it becomes like this: just as if someone, wishing to burn up any of his enemies, were to accept becoming wood and being handed over to the fire, so that he might burn the one he hates. Envy is, quite frankly, a Satanic thing. For He who is Satan does not undergo punishment or cause others to suffer for any other reason. Moreover, the envious man is also a fool. For his being consumed is a necessary outcome; but that the other is destroyed is not certain. Since, in my view, I think that much wood has B often been reduced to ashes, while it yet failed to consume the material that was difficult to burn. Envy begets fraud, and calumny, and hatred, being itself begotten by emulation. However, envy is not a passion felt by the greatest toward those who are far inferior—in which respect they are greater—nor is it felt by those who are vastly inferior toward those who are highly preeminent, nor by those engaged in different professions and studies; but it falls upon those who are able to contend with one another, and who think that they suffer some loss through the brilliance of their rivals.
XXIV.
I cannot help but embrace the man who avoids everything in excess. My love for this is confirmed by the sayings of the wisest who declare that moderation is the best thing, and "Nothing in excess," and other such things. C Thus, that which is measured and is in the middle becomes, in another way, an extreme relative to the good. Facts harmonize with these words, and demonstrate this quite clearly. For a malicious man and a foolish one, although they are far apart at either extreme, are both nevertheless evil. And nothing prevents them, while they are opposites, from being equally blameworthy. But if anyone avoids wickedness and avoids foolish simplicity, he will be found to have a mind with rectitude, and he will be entirely good. Thus, the ends are evil, and the means, conversely, are good. Furthermore, envying the great deeds of the most excellent men, and, on the contrary, feeling no stimulus at all—since these things are opposed—they happen to be under a very great cause. For the former is the most ancient evil, while the other proceeds from softness; and both are harmful, for no other reason, I think, D than that they have reached the extreme of immoderation. For emulation, simply ingrained in the mind by a desire for praise, if it does not deviate into envy and if it avoids a numbness that is devoid of all pain—where a sense of pain ought not to be absent—could be a certain medium, in my opinion, between these contrary vices; and it will be deemed a good thing. For it will be the fruit of an animosity that impels one toward virtue, if indeed you grant that it is of such a kind as that which would not let Themistocles sleep, stung as he was by the trophy won by Miltiades.A XXV. You shall consider that to be involuntary evil which has been committed solely through ignorance, while it appeared to the doer to be good. For that which is done because of shame, or at the urging of another, or because of some violence, is not purely involuntary. For it is not the case that if something is violent, or has the force of compelling or enticing, or anything else of that sort, it is immediately deemed honest by the one who did it, on account of this circumstance, just because it might be lighter than other evils. Wherefore, unless someone, deceived by opinion, does evil as if it were good, he does not do it in ignorance. But that which does not proceed from ignorance is not involuntary, as was said from the beginning. Furthermore, that which is not done with a good conscience, even if it does not reach the measure of evil, is nonetheless far worse than the thing which is worst and most grievous of all, provided it comes upon us against our will. Let us not, therefore, do evil in order to remedy a greater evil; but let us strive to do whatever we can by human means, so that we do not bring any evil upon ourselves by our own volition. But as for those things whose accomplishment lies solely in the power of God, let us entrust them to God, relying on good hope; and whatever He himself gives, let us bear it with a grateful mind. B XXVI. You must consider that no man, not even those who are endowed with greater power, can harm even the most abject person unless God permits it, whether He be angry or whether He looks to our own advantage. For He has even numbered our hairs, and He takes care of sparrows and even more worthless things. Since these things are so, who could lay hands, so to speak, upon the soul, or at least upon one of its faculties or better dispositions—even if he applies promises, threats, and finally force—if the soul itself does not first assent and admit the stain of corruption? And why do I speak of man? Not even the most cunning spirits, who are most skilled in working mischief, can do this. Wherefore, by first doing those things which are just and agreeable, and then relying on God, let us not be led astray from the path by fears, by violence, or by enticements. But if we should at some time succumb to vices (for immunity from every fall scarcely belongs even to the angels), we must ascribe the sin to ourselves, unless it happened entirely through ignorance. For to those who know that it is evil, and yet nonetheless commit it for some cause, there remains no excuse. C D XXVII. Consider your heart to be, as it were, soil that is productive in itself, yet, owing to that common drought of nature (I speak of the sin of our first parents, because of which we have fallen from all grace), it produces nothing sound. Then, through baptism, it has been purged for God as if by a plow; and through the irrigation of the chrism, it has been brought from being hard to being soft, and from an odor having nothing pleasant to a more fragrant one; finally, it has received the divine commandments as a kind of seed; and through the power of the cup and the table, it nourishes, increases, brings to maturity, and preserves what has been sown. But by the tares of the enemies...
A — meaning, I believe, not so much those of wicked men as of the demons themselves, whose opportunity to sow is the negligence of our own mind; and the power for their growth comes from our own sluggishness in observing the commandments. Thus, evil is truly more our own, belonging to those who have grown weak and fallen, than it is of the enemies from without, whose strength to harm depends entirely upon the slackness of those who admit them. B
XXVIII.
To be persuaded by demons and destructive men, and to reject the counsels of those who exhort us to the worst things, lies within our own power. To accuse the envy and malice of others, while freeing ourselves from all blame whenever we commit any evil, is a vain pretext and the utmost delusion; for no one in all existence could ever have persuaded anyone who did not want to be persuaded. For how could that be? Thus, being persuaded is a matter of the will. And this is voluntary and our own, not from without. If, therefore, being persuaded happened to us by force, I would have used a different argument with you; but since it is a matter of our own choice, and the sole master of this is he who possesses it, the points made are sufficient. For these are enough to show that a man is good if he wishes to be, and becomes evil because he wishes to be — which is what absolutely needed to be demonstrated. We must therefore hold in contempt those things that beguile and terrify the multitude, and let it be determined that those things are alone to be pursued which unite us to the good Lord, and that all things are to be fled and are to be feared which are able to set that only fearsome One against us. CXXIX.
It is a matter worthy of many tears that we, having received the power to become children of God, then desire to be slaves; and having obtained God as a helper against the passions and the demons, we flee from this help as if avoiding it, and appear weaker than those enemies. And when He extends His hand, we retract ours; and though He is able to give us the means to reverse our defeat, and is willing to bestow this upon us, we all but spit upon the grace. But even without this extraordinary aid and help, since it is possible for all who choose to be good, it is wretched not to wish it. For by this alone we turn from good into base men. Indeed, our nature in its origin was entirely good, and it received the power to persevere in the good. And if it is just that the turning to evil be imputed to the will, the same must be done for the opposite. It suffices, therefore, to will and to do what is right, since it would be easy to gain the victory, even if a trophy has been erected against us by someone. DXXX.
