OF OUR HOLY FATHER GREGORY, ON THE LIFE OF SAINT MACRINA, SISTER OF THE GREAT BASIL.
A The form of this volume, insofar as its title indicates, appears to be a letter; yet its length exceeds the measure of a letter and encompasses the full magnitude of a book. Nevertheless, the subject matter, which you commanded me to commit to writing, defends me, for it is too great and too abundant to be confined within the bounds of a letter. You surely ought not to have forgotten that meeting when we encountered one another in the city of Antioch, at the time you were traveling to Jerusalem in order to visit the monuments of Christ’s pilgrimage while He was in the flesh, and the conversations which we held together on various topics; for that meeting could not have been silent, since your wisdom provided manifold occasion for discussion.
B During our discourse, therefore, as happens in such meetings, we fell into mention of a certain virtuous woman—if indeed she ought to be called a woman, who surpassed the standard of nature. Our account did not derive its credibility from the reports of others, but carefully pursued those things of which experience had been the teacher, and it confirmed almost nothing by the testimony of another's hearing. For the virgin of whom we speak was not a stranger to our family, such that it would be necessary to learn the wonderful things about her through others, but she was born to the same parents, just as a sort of first-fruit of the harvest, having first blossomed from the maternal womb.
Since, therefore, you have judged that the history of good people is fruitful, so that a life of such a kind might not be hidden by time, nor pass by uselessly, enveloped in silence—the life of one who, through the study of philosophy, had raised herself to the height of human virtue—I deemed it necessary to obey you, and to explain her life in an unadorned and simple narrative as briefly as I could. C The virgin’s name was Macrina; and Macrina was a certain distinguished woman of old in our family, the mother of our father.
A who had contended for the confessions of Christ at the time of the persecutions, from whom the child was named by her parents. But this was the name known in public, the name by which she was called by those who knew her. Another name had been given to her in hidden fashion; before she came into the light through the pains of childbirth, she was named by a certain divine manifestation. For her mother was indeed such in virtue that she was guided in everything by the divine will; and she especially embraced a pure and unblemished manner of life, so much so that she would not have chosen marriage of her own accord. But since she was an orphan on both sides, and was in the flower of her age, and the report of her beauty incited many to seek her hand in marriage, and there was danger—unless she were joined to someone by her own consent—that she might suffer some unwanted harm from the harassment of those who had been driven to madness by her beauty; for this reason, having chosen a man who was recognized and attested for the gravity of his life, so as to gain a guardian for her own life, she became the mother of this child at the very first labor pains. And when the time arrived in which the labor needed to reach its natural conclusion, she fell asleep and seemed to be carrying in her hands what she was still bearing in her womb; and someone appearing in a form and shape more magnificent than that of a human being called the child she was carrying by the name of Thecla—that Thecla, I mean, who is so celebrated among the martyrs. B Having done this and left it testified three times, he departed, and the labor was eased, so that as soon as she awoke from sleep, she saw the dream fulfilled in reality. This, therefore, was her secret name. It seems to me, however, that He who appeared in her sleep did not utter this word so much to declare by what name the child should be called, as to show, by the likeness of the name, the same zeal and standard for her life.
C The child was therefore brought up; though she had her own nurse, she was for the most part nurtured in the arms of her mother. When she had passed the age of infancy, she showed herself very teachable in learning childhood lessons; for whatever subject her parents indicated ought to be learned, the girl’s talent excelled in it. Her mother, however, was anxious to educate the girl, but not in that external series of disciplines by which the first ages of those learning are generally imbued through the reading of the poets. For she thought it shameful and altogether improper for a tender and well-formed mind to be infected by the tragic passions which the poets drew from women for the beginnings and subjects of their writing, or by the obscenities of the comedies, or by the shameful deeds of those who had brought so many woes to Ilium, or for it to be, in a sense, defiled by less serious stories about women. D Therefore, the lessons she proposed for her daughter were those from the divinely inspired Scripture that seemed easier and more suitable for a young age, and especially the Wisdom of Solomon; and more than this, whatever contributed to our moral life. But she was not ignorant of any part of the sung Scripture, going through each part of the Psalter at its proper time, both when rising from her bed, and when taking up her serious tasks, and when resting, and when taking food, and when withdrawing
from them, and when rising to pray, she always had the Psalmodic chant as a good and inseparable companion, forsaking her at no time.
Educated by these and similar customs, and exercising her hand excellently in working wool, she reached her twelfth year. At this time, the flower of her youth began to shine forth in a wonderful way, and what is worthy of admiration is that, although the maiden’s beauty was veiled, it could not remain hidden. For it seemed that B there was nothing in all her native land as admirable as her form and grace, such that even the hands of painters could not attain her comeliness; rather, that art which contrives everything and dares the greatest things, even representing the images of the elements by imitation, proved unable to imitate the excellence of that form with accuracy. For this reason, a great swarm of those seeking her hand in marriage surrounded her parents. Her father, however (for he was indeed prudent and experienced in judging what is noble), singled out a certain young man, distinguished by both lineage and character, and, preferring him to the others, promised his daughter to him, should she reach the proper age. In the meantime, the young man was raising great expectations for himself, and in his legal defenses of the accused, he displayed an outstanding talent for oratory, and thus offered to the maiden’s father a gift of engagement that was quite pleasing. Yet envy interrupted this bright hope, snatching him away from life in his pitiable youth.
The maiden was not unaware of what her father had decreed; for, upon the death of the youth, she learned of her father’s plan. Therefore, calling her father’s judgment a marriage—as if what her father had ordained had already been fulfilled—she resolved to keep to herself for the remainder of her life, and she remained more constant in this conviction C than was required of that age. For with the frequent approach of the words of her parents, because many were those who, led by the reputation of her beauty, desired to join her to themselves as their wife, she said it was absurd and unlawful not to honor the marriage once betrothed to her by her father, and to be forced to look toward another; since there is one marriage by nature, just as there is one birth and one death. She argued that the one to whom she had been betrothed by her parents was not dead, but lived in God through the hope of the resurrection. Therefore, she judged that he had not died, but had gone abroad, and it would be a sin if she did not keep faith with a betrothed spouse who was traveling. By such arguments, she drove away those who tried to persuade her, and she fixed upon this as the one safeguard of her good judgment: never to be separated from her own mother, not even for a fleeting moment of time. So often, the mother said to her that she had carried her other children in her womb for a predetermined time, but that she always bore her daughter, in a way, contained within her own heart. Yet for the mother, this companionship D of the daughter was neither laborious nor unprofitable; for the daughter’s care was equivalent to many handmaids for her, and it was a sort of reciprocation
A beneficial to both. For the one tended the soul of the young woman, while the other tended the mother’s body, fulfilling in all other respects the required service; and this included frequently preparing bread for her mother with her own hands. This, however, was not what she occupied herself with primarily; but since she had consecrated her hands to mystical services, believing that the diligence involved in this was appropriate to her way of life, she provided food for her mother from what remained of her own labors. Nor did she do this alone, but she also helped her manage every burden that weighed upon her. For she was the mother of four sons and five daughters, and she paid taxes to three different governors, because her property was scattered throughout so many nations.
Since the mother was therefore involved in varied cares, being divided by this—for the father had already departed this life—in all these things the daughter was a partner to her mother in her labors, sharing her cares and lightening the burden of her distresses. Simultaneously, under her mother’s training, she kept her own life blameless, living always before her mother’s eyes and being approved by her witness; and at the same time she provided for her mother a great guide toward the same goal, I mean that of philosophy, through the example of her own life, slowly drawing her toward a more immaterial and perfect existence. And when the mother had arranged the affairs of her daughters according to what seemed proper for each with due decorum, there returned from the schools of learning, in which he had spent much time, the great Basil, the brother of the aforementioned. Having found him, therefore, to be B exceedingly puffed up by his conceit regarding eloquence, and despising all official honors, and set above those who were illustrious in power by his arrogance, she incited him to the same goal of philosophy with such speed that, having abandoned worldly distinction and regarding with contempt the glory of eloquence, he embraced this laborious and toil-filled way of life through perfect poverty, and constructed for himself a clear path toward virtue. But his life and the subsequent pursuits through which he became famous throughout the whole world C—obscuring with his own glory all those who had shone in virtue—would require a long composition and much time; but let my discourse now turn back to the subject at hand. For since the premise of a more material life had already been cut away from her, she persuaded her mother, having abandoned the life according to custom, and the more ostentatious way of living, and the services of the underlings she had been wont to use in time past, to become equal in status to the many in her mindset, and to mingle her own life with the company of the virgins, making all those among the household servants and underlings who had been with her as sisters and peers;—but I wish to interpose a small matter into the narrative, and not to pass over in silence such a thing, by which the sublimity of the virgin is more clearly declared.
Of the four brothers, the one next in age after the great Basil D was named Naucratius, a youth gifted with exceptional endowments of both mind and body; for in beauty of form, and in strength, and in speed, and in his aptitude for everything, he surpassed the others.
Having reached his twenty-second year, and having given such an exhibition of his studies in a public address that the entire theater of his audience was moved to admiration for him, he was suddenly led by a A certain divine providence and a great impulse of mind to despise all things he had in his hands and betook himself to a solitary and destitute life, carrying nothing with him but himself. One of the servants, named Chrysaphius, followed him, both because he was fond of him and because he had been seized by the same zeal for this way of life. Having therefore found a retreat near the Iris—for the Iris is a river which flows through the middle of the province of Pontus, taking its origin from Armenia itself and discharging its stream through our own region into the Euxine Sea—the young man found a place near this river covered with dense woods and a hill hidden within the expanse of the mountain’s ridge; and there he lived, far removed from the tumults of the city and from all the disturbances and clamor of military service and the law courts. Having freed himself from all the entanglements that encompass human life, he cared for certain old men who lived together in poverty and infirmity, judging that such an occupation was not at odds with his own rule of life. By hunting, therefore (since he was most skillful at every kind of hunting craft), he sought food for the old men, and by these labors he likewise tamed his own youth; nor did he for this reason cease to obey his mother’s will with a ready mind, whenever anything was commanded by her, rightly ordering his life with a double endeavor: both to extinguish the fervor of youth through labor, and by obeying his mother to struggle towards God along the straight path through the divine commandments.
Thus, then, he practiced philosophy, and by his life he made his mother blessed, and he had passed his fifth year in this manner, while he was arming his breast with temperance and obeying his mother’s will with all his strength, when a heavy and tragic blow, from the treachery of the adversary, I believe, befell his mother, or rather, brought grief and mourning upon the whole family. For the young man was suddenly snatched from life, not by any disease or any customary reason, having been carried off by an untimely death; but when he had set out for hunting, by which craft he provided the necessities of life for those worn out by old age, he was brought home dead, together with his companion and lifelong associate Chrysaphius. The mother was far away from these events, three days' journey distant from the calamity. Although she was perfect in every kind of virtue, yet when she had received so bitter a report from someone, nature, as is to be expected, prevailing, she collapsed and, being stunned, all but lost her breath along with her voice. For reason, overcome by the magnitude of the pain, succumbed, and she lay as if some noble athlete struck by an unexpected wound.