All things depend upon their own beginning, and this is true also of our own affairs. For it is impossible that, if the beginning is fragile, those things which follow it should be fixed and stable. Let the beginning, then, of our affairs — the base, the root, and whatever else might be called such — be the primary movement of the soulif you please, even some extraneous impulse towards it: to which one must pay heed correctly, and not set about anything rashly, if one wishes to be a good man. For everything must be done with consideration, judgment, counsel, and conscience, and at every point the leading roles must be assigned to what is honorable. One should proceed slowly in deciding; but once you have consulted correctly, you should run with both feet. Likewise, things that happen to present themselves should not be done in a confused manner; but always the first things first. For there is great power in order; and not to delight in procrastination—which has been the ruin of many who were otherwise most excellent while they were doing various things—is vital. A XXXI. It would certainly be a divine matter, and for those to whom that faculty has been granted by the same [God], to choose the better things over the worse always. Nevertheless, one ought to strive to recognize by all means what things seem to be best of all; and, having recognized them, to do them, and not to be sated with such things. For as the first [part] belongs to God, so the second falls to man. For those are necessarily of necessity more capable of attaining virtue than others, or at least of drawing closer to it, who, with their eyes fixed on that which is honorable, always look to the actions and opinions of the best men, not the masses, and then observe the outcomes of these; and they use those things which the outcomes themselves have proven to be good as though they were rules, and they constitute the contrary ones as teachers for themselves, so that they might not fall into the same evils. B XXXII. It is a very pleasant thing to be instructed, not by suffering after having stumbled, but by avoiding something bitter, having become more experienced through the error of another. Most men, however, as it appears, neglect this matter and await their own calamities in order to be instructed by them: taking upon themselves a lesson that one often compensates for with the payment of damage that is hardly repairable. They are accustomed to say that a physician who has attained this name through knowledge is not equal to one who has [personally] fallen into various diseases. But you, if you only wish, will be able to become more experienced even without suffering, if you consider the calamities of others as your own, and avoid their causes; and indeed you will achieve this as accurately as if it happened that you yourself had fallen into adverse circumstances. C XXXIII. That the desire of men, consisting of dust and spirit, should incline now upwards, now downwards, would certainly be nothing new. But it is necessary that the most excellent man should not immediately be expugnable by the impressions of pleasures, angers, and fears, which we see happening to the effeminate, who surrender themselves even to the very forerunners of the enemy; but he must remain undisturbed, seeking to be firm and looking to the end of each matter. For to run quickly to the principles of things as they emerge, which are accustomed to flatter with sweet beginnings, while their ends are hidden, would hardly befit men who are not insane. Therefore, endeavor to be firm and stable, and, looking to the end, act; and
before this do not even set your hand to it: so that, according to Homer, A it may honor you, both young and old. I would add, furthermore, that you should be feared by the enemy, loved by the subject; and that your friend may admire you, and your kinsman may admire you, and all may be struck with wonder at the deeds you have performed.
[XXXIV] It is by no means anything lofty, nor of the greatest prudence, nor of a very noble character, not to remain unmoved by the first, so to speak, inspirations of deeds and thoughts—unless, perhaps, you would say it is noble to run immediately to a harmful thing presented before you, and to embrace it at once. For since even to irrational creatures a certain power has been implanted by nature, by which they distinguish what is advantageous from what is harmful, if we who are alone honored with reason do not even come to be their equals—but while nature suffices for them, in us the faculty of reason also languishes—how is this not altogether miserable? How is it not full of disgrace?
345 [XXXV] The hawk, the horse, and the fish are naturally accustomed to perform what is to their advantage *according to* reason, not *with* reason. So we, much more, should perform things that are in accordance with reason *with* reason, since nature itself demands that we recoil from a harmful principle as if it were something repulsive. They, indeed, cannot rightly be blamed, as they serve anger and desire, for they do not possess a rational soul as the guide of their actions. But we, who are adorned with reason, ought to set the mind as a charioteer over these more irrational passions, so that the rational faculty may be active, and that gift—by which we are distinguished from other animals—may remain in its rightful place. For it would have been better not to have received the grace at all, than to have received it from God and then to make evil use of it.
[XXXVI] Just as for the irrational animals that which is *according to* reason [is appropriate], so for the rational [animals] that which is *with* reason. But this of ours is much greater than that which is in them. For in them there is an instinctive appetite for such things as are a safeguard for their life, and which cause the species itself to last as long as possible. Our nature also has this in common with them, while they are completely destitute of that which is uniquely ours. For that which is *in* reason is also *according to* reason; but that which is *according to* reason is not also necessarily *in* reason; since it is not necessary that these should correspond as equals. This gift is indeed the peculiar property of the immortal soul alone; that, however, falls even into nature that is devoid of consciousness. It is therefore a matter full of profound shame and loss not to live even according to reason, when those who were obliged to live *with* reason prefer to live like irrational creatures, and do not even come to be their equals. For having willingly fallen from the high point—I mean that of living with reason—one might fittingly say that we are being rushed along and passing by those irrational creatures who remain in their proper place, and who preserve the order from the beginning given to them, and who live according to reason. For of our own accord we, cast down from the lofty height which is, in fact, to live with reason, will easily allow ourselves to be outrun, while...
we precipitate ourselves, being even bereft of the reason by which beasts remain within their own limits, keep the order prescribed to them from the beginning, and live according to reason.
A XXXVII. The true fruit of a mind suitable for command is to be impelled toward the good, to abhor the evil, and to be diligently intent upon things that are publicly beneficial. The noblest love is the love of glory, and he who pursues the causes themselves for which men are wont to be loved, to admire what is stable, to laugh at what is fleeting; to hate evil, to be a student of what is honorable; to be aptly disposed toward the good, and conversely, toward the learning of what is evil, to be inept, or if you prefer, quite averse in spirit. And indeed, you shall consider it your first priority to keep as far away as possible from such teachings, and that many things must be learned which can make you better: seeking to grasp the more perfect things, and doing so as thirstily as if you had not tasted learning at all from its beginning. For it is right that he by whose nod and judgment the people are led should, just as he hates evils, pursue with an insatiable longing the things that are good.
B XXXVIII. Consider calumnies as trifles, unless they touch you deservedly; and I understand this to be the case when it is possible to accomplish some good, but it cannot be brought about otherwise than by enduring them. For if a false charge can be avoided, it is certainly worth a high price to do so. For a man of princely rank must not treat even an unjust complaint against himself as a thing of no value. For falsehood has destroyed many, or, if they remained safe, it has harmed them. But if the matter cannot be otherwise managed, persist in honorable deeds; and desire rather to be a good man than to be thought one. And therefore it shall be enough for you if it is evident to God, to yourself, and to good men—whom you will not be able to elude for long, even if you wish—that you are good. You shall also consider this: that to all things which seem to be most excellent, something not good is also attached. And secret detractions accompany, as a necessary thing, those who are endowed with power, to whom mortals are accustomed openly to flatter. Nevertheless, if true charges are spread against you, bear them patiently, and correct yourself; and consider the occasion for correction a benefit, though an involuntary one. But if you are harassed by false reproaches, let Christ console you, who suffered many things of this kind, and still suffers; and in addition to this, reflect that other actions of yours, perhaps not such as they should have been, are unknown to some or even to all. Set these things against those, and you will more easily bear being slandered.
D XXXIX. Juniors should use the opinions of their elders as a kind of foundation upon which to build, if they are able to add anything more. And indeed I do not think anyone at all could justly blame us if, looking upon those ancients, and taking their precepts as principles, we bring our own works to perfection. Therefore a certain distinguished man, Pythagoras by name, said: For having grieved over evil deeds, chastise yourself, and conversely for those that are right, take pleasure. The poem itself is most excellent, and is called Golden. It would be, however, in my opinion, even more golden and more perfect if it advised one to abstain from the evils, and to perform the most beautiful deeds -
and is called Golden. It would be, however, in my opinion, even more golden and more perfect if it advised one to abstain from the evils, and to perform the most beautiful deeds, and that because of abstinence from things which are not good, one should in no wise exalt oneself (for what has sloth in common with the elation of the soul?), but that one should take perpetual delight in the use of the best things, and from this very fact should recognize that those things whose use one enjoys are of the highest quality, if no satiety of them takes hold of one. For of things which are truly good, it is not possible ever to have a surfeit.
[M'] XL. Nature has established certain limits, as it were, both for herself and for things, and he who desires to live in the best manner must seek out the knowledge of these, and love this pursuit; and, finally, must desire to contain himself within these very limits, and consider that one ought not to live otherwise. For he who does not know what is fair and right, how could he love it in that manner? Or how, if he does not love it, could he perform it? How, if he does not perform it, could he arrive at the habit? How, being ignorant of what is good, could he turn out "good," as it is said in the poem, or be considered good by the good? And what hope of emendation is there for him who lacks even a sense of his failing, does not bear evil with displeasure, and in no way seeks correction?