D In this, the virtue of the great Macrina was revealed; for she not only kept herself unconquered and upright, but—
A also braced and sustained the mother’s weakness. For she raised and refreshed her soul, which had been cast down by a most grievous misfortune, by her own invincible strength, and instructed her in fortitude and endurance.
Therefore, the mother at last resisted the sorrow, nor did she admit anything unworthy or effeminate, such as crying out against the evil, or rending her garment, or wailing, or stirring up lamentations with mournful melodies. But she waited quietly, fortified by reason, repelling the impulses of nature with those arguments which both she possessed herself and those which were brought to her by her daughter for the healing of the pain. For it was then especially that the soul of the virgin shone forth, high and exalted; for although in her too nature suffered its own—since it was a brother, and the most beloved of brothers, who had been snatched away by such a bitter kind of death—nevertheless, having risen higher than nature, she sustained her mother with her own reasoning and set her above her passion, instructing her in patience and valor by her own example. Moreover, her life, always being elevated by virtue, afforded the mother no opportunity to fret over what was lost, rather than to rejoice in the good that was seen.
C Since, therefore, the care of nurturing the children and the concern for their education and their settlement being finished, and the greater part of the occupations of a more material life having been distributed among the children, then, as has been said, the life of the virgin became a counselor to the mother for this philosophic and immaterial way of living. Having detached her from all her habits, she led her to her own measure of humility, preparing her to become a peer to the assembly of virgins, so that she might share with them on equal terms in the same table, the same bed, and all things pertaining to life, all difference of rank being removed from their life. And such was the order of their life, and such was the height of their philosophy, and the holy manner of their living in their daily and nightly conduct, that it exceeds any power of description. For just as the souls released by death from the body are also released from the concerns of this life, so their life was separated and removed from all worldly vanity, and was fashioned after the imitation of the life of the angels. For in them no anger, no envy, no hatred, no pride, nor any other thing of that kind was seen; the desire for vain things—honor, glory, conceit, arrogance, and all such things—had been cast out. D Their luxury was temperance, and their glory was to be known by no one. Their wealth was their destitution, and that they had shaken off all material abundance like some dust from their bodies. They considered no study to be anything but a distraction, save what was concerned with this life. Only the meditation on divine things thrived there, and the unceasing devotion to prayer, and the continuous singing of psalms, which was extended equally with time itself, through the whole night and every day, so that for them, it was both work
A and rest. What human power of speech, then, could adequately explain this manner of life? Their life was placed between the human and the celestial nature, sharing in both and bordering on both. For in so far as they had liberated themselves from human passions, they were superior to the human condition; yet, in so far as they were seen in a body, and were contained within a human form, and used the instruments of the senses, they yielded to the angelic and incorporeal nature. Perhaps someone might even venture to argue that their state was not inferior. For although they lived in the flesh, after the likeness of the incorporeal powers, they were not weighed down by the burden of the body; rather, their life was uplifted and elevated, journeying together with the heavenly powers. The time spent in such a way of life was not short; and as time went on, their accomplishments increased, as the pursuit of wisdom was always reaching forward toward greater purity of soul through the addition of newly discovered goods.
B There was, moreover, a brother of theirs, born of the same womb, who was of great help in attaining this noble goal of life. His name was Peter, the one in whom our mother’s labor pains ceased. For he was the last sprout of those pangs, and was called both a son and an orphan; for at the very time he came into the light, our father departed from this life. The eldest of the sisters, of whom this narrative speaks, having taken him from his nurse's breast shortly after his birth, herself immediately reared him and educated him with excellent discipline, instructing him in sacred learning from infancy, so that she left him no leisure to incline his soul toward anything vain. Indeed, C becoming everything to the youth—father, teacher, tutor, mother, and counselor in every good thing—she fashioned him in such a way that, before he had yet passed out of the age of childhood, while still a boy blossoming in the tenderness of his years, he was raised to the high goal of philosophy. And by a certain natural good fortune, he was so adept at every manual art that, without any guide, he achieved through the perfection of his own care the mastery of those things which others learn from masters only with much time and labor. He, therefore, having spurned the occupations of secular studies, and possessing a mind apt for receiving all good learning, always looking to his sister, whom he had proposed to himself as the goal of every good, D made such progress in virtue that in his later life he was judged to be in no way inferior to the great Basil in excellence. At that time, however, he was everything to his sister and mother, working with them toward that angelic life.
Once, when a severe shortage and famine were occurring, and many people, excited by the reputation for beneficence, were streaming from all sides to that retreat where they dwelt, he provided food for the poor by his own industry to such an extent that, because of the multitude of those arriving, that place seemed not to be a wilderness, but a city. In this life, reaching a flourishing old age, she
A departed to God, having surrendered her life in the hands of her two children.
It is fitting to record the voice of the blessing which she used for her children, mentioning each of those who were not present as if to a friend, so that not one might be deprived of the blessing; and especially she commended those who were present to God through prayer. For as these two were sitting by her on either side of the bed B, she touched each of her children with one hand, and spoke these last words to God: "To you, O Lord, I offer as first fruits and tithe the fruit of my womb. This firstborn daughter holds the place for me of the first fruits, and this youngest son the place of the tithe. By the law, both are yours, and they are your gifts. Therefore, may sanctification come upon this, my first product, and upon this, my tenth," she said, indicating with her gestures the daughter and the son.