[MA'] XLI. Do not cease to examine frequently the things which have been done by you, and use those which have been performed by you in the best possible way as rules for all the rest of your life; but as for those which had a harmful outcome, charge yourself to beware of them. For thus, surely, a merchant is also accustomed to do, and everyone who strives to obtain profit. Calculate daily your loss as well as your gains; and if events have turned out prosperously, be glad; but if an adverse outcome has happened in any matter, study to remedy it. Consider virtue as a thing more divine, and vice as that which it is—namely, an evil; so that you may, as it were, dance in the gardens of the one, but reject the stench of the other: flee the latter, and pursue the former. For everyone desires to remain longer in that which he admires, and to be removed from that which he disapproves.
[MB'] XLII. It is a vain thing to be fortified with iron, if one is destitute of divine power; it is superfluous to keep watch, to be consumed by cares. If we are bereft of this power, vain is the force of guards, and of citadels, and of great armies and clever stratagems. If you are a partaker of it, my dearest son, even things full of difficulty will appear to you easy and smooth. You will obtain this invincible aid if you begin all things prompted by just causes, and end in what is humane, and look more to the public utility than to private interest; for in this way, you will both yourself imitate God, and present yourself to your own people as someone to be imitated.
[Mr'] XLIII. There is a custom received among the masses, that he who attempts a thing which he cannot accomplish is said to cut the hydra. He who places private advantages before public ones transfers this image to himself; for the good of each one is contained within the common good. Certainly, neither for a private individual nor for a ruler is it permitted to be happy in isolation. For it behooves the head to be concerned for the members, and in turn for the members to be concerned for the head.
if the animal is to be constituted and preserve itself in integrity. For a limb that has been severed, once it has been torn from the company of the rest and exists by itself, is by that very fact dead. The same necessarily happens to a head severed from the limbs; for neither head nor limbs can live apart.
[XLIV] It is altogether difficult for one who has committed some minor evil not to slide into greater vices: just as it is for one who has done some good not to attain what is better. For a vicious deed is accompanied by harm, which makes the evil more serious. But good things are like a chain, linked to one another, of which no part can be grasped without, through it, somehow grasping the one next to it, and through that one again another, and simply, through every part, one grasps them all. Therefore, intent upon noble deeds and those that bring glory, take care not to do even the smallest thing that is not praiseworthy. For habit begins from small things, and the additions of the most trivial things, unless some obstacle intervenes, progress into the infinite, and will necessarily overcome even the greatest bodies.
[XLV] If you desire to be a leader and to attain the greatest goods, command your mind not to neglect thoughts that will bring even a small fruit; but let it eagerly admit all things by which we are made better. If anything even slightly relaxes the tension of the soul, or hinders it from inclining toward better things, do not admit it at all. For both evil and good, once they have slipped into our thoughts, are accustomed to pass into deed and, proceeding along a path, to harden into a stable habit; and this, growing with the faculties of the soul, will strive to appear equal to them, which surely cannot happen, as it is impossible for them to be changed.
[XLVI] You will act rightly, and indeed very laudably, if you choose the best things instead of pleasant ones, when both are not permitted. This was spoken by the orator, and as it is pleasing to God, so it has been practiced by good men. If you know that something will end in destruction, oppose its beginning, even if it is charming, even if it is pleasant, and even if it promises infinite pleasure. For evil is truly evil and it is plain folly either to begin what you do not intend to finish, or, when you see bait attached to iron, to swallow both because of the desire for one. If minds have not been corrupted by some vice, that which is pleasant for a time, but has pain as its perpetual companion, can in no way be acceptable.
[XLVII] It is common to all mortals that something can happen to them against their will; but to admit things that are harmful by one’s own choice is not even proper to the brute beasts, since it has been demonstrated previously that the contrary is true. Have you been caught once? Take care not to be caught twice, lest you be caught more often, depraved by habit; and do not, through frequent theft, become vicious and, filled entirely with baseness, find it difficult to return to the good. For he who...
A For one who has arrived at the extreme of evils, it is not easy to return to the summit of goods. A ruler must realize that it is not possible for him to escape notice if he is evil. For the eyes of all are fixed upon him, and he is armed to take up struggles on behalf of all, more than those who once contended for glory at the Panathenaea. It is no wonder if one who struggles should fall, but to wish to lie prostrate is exceedingly absurd. For the former can happen for many reasons, but the latter is to be attributed solely to the will. A man may even be thrown down while wrestling and nevertheless, before judges who are experts in these matters, carry off glory instead of blame. For it is the part of a man to undertake things with a ready spirit; frustrated hope belongs to fortune.
B XLVIII. Our life flows in a perpetual course, and outside of movement it has no rest. But this continuous course, after this life is finished, settles into something entirely immovable, whether good or evil. At our feet, like streams on either side, flow the occasions of both good and evil. The cup is in our hands, and it is possible to draw from whichever one might wish. Human affairs are like a marketplace, and those who have a mind for profit can do everything—sell, exchange, buy. Therefore, it is entirely and clearly blameworthy to exchange copper for gold. It is shameful to sell glory for talents. It is terrible to betray liberty for any reason at all. It is utterly foolish—to sum up all the things mentioned, and all evils together—to purchase the temporary at the price of the eternal. C
XLIX. There is a certain ancient opinion, enduring even to this day, that evils, after they have inflicted a wound and flown away, repay us with an unregretted pleasure, while pleasant things do the opposite. To me, however, it occurs to think something more paradoxical here, though that ancient opinion remains true. For I hold that pleasures are in some way mixed with pains, and pains with pleasures, throughout the whole of time, while the soul, which is to be the end of both, looks back: it is tormented by the inevitable punishment of the wickedness committed here, as often as it is occupied with delights; yet on account of the pleasure, it perceives a joy proposed to those who are afflicted in hardships. Thus, nothing in human life can be purely free from mixture, since the body itself consists of contrary elements, necessarily seeking things akin to them, and at variance with one another. D
L. I would have you consider this to be the definition of sin in any matter: to take what are, so to speak, subaltern ends, and many things that merely pertain to the end, as the most perfect ends of things to be done by mortals. For in my view, this alone, among all things, seems to be the root of every sin. Thus it happens that one who knows how to distinguish as one ought (let this be said as a hypothesis, for it is not possible for a man to arrive at such knowledge unless he is divinely aided)—he who is therefore able to discern correctly the ends and the things directed toward them, and further, the one
A fines, both those that concern them, and those that are directed toward them, and furthermore that most perfect end toward which all of nature tends (God, I say, placed above all things), and who wishes to do what he knows to be better: such a man will not fail in deeds, nor in words, nor in thoughts, nor by any faculty, or movement, or disposition, or affection of the soul.
LI. It is manifest that a king is established as a legislator and judge of his subjects; a man over men, a mortal over mortals; superior to others in nothing except dignity. But that same man will also be a good king, and a useful legislator, and a most excellent judge, if he establishes for himself a prince, a legislator, and a judge, and according to his powers imitates that eternal Emperor who placed the scepter in his hands, who, as He offered Himself to all in the universe, so especially to kings as a certain formula, and norm, and law, not less by deeds than by words; by whose just nod, finally, this universality of things is governed. Wherefore he who refuses to serve Him, or seeks things diverse from those which have been done or are approved by Him, is altogether a slave, altogether a bondsman, neither holy nor sane, and he shall never have done any good in any way whatsoever. B
LII.
NB.
Some are corrected by examples, others are bent by speech; some stand in need of the goad, others of the bridle. This is the voice of divine Gregory. Become all things to all men, that which is in your power, as it may be expedient for each C one, so that you might certainly win some, as that divine Apostle speaks. For it cannot be that [you win] all, since not even God Himself—for that cause made man—could win all. But do not desire to please all men. "For if I were still pleasing men, I would not be a servant of Christ," says the same Apostle. Flee everywhere from the arrogance that pleases only itself, that companion of solitude, as Plato judges. For even our Savior did not please Himself, as it is written, but he looked toward this one thing perpetually: that He might make the good better and correct the evil, changing their minds. For since all things are so ordered that they attract by affinity, but avert by diversity; and for Him to be confirmed to the customs of the wicked so as to entice them to His own society, was not at all appropriate (for this would not have become a man, much less God), it was more fitting that this rather be chosen: that He might convert them to His own communion and lead them by the hand to salvation. This is the method you must use when you wish to correct those living wickedly. DLIII.
NI'.
The crown of kings is distinguished, and most beautifully woven, when the strength of the body is mixed with intelligence. But if erudition is absent from power, then that strength itself, and whatever else is of that kind, besides the fact that it carries no good with it, also provides more frequent occasion for harm. For neither will a spirited and robust horse be of use to an unskilled rider. When, therefore, even that which is an inherent good of nature is harmful, being unlearned and lacking education, with how many labors and how much diligence [is it required] to purchase thelearning! A Indeed, it is a fine and pleasant spectacle, and also an encouragement toward good, to see youth both eager to learn and willing to practice what they have learned. For sound understanding belongs not merely to those who are intelligent, but to those who put it into action. Since there are two conditions—ruling and being a private citizen—and each is divided into acting rightly and acting otherwise, it is surely a noble pair to combine both, that is, to rule and to rule well. Nor would he be without praise who, content with his lot, protects the way of private life as best he can. It remains, however, that it is a very wicked thing for one who abuses power to offend God and his own conscience for the sake of empty glory, wealth, and sloth.
LIV. B Nothing is accustomed to instill sorrow in you as much as being given over to desires. For he who desires must necessarily seek; but in life, failures are more frequent. And one who hoped to find many things will scarcely obtain a few. This is the root of being consumed by grief. Thus, suffering pain from desires happens for the most part. It follows, therefore, that those who have a mind should restrain the lusts of the soul, so that by being frustrated in their hope, they may suffer smaller stings of soul. For otherwise, certain bitter accidents in the life of mortals also beset us, and it is easier for a man to become a bird than to be purely freed from these. But if they happen to come, one who judges it better to bear what cannot be corrected—knowing it is impossible to drive away pain with pain—does not experience them so terribly.
LV. A certain poet, wishing to proclaim philosophy, C spoke this sentiment: "Nowhere can a life free from pain be found." All will easily agree with this, as experience teaches that it is true. To me, indeed, the man seems to have explained the matter clearly. For everyone knows this from their own adversities, so that one can even instruct others about the evils of life. That man is to be considered a true philosopher who proves himself a philosopher more by deeds than by words. Such a person is he who, when a choice of goods is proposed, selects the better; and when evils arrive, receives the lighter, and who uses what is good rightly, and attempts to bear what is burdensome so as to feel as little pain as possible.
LVI. D There is nothing more pleasant than peace, I do not mean only that private peace of each individual, but also that public peace among rulers. And I prefer this one by far to the former, inasmuch as it is useful to the many and provides great resources to the other for the maintenance of their household. Therefore, if it is possible, as that great Apostle commands, maintain peace with all, and be the author of no evil; rather, strive even to hinder those who are. Do not wage war against brothers in Christ, nor against...
any other person, or barbarian nation, that has entered into a treaty with you, which it itself wishes to be considered holy and inviolable. Against those, however, who wish to inflict injuries, you must in all respects show yourself a man. For it is not good to be entirely unmoved toward defense, but rather to be slow to anger. A
LVII.
NZ'
I do not doubt that all would admit that a man is foolish who considers any human being whatsoever to be an alien. For we are all descended from one [ancestor], even if we are distinguished by language and by other things, or even by religion itself. Wherefore it is fitting for a man to have regard for men, and to desire good things for all, as much as it is possible, and right, and permitted. For nature is common, and one is the foundation for all, and one the roof, and one the light, and one the air spread out by the Creator. And, simply put, the things that proceed from Him are common. Nevertheless, one must distinguish what is nearer from what is further away (for there are many degrees of relationship); and while you should wish good for all in accordance with your own [nature], you should behave in a more genuine manner toward those who are closer, in proportion to their degree of kinship. B
LVIII.
NH'
At the time when a shipmaster enjoys a favorably blowing and gentle breeze that fills his sails, when there is, of course, great serenity, and no circumstance threatens any difficulty, he is not openly happy because of that prosperity before he has seen to it that the ship is sound, so as not to have to fear a harsher change. And even if he has done all things pertaining to safety, and even if he sees that the vessel is stronger than the winds and the force of the waves stirred up by them, he nevertheless neither praises recklessness nor admires indolence, but watches, and fears, and desires the harbor, since the die of fate and chance is unknown to him. C When, therefore, your successes flow with the tide, and you enjoy the blessings of peace, let military matters be your care, and exercise yourself as if for war; and prepare your subjects for this. At the same time, trust in good hope, and strengthen yourself so that you do not become sluggish; but also train your mind to avoid being reckless, should you gain victory over your enemies. Finally, fearing the unseen nature of fortune, always consider that it is possible for you to slip. For it is difficult for those who do not know how to conduct themselves with moderation to bear success well; and it is almost impossible for the same people to bear unexpected calamity with a calm mind. D
LIX.
NΘ'
Do not consider this also to be of slight importance for excellent governance. For all princes ought to diligently procure tranquility for their own souls, as much as they possibly can. For as clouds bring storm, so serenity produces tranquility; and just as disturbances, an effeminate and remiss life, fear, recklessness, and whatever is similar to both are wont to hinder the light of thoughts most of all, so, conversely, reflections appropriately established and free from disturbance can, above all else, deliver a man from difficulty: when it can be attained that previously gained glory may be increased according to one's powers, and also that one may provide for goods while continuing as one is; and if one understands these things well, let not...
A you succumb to misfortunes, nor be puffed up by prosperity, nor be softened by comforts, considering it your duty to be slothful; so that, by the nobility of your soul, having freed yourself from evils which seem unavoidable (for it is necessary, being a man, to participate in them), you may manifest a flourishing kingdom by the greatness of your nature.
LX. B I will impart to you what you should do, after the manner of those who spur on runners, as Plato says. You shall be a slanderer to no one, serving anger or seeking favor; nor shall you lash out with insults at an unfortunate man, who is rather worthy of compassion, if one does not wish to forget our common nature. Even one of the sages outside the faith said that insulting speech is not reckoned a crime to those who suffer it, but to its authors. Furthermore, you ought either to persuade those to whom this vice is a pleasure, and who heap frequent mockery upon their brothers, to abstain from this malady, or to exert yourself by all means to restrain them from such action. For it would be a vice in one in power, if he were able to check the vices of others, to let them proceed freely.
LXI. C You ought to desire to perform this also, both yourself and whoever intends to rule, that a certain urbanity be mingled with your gifts, and that the giving itself be brought to its end with the greatest possible speed. A measure must be applied to these things, which conforms to your own powers and to the professions and qualities of those who receive the favor. For if one does not act altogether with a sense of decorum, but gives either too rustically, or deliberately delays when it was possible to shorten the time; and if he gives a dog to a sailor, but an oar to a hunter, and to a soldier ten horses, but a miserable pony to a general of soldiers: such a favor will be ungracious, and for many reasons will bring the greatest harm.
LXII. D With time divided into three—into today, tomorrow, and yesterday—no part of these is ours if we wish to examine the truth more accurately. For yesterday has passed; tomorrow has not yet arrived; and today, upon which we seem to stand, exceeds the ingenious contrivances of the wonder-worker Daedalus in the magnitude of its deception. For that which is cut off in a mere moment of time flows away, having been thought to be held, and slips away before it is properly understood. Moreover, we enjoy some things better when they are in hope than when they come closer to us. For things hoped for, before they are accomplished, escape the senses, and cause more distress by flying away than they bestow joy by their arrival. Or rather, all our affairs, if one considers them accurately, pass us by like flying birds. Conversely, we also pass by them as they pass us in their perpetual course. And what is most serious, no remedy can be devised; for these things happen according to the law of nature. Truly, the things of this life are a shadow, a dream, smoke, an imposture.