Having thus ceased to bless, she ceased also to live, having instructed her children that they should deposit her body in the ancestral tomb. Those who fulfilled what had been commanded held themselves to a higher philosophy, always contending toward their own life, and concealing the achievements that had passed by those that followed.
C In this time, the great and holy Basil was declared primate of the great Church of the Caesareans, who led his brother into the rank of the priesthood, having consecrated him with his own mystical priestly rites. And in this, their course of life advanced once more toward a more solemn and holy state, since the dignity of the priesthood was augmented by the study of philosophy.
Eight years after this had passed, in the ninth year, Basil, renowned throughout the entire world, migrated from the company of men to God, becoming a common cause of mourning for his country and the world. D When the rumor of this calamity reached Macrina from afar, her soul could not but be troubled by such a loss—for who would not be touched by a grief by which even the enemies of the truth were affected? But just as they say that the testing of gold happens in various furnaces—so that if it escapes the first furnace it is tested in the second, and again in the final one all the dross mixed into the material is purged, and the exquisite proof of the finest gold is that it passes through every furnace and gives off no dross—so it happened also in her case. Her high intellect having been tested by the various assaults of grief, the incorruptible and unbowed nature of her soul was shown from every side. First, in the passing of her other brother; then, after that, in the separation from her mother; and for a third time, when the common glory of her lineage, the great Basil, was parted from human life. She remained, therefore, like an unconquered athlete, nowhere yielding to the assault of calamities.
It was the ninth month after this affliction, or a little more, when a council of bishops was gathered in the city of Antioch, in which we also participated. And since we had again departed, each to his own home, before
A a year had passed, the desire came to me, Gregory, to go to her. B For a long time had intervened, during which the circumstances of my trials—which I endured everywhere in my homeland, being driven out by the leaders of the heresy—had prevented us from enjoying a mutual encounter. And as I counted the time that had passed in the interval—during which my trials had prevented me from seeing her face to face—the span did not seem small, as it measured nearly eight years.
Since, therefore, I had completed most of the journey and only a day's travel remained, a certain vision appeared to me in a dream, making manifest the judgment of the things that were to come. For I seemed to be carrying the relics of martyrs in my hands; and from them radiated a brilliance, such as comes from a clear mirror when it is placed opposite the sun, so that my eyes were blinded by the radiance of the light. Since this same vision occurred to me three times that night, I could not clearly understand the riddle of the dream, but I felt a certain sadness in my soul, and I kept watch in order to judge the dream by the outcome.
And when I came near to the retreat where she was living her angelic and heavenly life, I first asked one of those familiar with the place about my brother, whether he was present. Upon his replying that he had departed four days earlier—and realizing that he had journeyed toward us by another route—I then inquired about the Great One. When he replied that she was suffering from a certain illness, I was seized by a greater zeal, and I hurriedly covered the remaining part of the road. For my soul, shaken by a certain fear, was already sensing what was to come. But as I drew near to the place itself and the report of my arrival had already been announced to the brotherhood, the whole company of men flowed out from the men's quarters toward us; for it was their custom to honor their beloved ones by going out to meet them. And the chorus of virgins who were living a life of virginity was modestly awaiting our arrival at the church. C But when we had reached the end of the prayer and the blessing, and the women, having bowed their heads to receive the blessing, had decorously withdrawn to their own places—and not even one of them had remained with us—I easily surmised what was the case: that the leader was not among them. Therefore, with someone leading the way and opening the door, I entered the holy house in which the Great One resided.
She was at that time suffering severely from illness, but she was resting, not on any bed or mattress, but on the ground, with a board placed beneath her hair shirt, and another board supporting her head, which served as a bolster; this had a distinct shape and fit beneath her neck, receiving her neck gracefully into it. D Such was its shape that it functioned as a pillow for her head, raising it up and holding it comfortably.
When, therefore, she saw me near the doors, raising herself up on her elbow—for she could not run to meet me, her strength having already been sapped by the fever—but fixing her hands upon the floor, and stretching herself out as much as she could from her lowly pallet, she fulfilled the honor of a greeting. And I, running up and taking her by the hands, lifted her up from the ground, and
restored her to her customary posture of reclining. A She, stretching out her hand to God, said, “And this grace, O God, Thou hast fulfilled for me, and hast not denied me my desire; for Thou hast moved Thy servant to visit Thy handmaid.” And as if to avoid bringing any sorrow upon my soul, she suppressed her groans and struggled to conceal the difficulty of her breathing, adapting herself in every way to a more cheerful mood, both initiating pleasant discourse herself and providing us with subjects for inquiry. But when the steady flow of our conversation brought us to the mention of the great Basil, my soul was troubled, and my face sagged with sadness, and tears flowed from my eyes. B Yet she was so far from being cast down with us by the same agitation that, taking the memory of the saint as an opportunity for higher philosophy, she discoursed at length, naturalizing human existence and revealing the divine economy hidden in what is grievous. She spoke of the life to come as if inspired by the Holy Spirit, so that my soul, nearly transported out of human nature by being raised up by what was said, seemed to be placed within the heavenly sanctuaries by the guidance of her discourse.