A LXIII. Every substance hastens in its own flux to its end. The things of this life here are borne along in a similar course; for there is in them no stability, no substantial good, no permanence. Many are the turmoils among them, and they fill our life with much unpleasantness, and as they pass by, they pass us by. And if something should offer itself to anyone that appears slightly more pleasant, it departs from us, having barely been greeted, just as is wont to happen when couriers riding horses run into each other, bearing some news from distant parts to other distant parts, and not allowing themselves to be delayed. To such a degree is the encounter with those things which seem good to us a worthless good. From this one might infer that things subject to generation and corruption, because they desire the true and immovable life, hasten their departure from these deceptive things, loathing to be always carried about in errors.
LXIV. Truly, there is nothing of which it is so fitting for a man to be sparing as the loss of time. For riches, and glory, and a throne, and other such things, if lost, can be recovered, and can even be acquired again in greater measure, albeit not without significant difficulty; but time, once lost, can never be found again. For it ever flows like a river; and that which has passed by becomes further removed from us. And the life of mortals produces the same result. They are like a ship and the waves; the latter drifting downward, the former struggling with sails against the current: the encounter of these maybe rapid, but the separation is more rapid; and that they should join again is not among the things that can be B achieved. Since this is the case, time must be diverted toward the cultivation of character and habits, lest, having altogether flowed past, it should never return again for our use and benefit.
LXV. You will consider that it pertains to us, more than to all other mortals, not to expend time—which cannot be redeemed by money, nor acquired by labors, nor compensated by friendships—upon anything superfluous, but to spend it according to the requirements of rest and food, and those things without which we cannot be well, and, before all things, according to the requirements of devotion to the Divinity and the administration of public affairs. And if some matter should press, even the body should be neglected. But public affairs will be well managed by you if you are anxious about them day and night, and give good men the power to speak freely with you. Furthermore, it will be of the greatest advantage to you, to your soul, and to public and private matters, if for a pauper being oppressed by someone, access to you, no one forbidding, should lie open.
LXVI. It is clear that he who with authority governs nations should not seek to avoid the increase of the matters at hand, since to seek such is not subject to reasonable reproach. It is necessary, however, to be content with what is present, and to act by means of which one may obtain greater goods; and having attained them, one should not wish to raise one’s eyebrows; and if the attempts D fail, one should endeavor to be free from sorrow, entrusting the whole to God, to whom not even...
A a thing that is not very good has come to pass. How could any pious man have the opposite to say? For if, to the children of the Greeks, being slaves to fortune and fate, it seemed that they ought to endure whatever proceeded from them, surely it will not seem otherwise to us, to embrace the things of Providence. Moreover, if the flowers are given colors and an inestimable beauty, and the birds, which do not gather nor store in barns, are fed by the Creator, is it possible that He would have no concern for man? But if God, being good, is concerned and cares for us, what argument could one have for excessive grief, or even for not being grateful, when our affairs are managed in this way or that? This belongs to a very hard soul, if indeed it is granted to be B faithful.
LXVII
Wealth is enjoyed by one person, not because he admires the gold, but because he is able to do good for himself and for those in need with it. Another, being insatiable by nature and having the amassing of wealth as his only end, even when he has acquired it, is distressed and, like the foolish rich man, laments and weeps, saying, "What shall I do? How shall I manage? For my harvest is fruitful, and the vats cannot contain the grapes, and every tree is heavy with fruit for me, and there is nothing empty at home." And one who is detached from glory, and because of this [thinks] he is safe from the darts of envy, having assumed that life is not worth living for him if he is not worshiped—after he has obtained it and felt the darts of envy—neither does he derive pleasure from it, and because he is oppressed by envy, he wishes for death himself. Yet another does the opposite. C And indeed, all our circumstances seem different to different people. And the very same things are sometimes good, sometimes not so, not because of their own nature, but because of the disposition of men toward them. So that both tranquility and pleasure, and also being troubled and afflicted, would depend more upon our own judgments than upon the nature of the things themselves.LXVIII
That is the meaning of a certain poet, though using other words, that there is no calamity which we cannot bear. Whereas he referred this to nature, I attribute it to free will. For it is this that makes us good or not good. For that common nature is one and the same, without distinction, for slaves, masters, and all mortals alike. For we are all sons of Adam, the one who came from clay, formed by the hand of God. But any man becomes either noble, or steadfast, or the opposite, D through his own will. For one who is wholly given over to the things of the present life—things which are not stable—how could he remain calm? How could he be without sorrow? But he who uses reason, considering nothing of this earth to be of value, mocking the clay, desiring immortality, and knowing himself to be a traveler to the country above, endures the terrible things, knowing them to be transient and serving as a purgative for his soul when it suffers some human misfortune. And of the pleasant things in this life, as one who is mortal and not partaking of things immortal, he will bear the loss of them much more lightly and with less pain than others.A Job is pronounced blessed more for his sufferings than for his deeds, even though these were such and so great that God Himself praised their author. Now if the experience of hardships has rendered the worker of noble deeds more illustrious, how will this remedy not also profit those who have committed many evils? At any rate, having entrusted the helm of our life to God, whenever we enjoy a prosperous voyage, we should attribute that facility to Providence, giving thanks to Him and being modestly joyful; but whenever some wave approaches, let us not be baptized by the disaster. For he who does not use pleasant things according to reason is overwhelmed by painful things as if by a deluge. For the one remains as a provider for the other; and if we should appear unapproved in both, we will procure for ourselves the greatest B ignominy now, and eternal shame for the future.
LXX.
Let a good man be judged by you not by fortune, but by his conduct: not he who has great power, but he who promotes the best interests of those over whom he has been placed; not he who possesses much buried gold, but he who behaves magnificently by giving to his friends; not he who is surrounded by herds of slaves, but he who, bearing nothing servile in his soul, rules himself, and is not at all enslaved to base things. He deems proud and irascible manners, such as befall injurious men—kicking out like horses, insolent gaits, contempt for others, necks stiff in every direction, and what they call delicate gestures—alien to excellent and upright men. Nor indeed is that man to be considered thrifty who is a burden to others by his own greatness; but rather he whom excellent men wish everything favorable, for whom they congratulate him when he enjoys success, and with whom they sympathize when he suffers anything sad. Does this man seem to you to be the most excellent of all? And do you desire to be loved by all men in the same way, as they deem you to be an excellent man, just as he is loved? I am indeed persuaded so. It behooves you, therefore, imitating the good, to imitate their conduct. Admire them, I say, and flee from those who are otherwise disposed.
LXXI.
Beware of being troubled in your soul by the successes of the wicked, and do not emulate one who acts wickedly, even if he surpasses C Alexanders, if he surpasses Cyruses, if he surpasses Caesars, D even if he surpasses everyone in wealth and glory. And if someone, infamous for sacrileges, robberies, and assaults, a contemner of the Divine, and a violator of laws, should rule the Scythians and reduce to his dominion the ends of the entire inhabited and uninhabited world, let him not appear admirable to you on account of the bulk of his empire. For he is not blessed, he is not a prince, he is not a king, he is not truly a man, even if every stone, every animal, the whole nature of men, and every animate and inanimate thing were to say so; but as far as power is concerned, he is more ridiculous even than those who play the parts of princes on the stage; and as far as life is concerned, he is more wretched than those possessed by leprosy and sores. For those who are lamented and not…
reprehended are those whose lot is truly to be pitied; but him, as he deserves, we pursue with hatred and hiss him off the stage.
LXXII. It is possible for him who lives with good men to acquire good things; but he who associates himself with the wicked loses his own mind, as the poet said. For whatever the character of men may be, such they are able to exhibit to others. For you will not draw from a fountain any water other than what is always flowing from it. Therefore, associate with the good so that you may become good; and in your conversations with them, contribute something of gravity and what is becoming to the dignity of a prince. As for a harmful tongue, drive it away, just as you would drive away a bee striking with its sting. If you continue to act in this way, you will appear most excellent not only to good men but to all. For from the characters of those who are dear to princes, the characters of the princes themselves are judged, for as he said: B
"Each one is such as the company he delights to keep."
To a prince, even reputation is not without its use. For a bird with only one wing will neither escape evil nor will it attain any good.
LXXIII. Prudence, fortitude, justice, and temperance have long been praised above the other virtues; but I would wish charity and moderation not to be separated from this choir of virtues. For whether one were to enumerate the more excellent ones, or to offer the whole through parts, it was not right that these should be absent from them. For if charity be absent, I profit nothing; and if moderation be not present, all things will be in vain. Embrace, therefore, all the virtues, and especially these six.
LXXIV. C Sobriety is an excellent thing: it is a bad thing not to look out for oneself soberly. For many, not through ignorance but through negligence, have brought harm upon themselves by considering evil to be good. For they say that vices are attached to the virtues, and are in a way their neighbors; and it is not at all difficult for one who is not attentive to be deceived. You may find many boasters who have embraced the vice adjacent to virtue in place of virtue itself. I have seen extreme servitude which was called "providence," and irascibility which was called "fortitude," and infinite other such things. Therefore, there is need of great vigilance so that we may be free from this deception. D For to the young, there is nothing more useful than a serious zeal for good things, just as, on the contrary, there is nothing more harmful than negligence. But he who is given to sleep, and loves to lie idly and be slothful, will easily lose, in many ways as I suppose, what has been gathered, perhaps through paternal zeal or some chance of fortune; and as for the things he has not yet attained, he will have acquired nothing at all.
LXXV. As bread is food for the body, so is good doctrine for the soul. Just as, therefore, it is not fitting to blush when we eat, so one must receive doctrines without being ashamed. For it is not, it is not a great thing for
one to be able to compete with his peers, if he is A ashamed at being defeated. In the case of food, necessity itself defines the measure for each person, but here there is a need for more. And there, truly, that which is smooth and monochromatic is healthier and more serious; here, however, a diverse exercise in all good things is a fine thing. And for food, the shortest time is more appropriate, but for learning, the time is one’s whole life, if that be possible; for it is noble for the soul to be initiated into something good, even when it is being separated from the body.
LXXVI
It is a noble thing for a man endowed with great power to defraud no one, nor to rise up against others, nor to injure anyone, unless someone does not cease from injuring and wishes to dance upon you. It is a good thing for one provided with the greatest advantages to be content with the presence of what is good, if it is not possible to obtain an increase without honorable fame. And indeed, I consider it to be no less of an increase to keep safe what is present, especially in times which can bring the greatest detriment. Nor must that be passed over in silence: B know that the damage inflicted on the public interest by your ministers will be imputed to you by those who have received the harm; if, when you could have used the labors of better men, or at least corrected the others, you were unwilling to do that and neglected this, and thus chose to ensure that the wicked might have more power under you than the good.
LXXVII
Let arrogance be absent from your character, as well as dissimulation. For as the latter is base—because it is feigned, and is the mark of an inert and degenerate mind—so the former is grievous, because it is overly proud and carping. It is enough not to trust the praises of others more than your own self, when they are not true, nor to utter anything harsh or becoming to a boastful man: do not walk with haughtiness, nor lift your eyebrows, even if those who give the applause speak the truth. But to act as though coy with regard to the praises bestowed by others, and to C say little about yourself while thinking great things, is something almost theatrical and needy of a mask, which in no way becomes you. A noble deed is a brilliant herald. Modesty in a man who has accomplished great things sets up a double trophy: both from the good deeds themselves, and from his not being puffed up by them. But he who does great things, yet speaks great things, and would all but fly owing to his achievements, becomes burdensome and grievous even to those who enjoy the benefits of his labors. For pride is hostile even to God. Therefore, if you are desirous of glory, you must pursue it with deeds, not summon it with words. For it flees those who summon it; but it comes most gladly to those who grasp it with their deeds.
LXXVIII
It is entirely difficult for mortals to judge matters. For the evils in which we are involved, we consider D worse than others, because the evil that is present seems in some way graver than itself, and the very presence of what is not
present depresses its own weight: it is easy for anyone to exchange a light evil that presses upon him for a future one that is heavier. A For this reason, we run as if in a race toward those evils that are absent, even if those that are present are greater. Yet when we have arrived at them, we praise those that we have left behind. That this indeed happens, even those who flee from the sword and cast themselves into the waves are a proof, for then, having suffered shipwreck and being placed in danger of drowning, they grasp at the two-edged sword. Another, thoughtlessly fleeing from smoke, rushes into fire; and again, when he is burned by the fire, he runs to a sheer cliff, as if to some kind of solace. For the majority of men, when their reason is seized by some terrible thing, know that we are fleeing, but where we are fleeing to, this, as it seems, we do not know. And we suffer the same things in regard to joyful things as well. B For there is, I suppose, nothing among the things we desire that could bring our desire to a halt within itself. And luxury itself demonstrates this, so that the matter at hand may be displayed to us from the very hearth. For when we enjoy the sweetest things to satiety, we desire them less than those pleasures that are simply pleasant, but are absent. And although that which is placed in expectation has less pleasure, it is accustomed to delight by its very expectation. Indeed, someone who abounds in many goods occasionally desires that of which not even slaves would wish to be partakers. Clearly, we have need of prudence, so that by comparing with our mind the things that are present with those that are absent, we may bring forward a correct judgment. C
LXXIX.
It is for rulers an extremely great injury to their affairs for the mind to be unstrung. But since it is impossible for one who holds power to endure the flame of cares perpetually, the mind should be so far released from cares as to dispel the wearisomeness of the soul, and not be overwhelmed by the continuous showers of this life. For since there are many and various things that compel a prince to be anxious both by day and by night, he would easily lose his life, if he were always wrestling with business that grants no truce at all to his thoughts. They say that some very great man of old, while banqueting sumptuously with his friends, once said that the mind must be released from cares, just as we unstring our bows if we intend to use them again as strong ones, once their strength is restored. D Yet we make use of relaxing in this way only as a kind of remedy for the sickness of the soul; otherwise we reject it, lest, if we are too eager for pleasures, our mind might incline toward the opposite. For extreme exhilaration is often wont to be the cause, in turn, of extreme sorrow.
LXXX.
There is absolutely no one among mortals who can be intent upon serious matters and labors perpetually; but the very nature of each person who deals with serious matters longs for some solace as well. Therefore, other means of easing the mind have been found for others. But for you, after the labors befitting kings, let books and the field suffice, either one as it is convenient; and the simple and unlabored shade of a tent, or of foliage, or of caves, and the nightingale, if it should be present; and a leaping fountain, and the herbs around it; and plain and spontaneous food, is more pleasant
A to those who are hungry than a banquet served at home. I omit, indeed, speaking of ambrosia and nectar, those mythical things; in addition to which there is your dear horse, the dog, the hawk, and the discharging of arrows at wild beasts, sometimes in stealth, sometimes with speed, as the opportunity presents itself. Do not use these things as an end, but looking toward something better—health, social interaction, and experience befitting soldiers. Thus, even if you fail to obtain the prey (for it is not possible to succeed always), you will not miss the joy, in which it is not possible to fail, through which the hunt becomes profitable for you.
LXXXI. B Beware of allowing a hypocrite to come near you, but let all simulation be execrable to you, lest you imprudently place trust in a wolf and a pirate instead of a shepherd and a pilot. Use your ancestral wit upon those who falsely carp at others for no profit of their own, so that you may both free from ignominy those who are carpingly accused and make their accusers more modest. Words entrusted to your faith you shall keep no otherwise than if someone had deposited a great sum of gold with you. You will yourself abstain from oaths, but meanwhile let your conduct promise all men the best things regarding you. You will consider the formulation of vows to be a matter full of horror, but you will fulfill your promises both to God and to men. You will consider it proper to remember the benefits received from others, but to be forgetful of those you have performed for others; and you will desire to surpass by balancing benefits, not to be surpassed. If you do not cease to do these things, while also fleeing hidden disgrace (for a mask and the stage are hardly to be granted even to buffoons, who do not hesitate to receive blows just to stir laughter in others), I think that your word will suffice in the place of an oath to all men.