And just as we hear in the history of Job, that although his whole body was being consumed by the putrefaction of his wounds and by humors, he did not allow his reason to succumb to what was causing the pain, but while he felt the pain in his body, his will was in no way dulled, nor did he interrupt his discourse on higher matters—something like this I saw in that great woman. C Although the fever had dried up all her strength and was driving her toward death, even as the dew cools the body, she kept her mind so unhindered in its contemplation of high things that it was in no way damaged by such great infirmity. And if this composition were not to be extended to an infinite length, I would recount everything in order: how she was lifted up by her discourse as she philosophized for us on the soul, and traversed the cause of life in the flesh; why man exists, and how he is mortal; whence death comes, and what the dissolution from this into life again is. In all these things, as if inspired by the power of the Holy Spirit, she went through everything clearly and consecutively, as easily as water flowing from a fountain, D and borne along without any impediment down a slope.
When the discourse was finished, she said, “It is time, brother, for you to rest your body a little, for you are exhausted by the great toil of your journey.” For me, it was a great and true refreshment both to look upon her and to listen to her great words. But since this was welcome and dear to her, in order that I might appear to obey my teacher in all things, I found a pleasant resting place prepared in one of the nearby gardens, and rested under the shade of the arbor trees; but it was not possible to derive any enjoyment from the pleasant things, for my soul
A was oppressed by the expectation of sad things. For the vision seen in sleep seemed to me to elucidate the enigma through the things appearing. For the spectacle presented was truly the relics of a holy martyr, which, though dead to sin, were made to shine by the grace of the Spirit dwelling within them. And I explained these things to one of those who were with me. But while we were expecting sad things with a downcast spirit, she, somehow conjecturing our thoughts, sent word that brought more cheerful news, bidding us be of good courage and to conceive better hopes concerning her; for she had sensed that her malady was turning for the better. These things were not said to deceive us, but B truly, although at that time we were ignorant of it. For in truth, just as some runner, having outdistanced an opponent and already reached the goal of the stadium, approaching the prize and seeing the victory crown, rejoices as if he were already in possession of the things set before him, and brings the joyful news of victory to himself and the more well-disposed of the spectators; so she, being in such a state of mind, indicated to us that we should hope for better things for her; already looking toward the prize of the upward calling, and *saying almost those same words of the Apostle concerning herself: "Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the just Judge will award to me,"* since "I have fought the good fight, and I have finished the course, and I have kept the faith."
Therefore, being refreshed by the report of good things, we arose so that we might enjoy the things present; but these were varied, and an arrangement full of joy. For up to this point she had descended with great zeal; but when we had again come into her presence, she did not permit the time to be wasted C in vain, but, taking up the memory of the things lived from her youth, she recounted everything in order as if from a script, not omitting those things which she remembered concerning the life of our parents, and those things which had happened either before or after my birth. The goal of her narrative, however, was to give thanks to God. For she demonstrated that the life of the parents themselves was not so much famous and illustrious because of riches, as it was increased and piled high by divine benevolence, although the father's parents had been assailed and harassed for their confession of Christ; and the maternal grandfather had been taken away by royal indignation, and all his goods had been distributed to other masters; nevertheless, they had grown so much through faith that at that time no one was more renowned than they. D Moreover, although the family property had been divided in a multifaceted way according to the number of the children, yet she demonstrated that they had received such a heap of divine mercy that the portion of individual children had surpassed the wealth of their parents; for her own part, from the equal partition among the brothers, she had left nothing for herself, but had dispensed everything into the hands of the priest according to the divine command, and with God providing, her life had been such that neither then, according to the precept, did she cease to labor with her hands, nor did she ever look to man, nor place her hope of living honestly in the beneficence of anyone.
of the bounty of God, so that she never ceased to have her hands active in performing the commandments, and never looked toward any man; nor did she allow the opportunities for an honorable way of life to come to her through any human benevolence. Instead, she never turned away those who asked, nor did she make demands of those who gave, as God, in a hidden way, was increasing those small offerings from her works into a manifold harvest through His blessings. A And when I was recounting my own labors—the circumstances I was in, first when we were driven into exile for the faith by the Emperor Valens, and afterward when the disturbance in the churches called us to struggles and toils—she said, "Will you not cease, O Great One, from being ungratefully disposed toward divine favors? Will you not check the vice of an ungrateful soul? Will you not compare your own circumstances with those of your parents? And yet, if in this world we glorify ourselves in this very thing—that we are born of a noble family and born of honorable parents—our father during those times, while he was still young, flourished to such an extent that his glory stood firm both among his fellow citizens and in the courts of law. Later, however, though his learning extended further, his fame did not cross the borders of Pontus; for it was sufficient for him to be renowned in his homeland. But you," she said, "are celebrated by cities, peoples, and nations; and the churches send and call for you to bring help and to set things in order. Do you not see the grace? Do you not recognize the cause of such great blessings—that the prayers of your parents are raising you to this height, while you have little or no resource of your own for this?" B
While she was relating these things, I, for my part, was wishing that the length of the day would be extended, so that she might not cease to gladden our hearing with her sweet discourse; but the voice of those chanting the evening thanksgiving summoned me, and after having sent me off to the church, the Great One again withdrew to God in prayer. And the night passed in this way. But when day broke, it was manifest to me from the signs that the day then present was the final boundary of her life in the flesh, as the fever had consumed whatever strength of nature remained in her. But she, looking to the weakness of our mind, was contriving to lead us away from the gloomier expectation by pouring forth again those noble words, despite the small and constricted breath that remained to her afflicted soul. Then, indeed, my soul was affected in various ways by the sight C as it appeared: nature itself, as is fitting, was pushing me toward sadness, as I had no further hope that I would hear such a voice, and I believed that the common glory of our generation would very soon depart from human life. But my mind, from what it saw, was as if inspired by the divine, and judged that she had truly transcended common nature. For the fact that even in her final breaths she suffered no strangeness in the hope of her departure, nor showed fear at the separation of life, but with an exalted mind continued to philosophize about the things decided for her from the beginning concerning this life until her very last breath, no longer seemed to me to be human; but it seemed rather like that of some angel who, by divine providence, had assumed human form, D and had no connection or dependency with this mortal life, and thus admitted nothing unbecoming
in the state of her soul, nor did the flesh draw her mind down to its own passions. For this reason, it seems to me that she was then manifesting to those present that divine and pure love for the invisible Bridegroom, which she had kept hidden and nourished in the secrets of her soul, and was making public the disposition of her heart, hastening toward the One she loved so that, having been freed from the bonds of the body, she might quickly be with Him. For, in truth, as her course was toward virtue, nothing else of the pleasant things of this life turned her eye toward itself.
B Now, the greater part of the day had already passed, and the sun was inclining toward the west; but she did not slacken the alacrity of her mind; rather, the closer she drew to her departure, the more clearly did she behold the beauty of the Bridegroom, and with greater haste she strove toward the Beloved, no longer addressing us who were present, but Him Himself, whom she embraced with fixed eyes. For her couch was turned toward the east. Ceasing, therefore, to speak with us, she spoke from that point on with God in prayer, supplicating with her hands and murmuring in such a low voice that what was said could only barely be heard by us. Yet such was the prayer that it was not doubtful that it was poured out to God, and from Him it was heard.
“You,” she said, “O Lord, have wiped away the fear of death from us. You have made the end of this life the beginning of true life for us. You deliver our bodies to sleep for a time, and raise them up again at the final trumpet. You commit our earth, which You fashioned with Your hands, to the earth as a deposit, and You reclaim what You had given, adorning our mortal and unsightly part with immortality and grace. You have delivered us from the curse and from sin, having become both for our sake. C You have crushed the heads of the dragon, who had seized man by the throat through the chasm of disobedience. You have opened the way for us to the resurrection, having shattered the gates of Hades and brought to naught the devil who had the power of death. You have given to those who fear You a sign, the mark of Your holy cross, for the destruction of the opposing one and for the security of our life. O eternal God, to whom I have been dedicated from my mother’s womb, whom my soul has loved with all its strength, and to whom I have consecrated both my flesh and my soul from my youth until this present time, do You D provide for me a shining angel who may lead me to the place of refreshment, where there is water of rest, into the bosom of the holy Fathers. You who broke the flaming sword and restored to paradise the man who was crucified with You and had fled to Your mercy, remember me also in Your kingdom; for I too have been crucified with You, having pierced my flesh with the fear of You, and having trembled at Your judgments. Let not that fearful chasm separate me from Your elect. Let not the envious one hinder my path, nor let my sins be found before Your eyes, if by reason of na-
Atural weakness I have sinned in word, or deed, or thought. Do You who have power on earth to forgive sins, grant me remission, that I may be refreshed and may be found before You in the putting off of my body, having no stain in the form of my soul. But may my soul be received blameless and unspotted in Your hands, as incense before You." Saying these things, she also traced the sign of the cross upon her eyes, and upon her mouth, and upon her heart. But her tongue, having been gradually withered by the fever, could no longer articulate the words, and her voice failed. Wherefore, by the mere opening of her lips and the movement of her hands, we knew that she was engaged in prayer.
And while this was happening, evening having come and the light having been brought in, she suddenly opened the circle of her eyes, and looking toward the light, it was manifest that she was eager to utter the evening thanksgiving; but as her voice failed, she B fulfilled her intention through her heart and the movement of her hands, and her lips moved in sympathy with her inward impulse. And as she finished the thanksgiving, her hand, having been brought to her face to mark it with the sign, indicated the end of the prayer, and drawing a great and deep breath, she finished her life along with her prayer.
Since she was now lifeless and motionless, I, remembering the commands which she had given me at our very first meeting, when she said that she wished my hands to close her eyes and to perform the customary service to her mouth, I applied my hand, which was numb from the suffering, to her holy face, lest I should seem to neglect her command rather than because such a service was necessary for her eyes; for they were, as happens in natural sleep, becomingly covered by the eyelids. Her lips were likewise closed, her hands were gracefully laid upon her breast, and the whole position of her body was automatically disposed with such decorum that it stood in no need of the hands of those who would arrange it. C
My own soul, however, was doubly distressed; I looked upon what was present, and my hearing was beset by the wailing of the virgins. For until then they had persevered in silence, and, enclosing their sorrow within their souls, they had stifled the impulse of the lamentation out of fear of her, as if fearing the rebuke of her who was now silent, lest, if any voice should break forth from them contrary to what had been prescribed, their teacher might be pained by what was happening. But when the sorrow could no longer be held back by silence, as if a fire were inwardly consuming their souls, a bitter and uncontrollable cry suddenly burst forth; so that my reason could no longer remain steadfast, but, as if overwhelmed by the rush of a torrent, it was carried away by the commotion D and surrendered itself entirely to the lamentations. And the cause for the mourning and weeping seemed to me, in a way, just and reasonable for the virgins; for they did not mourn [out] of custom or any human guidance, or other
A things of this sort for which men generally fret under their calamities; but as if they had been cut off from their hope in God and the salvation of their souls, they lived thus, and thus they wailed in their lamentations, saying: "The light of our eyes is extinguished; the light which led our souls on their journey has been snatched away; the protection of our life is scattered, the pattern of integrity is taken away; the bond of concord is severed, the staff of the weak is broken, the healing of the sick is removed. Under your guidance, night was for us in place of day, illuminated by the splendor of your life; but now, even the day will be turned into darkness." More severely than the others, those who called her their mother and nurse kindled their grief. For these were the ones whom, in a time of famine and want, she had gathered up, cast out as they were upon the roads, and had nursed and reared, and guided toward a pure and incorrupt life. B
But after I had gathered my soul as if from some depth of anguish, and fixed the gaze of my eyes upon that holy head, as if rebuked by her because of the unseemly clamor of those who were tumultuous in their mourning, I cried out with a loud voice, calling to the virgins: "Look to her," I said, "and remember her precepts, by which you were instructed by her toward all beauty and honesty. That divine soul prescribed for us a single time for tears, commanding us to do this when we were at leisure for prayer: which you can now even perform, changing the clamor of lamentation into the pious chanting of psalms." This I said with as loud a voice as I could, so that I might overcome the noise of those lamenting; then I encouraged them to withdraw to the nearby house, leaving behind only a few whose service she had more gladly used while she was alive.