LXXXII. Gravity and magnificence are not unbecoming to men of rank; but you must always mix into that coldness which seems to be in gravity a certain apt sweetness, and into the severity which seems to be in magnificence, a certain pleasing approachability, so that C you may by these things also gain honor for your rule, and may have your subjects obedient to your command in those matters which you have best discerned by your mind; without which, nothing useful can be accomplished. And indeed affairs will succeed for you not a little according to your wish, if you conduct yourself as kind and formidable toward those for whom it is appropriate, and do not press your right precisely in all things, and do not exact penalties from all; most of all, if you persuade them by deeds no less than by words that their own advantages are better understood by you than by themselves. For if it shall become clear that those who obey your admonitions bear the fruit of that obedience, they will even strive to anticipate your exhortations by their deeds. This is what is granted to physicians, to pilots, and to shepherds, that they may be able to drive even by a nod.
LXXXIII. Do not wish to imitate the pursuits of the soul D of one whom you do not love, as though you did not love the
pursuits of honest things. But imitate one whose virtues are known to you. Or rather, since there is no mortal in whom all good things are found together, nor is there any in whom there are none, and since it is possible for a bad man to speak an excellent word and the reverse to happen, it is better to obey one who has spoken well—even if he himself does not practice it—than to agree with a man who is otherwise good but has spoken something evil. Contentiousness and opposition are evil; it is evil to follow all men, to be swayed, and to be driven by levity of mind. These things differ from each other by an interval, but both bring ruin to those in whom they exist. But to yield to good orations, from whomever they may eventually be uttered, this is indeed a most refined thing, and it provides no handle for reproach even to Momus himself. For I do not think that even he would behave impudently toward B someone who avoids extremes. Finally, if you embrace the virtues in all matters, you will appear to be using the means. For it has been decided to constitute their definition from what is the mean.
LXXXIV. It would not at all befit an emperor to be subject to the counsels of others, as if submitting himself to guides, or to undertake matters of any moment before he has consulted rightly and has the opinions of those by whom he is loved. Yet one must bring into consultation that which is neither impossible to be done well, nor easy to be done but evil, nor anything of those things that happen by necessity; but that which can be accomplished with zeal and prudence. What is rightly done will be beneficial, while what is not done or is done badly can bring harm. C It will be rightly done, however, when it contains, if possible, the six virtues that they call *extreme* in their entirety; or if not, the greater part of them, or the more excellent and perfect ones. It is also good for deliberations to be instituted before there is a need; for that which comes into consultation, if it presses too urgently, fills the mind with agitation and hinders the possibility of a remedy being found.
LXXXV. And the king himself, living according to the laws and governing his subjects according to the prescription of the laws, is clearly different from those who wish to exercise tyranny; they have but one inviolable law, namely, their own lusts. For there seems to be a certain similarity between royal dominion and tyranny, but D they differ from each other as much as cannot easily be explained even by speaking. For the tyrant thinks his power is situated in this: if he weakens his own subjects; and if the state acquires any strength, he immediately dreams of his own downfall. But the true king, in relation to the peoples subjected to him, holds the place of a father, a shepherd, a physician, a teacher, and any person who can consult for their safety. And since he thinks his own benefit is contained in the public one, and is a minister of Christ, and imitates Him more by serving and by making better those who are being improved rather than by ruling, he rejoices. May you be such a one to me, my dearest son.
[LXXXVI] You may indeed wish to arrive at that which is the ultimate among good things, but you must know that this endeavor is of the number of those things which cannot be fully accomplished. Meanwhile, do not grieve because, although you are running, you do not reach the goal. For one should not consider this—that there is some good thing higher than human virtue—but rather that the one who runs becomes ever closer to it. He who sets this as a goal for himself, and, aiming in a reasonable manner, does not cease, will often attain it; and even if he fails, he will have something more than others. For those who are carried along thoughtlessly, like ships lacking their steering gear, and those who live viciously yet wish to appear to live well, and take pleasure in that fact, for them there is not even a hope of the correction of their evils. But he who is guided by reason, even if he errs, will necessarily in all cases become aware of the misfortune, which is the beginning of correction.
[LXXXVII] In wars, those who dread death are accustomed to flee; and those who flee fall more than those who, despising death, prefer to stand. For a battle facing the enemy with one’s back turned is dangerous. Likewise, those who fear the sword are destroyed by it, not even obtaining the honor of burial. But those who fight as if they were about to die, both survive and are crowned, often prevailing and distinguishing themselves—and this is very reasonable in both respects. For from the fact of not fearing comes the standing firm, and from the standing firm comes the victory; and of these outcomes are the crowns. And if these things happen to the brave, it is clear that the opposites happen to the cowardly. But if someone should fall in battle, and another returns safe by fleeing, the latter is pitied for his life of shame, while the former is proclaimed blessed for his death with glory. Now, that which is full of wonder is that everyone knows these things, and yet the evil is still admitted when souls turn towards flight, terrified by some circumstance. But for you, who take up arms neither rashly nor unjustly, let death connected with glory be preferred to yielding a triumph to the enemy.
[LXXXVIII] You ought not to be so concerned that you might succumb to the strength of your adversaries as you are that you might not be surpassed by those who love you in that noble contest of affection. Although an enemy may strike down an enemy, or an opponent another, many will attribute that victory to fortune. But he who is defeated in loving by those who love him, not even one of those who know how to love rightly will pardon him. Wherefore, while it is shameful to be inferior to enemies, it is more shameful still to be inferior to those who love you. It seems most shameful of all, however, to consider the pursuits of one's children as a trivial matter. Let them follow their parents in the endeavor for laudable works by a long interval. And how could one judge otherwise about them, if, when children cannot bear not to inherit all the wealth of their ancestors, they would reject their virtue as if it were some sort of curse? You have many good ancestors both on your father's side and on your mother's side. You have a good nature given by God...
themselves have such excellent ancestors; you have a good disposition, granted to you by God; take care not to dishonor such a noble disposition and such noble ancestors by failing to emulate them. A
LXXXIX.
It is altogether a sign of an ignoble army, and one prepared for flight, if they hide themselves by day and attack the enemy by night. Therefore, you yourself should not make sorties against the enemy by night, unless time presses and victory is clearly yours to be grasped; or, to put it another way, unless there is no hope of victory in open battle, and the fierce onslaught of the fight threatens you with death. Do not, however, be disturbed in your spirit if your adversaries attack you by night. For because they hope to put yours to flight by means of darkness, uproar, and shouting—not by nobility of soul, nor by endurance of labors—as soon as their attempt does not succeed according to their hope, they flee swiftly even with no one in pursuit. You must, however, place before the eyes of your army B everything that promises the hope of victory, so that, brought over to your way of thinking, they may more readily enter into the fellowship of the battle. For it is the case that not only that which is truly strong and formidable causes harm, but also that which appears to be so. For the masses of men look more toward appearance than toward the truth.
XC.