In this number was a certain woman, most noble, C who in youth had been illustrious in wealth, and birth, and in bodily beauty, and in other respects. She had been joined in marriage to a certain very honorable man, but had lived with him only for a short time. Therefore, being released from wedlock, she had chosen the great Macrina as the guardian and mistress of her widowhood, and she associated much with the virgins, that she might learn from them the way of living rightly and according to virtue. Vestiana was the woman's name, whose father was Araxius, one of the number of those belonging to the senate of the high council. To her I said: "Now, indeed, it will not be invidious if we bestow a more splendid adornment upon the deceased, and clothe that pure and immaculate flesh with brighter garments." But she replied that it was necessary to learn what had been approved by that holy woman in this matter; for it was not right, she said, for anything to be done by us contrary to her will. For certainly, that which was pleasing and acceptable to God would be delightful to her as well. D
There was a certain woman set over the choir of virgins in the rank of service, Lampadia by name, who said she knew clearly her opinion regarding funeral processions.
A She, being interrogated by me on these matters (for she happened to be present by design), replied with tears: "The holy one prepared for herself an ornament by living purely and integrily, which would decorate both her life and her burial: for as regards the adornment of the body, she neither accepted it while she lived, nor did she reserve it for this use. Wherefore, not even if we desired it is it possible, since there is no such equipment at hand." "Is there nothing," I asked, "stored away, with which proper funeral rites could be adorned?" "What," she said, "do you call 'stored away'? You have everything that is set aside in your hands: behold the pallium, behold the head-covering, the worn-out shoes of her feet; these are her riches, this is her substance. Nothing beyond what you see lies hidden in chests or locked in chambers. She knew of but one storehouse for her own wealth, the heavenly treasury; there she deposited everything, leaving nothing upon the earth."
"What then," I said to her, "if I should bring something from what I have prepared for the burial; will she think it an unwanted act on this account?" She replied that she did not think this would be against her will. "For even if she were living," she said, "she would not reject such an honor from you, both because of the dignity of the priesthood which she always venerated, and because of the bond of nature; for she would not consider that which came from her brother to be alien to her. For this reason, she also commanded that her body be adorned by your hands."
B When this had been determined, and it was necessary to shroud that sacred body in linen cloths, we divided the task among us, each thinking of what he might do for her. And I indeed ordered one of my own attendants to bring a garment; but the aforementioned Vetiana, adorning that holy head with her own hands, when she had placed her hand under her neck, "Behold," she said, looking at me, "what kind of necklace ornament hangs from the neck of the holy one." And saying this, having loosened the fastening from behind, she reached out her hand and showed us the form of a cross made of iron, and a certain ring of the same material; both of which, suspended from a thin cord, had always clung to her heart. And I said, "Let the possession be common. You indeed take the protection of the cross; for me, the inheritance of the ring will suffice," for on its seal the cross was also engraved. Looking intently at it, the woman said to me again, "Your choice of this treasure has not been mistaken. For the ring is hollowed out beneath the bezel, and within it a particle of the wood of life is hidden; and thus the seal above points to what lies beneath by its own image."
C But when the time required that the chaste body be covered with the garment, a duty that necessarily fell to me by the command of that great soul, and while she was present and handling at the same time those things which, along with me, she had shared in that great inheritance, "Do not omit," she said, "to contemplate the magnitude of the miracle perfectly achieved by this holy one." "What is that?" I said. But she, having bared a portion of the chest,
A observed, "Do you see this thin and faint mark beneath the surface of the skin?" It resembled a mark made by a thin needle. And at the same time, she brought the lamp closer to the place she was showing me. "What is wonderful," I said, "if the body is marked in this part with some faint sign?" "This too," she said, "remains upon the body as a memorial B of the great help of God. For when once this part had painfully swollen, and there was danger that the tumor would have to be cut, or that the evil, spreading further, would become incurable if it reached the regions about the heart, the mother often asked and implored her to admit the hand of the physician, for she said that this art also was shown by God for the salvation of men. But she, judging the baring of any part of her body to strange eyes to be more grievous than the malady itself, when evening fell, after she had completed her customary service to her mother with her own hands, entered the most holy sanctuary and prostrated herself the whole night, supplicating God for healing. And she poured out upon the earth the water falling from her eyes, and with the clay of her tears, she applied a remedy to the disease. But to her mother, who was overcome with anxiety and urging her to use a physician, she replied that it was enough to expel the disease if her mother herself would mark the place with the sign of the cross. When, therefore, the mother had placed her hand within her bosom to mark that part, the sign indeed performed its work, but the disease departed. And this small mark appeared C in place of the horrible tumor, and it remained until the end, so that it might be, as I believe, a token of divine aid, by which she was continually moved to give thanks to God."