I shall say something to one who is not ignorant. The hunter catches the eagle with birdlime, but only because it alights imprudently upon the branches of trees. Likewise, the lion is caught in a snare, but only because it advances rashly. But larks are for the most part beyond the reach of traps, because they are not accustomed to approach the food set out for them rashly or greedily. The gazelle, too, living up to its name in its very actions, is not easily caught in snares. C And many other animals, far more ignoble than these, displaying proof of singular cunning, mock those by whom snares are laid for them. Therefore, if men would but turn their minds to it, they could avoid snares more successfully than the wild beasts themselves. Indeed, even private individuals, who are merely attending to their own affairs, have need of great care, so that they may not experience many evils. But for those to whom it has fallen to rule over others and to care for them, the pinnacle of all things is situated in concern for public business. To look after matters and to arrange them rightly is the accurate preservation of present goods, D and the plentiful acquisition of those which are desired, and the salvation of the subjects, and a deadly weapon against enemies. But sloth and negligence elicit dire evils and draw in harmful things; to sum up the whole matter in few words, these would ruin the governing of a herdsman, a goatherd, or a horse-keeper, let alone a commander of troops. For I pass over kings, who drive such a great chariot; for the things that are required by those who are inferior are required much more by those who are more powerful.
XCI.
Behold, now also something shall be said that is necessary for you to know. If anyone makes skillful use of the things at hand, nothing will prevent even contrary things from tending toward some good end. And consider, I pray you, the reasoning. To forget and to remember are things most contrary; but
if both should occur in due time, it is very good; otherwise, each is harmful. And that statement, touching upon an enigmatic precept, will make it clear, so that it may rouse your mind, lest you look upon what is said lightly and superficially, but rather that you may zealously hunt out the knowledge of them. If, forgetting what is behind, you pursue what lies ahead with an intense run; if, remembering what is behind, you decide to flee from what is ahead; then, without having lost what is behind, you will also attain what you are pursuing; and having been freed from what has already passed, you will also easily escape what is pursuing you. But to have them swapped is destructive.
B Silence is a glorious ornament, a strong tower for those who possess it. It is more appropriate for the young than for those who have reached maturity. And if you wish, it is likewise more appropriate for those of an age for men than for those who have passed the age of man. For the elder, to speak simply, is more experienced. And it is, quite plainly, more seemly to listen to those who are more experienced than for those who are less experienced to speak boldly. I believe, indeed, that the time to speak is when it is necessary to answer, when a defense must be made against an accusation, or another must be instructed about some matter that is correctly known to the teachers and appropriate to the dignity of the speaker; and when that which is brought forward will produce some fruit, whereas remaining silent would be harmful. Otherwise, it is better to keep quiet, in accordance with the doctor-philosopher.
C It is a most beautiful thing, above all else, to know what is best and to have the power to speak well, and to seem persuasive in this, and wisely to implant love for good things in souls. Yet for one who knows and expresses the better things in words, to do the worse things deliberately, seems to me, in truth, neither easy to speak of nor to contemplate, because of how full of shame such a matter is. For an evil deed is shameful, however it may come about; but it is more shameful when the evil is done not through ignorance; and it is most shameful by far when someone who teaches others what is fitting, and is able to set straight the lives of others, remains himself in need of correction. This removes every excuse.
D Nothing is worth as much as wisdom joined with natural talent; nor is anything better than natural talent brightened by wisdom. For each of them, on its own, would be good and desirable; but if both were to come together, oh, what an admirable, what an excellent, what a surpassing union! It makes the soul that is pure even purer; and if it is filled with filth, it easily washes it away. And it happens to the soul and to this pair, precisely as it does to the head and to both hands. For one hand wipes off the other, when there is need for that purpose of water, and a towel, and nitre; but both hands clean the face, and the head, and furthermore the entire body. Water, and a towel, and
nitre, you shall consider to be the action, study, and assiduousness of natural talent, wisdom, and of the soul.
[XCV] It is necessary for you to make a conjecture about the future from the past and the present. And when you hope to enjoy a peaceful time, beware of acting more harshly, or becoming negligent through the hope of better things, which is what usually happens to the majority. But when you suspect that difficult and arduous matters are encroaching, endeavor to change them for the better with divine help, both with the fervent impetus and constancy of your soul, and, furthermore, with thoughts proceeding from prudence, by which it has happened to many to be liberated from inevitable evils. Having told those men who are like polyps and chameleons to farewell, desire yourself to appear the same in all times, and do not change together with them whenever they change: especially if, following the change, you appear to have become worse. Being thus disposed, and possessed of this frame of mind, endeavor to endure bravely whatever God may grant.
[XCVI] The matter is indeed new and unusual to hear, yet he who knows all that is appropriate to know, but does nothing of what ought to be done, is more foolish than he who knows nothing of the good, nor does it. For it is sufficiently absurd that he who knows correctly what can be advantageous should do harmful things. For it is the way of a prudent man, if he knows of anything slippery, to recoil from it, just as it is for him who suffers from melancholy to rave through ignorance. But to do this deliberately, and when it is permitted to desist, to be unwilling—how is this not like a riddle? And we have need of an interpreter more subtle to resolve this difficulty than that ancient Oedipus was. For there is a judgment of a man, and not one destitute of knowledge, if he has fallen, should even an enemy have pitied him. But he who, having tasted the good, should then again hand himself over to depraved things (and I am speaking no less about myself than about all mortals), he truly will not be without cause an object of hatred to himself. Wherefore it is necessary then to show oneself one who serves...
[XCVII] If any man asserts that he knows the things that ought to be done, while meanwhile it does not appear that he performs these things with actions, he is either a liar or possesses that knowledge to his own detriment. And I would think that no one would refuse to agree with me on this point. But see our Savior also proclaiming this in clear words, when He says that he who has sinned knowingly and prudently shall be beaten more than he who has committed greater things through ignorance. Whereby it is brought about that he who correctly knows what is good, yet does not do it correctly, is affected by a certain loss through that very knowledge. And this pronouncement assuredly cannot be perverted by perverse reasoning, even if it were to unite with the entire terrestrial wisdom of all the angels. For it has been uttered to us by God, and is adorned with all equity. Our affairs meanwhile are constrained on both sides into a narrow pass. For both ignorance is an evil thing, and knowledge is a fearful thing, since a danger that is not small hangs over us from it.
A XCVIII. All know that living, in and of itself, is a good thing. Yet in a certain other way, life is found to be worse than death, when it changes one age for another and, as it were, progresses, while diminishing the soul's virtues. Likewise, it is shameful for the hair to turn white, but for the soul to be blackened. These things tend to happen when one’s manner of living does not increase along with one's age; for it is full of great shame for a mature or elderly man to behave in the manner of a child. And altogether, to think more basely than the age one has reached is neither honorable, nor good, nor praiseworthy. Wherefore, if you desire true life and glory—which I believe this discourse of ours serves to provide—see to it that your life corresponds to the age granted to you by God.
B XCIX. As it seems, since we human beings are bipartite mixtures of opposites—dust and spirit—we subject the superior part to the more ignoble, holding the better part in no esteem. It is a thing truly worthy of reproach that we do not even hold the immortal soul, a thing divinely inspired, in the same estimation as mortal flesh, which is dust formed by God. But knowing that this is a vice full of ignorance and that it causes great harm—for the body is of no use, to use the words of the divine oracle—let us cherish it only thinly and moderately, lest we punish that life-giving spirit as if with death. For in all things that are opposed, if something happens to one, the opposite follows in the other; and when the flesh is pampered, the spirit must necessarily languish. For these things are opposed.
C C. For obtaining the crown both in this life and the next, the power of a few words will most easily suffice. *Turn aside from evil*, says that divine David, *and do good* (Ps. XXXIII, 15). What could be equal to this sentiment? What more useful? What more swift? O spiritual wisdom! O singular sharpness of mind in Him who is the author of this sentiment, which indeed is perfect, delivered to the perfect by the Perfect One. Surely, he is possessed of sense who, knowing that he is dust and that he must pay his debt to his mother, the earth, by obeying David, anticipates death through repentance; having stripped away all vice and, by good works for which we were created, having propitiated the Creator of all things. Do you, therefore, most illustrious son, while doing both, never conduct yourself in such a way as to be lifted up by either; lest, by poorly imitating that Pharisee—who indeed cultivated virtue in his habits, but had not learned to be humble—those things which have been gained by many great labors be snatched away from you in a light moment, even as happened to him. D