After we had put an end to our labors and decorated the body with domestic resources, that ministering woman said that it was not fitting for the body, adorned in the likeness of a bride, to be placed before the eyes of the maidens. "But I have," she said, "a dark mantle from the vestments of your mother, which I believe may rightly be thrown over it, lest this holy beauty be illuminated by that external and adventitious decoration of clothing." When this opinion prevailed and the mantle was laid over it, even in her dark garment, by divine power, as I suppose, which added this grace D to the body, she so shone forth that, just as the vision in the dream had shown, certain rays of light seemed to beam forth from her beauty.
Meanwhile, while we were doing these things and the place was resounding with the chanting of the maidens commingled with lamentations, a report in some way spread everywhere, and all the neighbors flocked to the funeral, so that the vestibule could not contain those who were rushing in. When, therefore, the nightly vigil was completed with the chanting of psalms, as at a celebration for martyrs, and it was dawn, the multitude of men and women flowing together from every part of the surrounding district was interrupting the psalmody with their wailing. I, although my soul was distressed by the calamity, nevertheless, from the things present, as much as could be done, devoted my effort to ensure that nothing in such
A a funeral might be wanting. And so, dividing the swarming crowd by lineage, and mingling the multitude of women with the choir of virgins, and assigning the body of men to the order of the monks, I strove to institute one fitting and harmonious order from both, as if in a gathering of those chanting psalms, aptly joined together from the common song of all.
But as the day gradually advanced, and the place at the edge became straitened by the multitude of those standing by, the bishop who presided over those regions, Araxius by name (for he was present with the entire fullness of the clergy), exhorted us to move the tabernacle slowly. For there was a sufficiently long distance of the way, and the multitude, moreover, would have been an impediment to more rapid movement. And while saying these things, he called forward all those who shared with him in the priesthood, so that by their means the body might be carried.
B When this had been decided, and the pressing task was in hand, I, going under the bier, called upon him to support the other side; and two others, honored among the clergy, took up the rear part of the bier. Thus we went forward, holding our place, proceeding at a walking pace as was appropriate, our movement small by small. For because the people were pressed close around the bier, and because all were insatiably intent on that holy sight, it was not easy for us to complete the journey. A not small multitude of deacons and ministers preceded us on either side, walking in line before the tabernacle, all of them holding beeswax candles.
And the procession that was taking place was like a mystery, with the chanting of psalms being sung in unison from the beginning to the very end, by a triple order of singers, just as in the hymnody of the three children. And there being seven or eight stades between the edge of the cemetery and the house of the holy martyrs, in which the bodies of our C parents also reposed, we spent nearly the whole day in finishing the way. For the multitude, both those gathering and those constantly arriving, did not allow the journey to proceed according to our intention.
When, therefore, we were established within the house, having set down the bier, we turned first to prayer; but the prayer became an occasion of mourning for the people. For when the psalmody was silenced, once the virgins looked upon that holy face and the tomb of the parents was now opened, in which it had been decided to lay her, a certain one of them cried out in disorder that we would no longer behold this God-like face after this hour. As the rest of the virgins likewise cried out with her, a disorderly confusion disrupted that orderly and holy psalmody, for the spirits of all were broken by the wailing of the virgins. But with difficulty, as we signaled for silence, and the herald led the prayer and D shouted out the customary voices to the Church, the people were at last composed to the form of prayer.
A But when the prayer had finished its proper course, a certain fear came over me as I considered that commandment which forbids us to uncover the nakedness of father or mother. "And how," I said, "shall I escape this judgment, if I should behold upon the bodies of my parents the common nakedness of human nature, which it is likely has fallen away and dissolved, and has been changed into a shameful and repulsive deformity?" While I was reflecting on these things, and the indignation of Noah against his son further heightened my fear, the story of Noah itself advised me what needed to be done. For before the bodies were exposed to our eyes, they were covered with a clean linen sheet; for when the lid had been removed from one end to the other, the cloth was thrown over, and the bodies of our parents having been thus hidden by the linen, I and that bishop of the region whom I mentioned, taking the body from the bier, placed it beside our mother, and thus we fulfilled the vow of both; for with one consent they had always prayed to God that their bodies might be joined together after death, so that the union which had existed between them in life might not be sundered even in death itself.
B When all the rites customary at a funeral had been duly performed for us, and the time had come that we must return, I threw myself upon the grave and, after kissing the dust, I departed sad and weeping, reflecting upon how great a good our life had been deprived of. But on the very journey, a certain man illustrious in military affairs, who was a leader of the army in a city of Pontus by the name of Sebastopolis, having heard of the calamity and bearing it ill, came to meet us with his retinue in a friendly manner. For he was bound to us by the bond of both kinship and friendship. He related to me a miracle concerning her, which shall be the one thing I add, and with which I will bring my writing to an end. For when we had put an end to our tears and had begun to converse, he said to me, “Listen to me,” he said, “as to what and how great a good has departed from life,” and thus he began his narrative:
D “A desire formerly came upon me and my wife to visit with all speed the training school of virtue—for so, I think, one ought to call that place in which that blessed soul spent her days. Our young daughter was with us, whom a calamity in the form of a pestilential disease had befallen regarding her eye, so that a film had grown over the pupil, and it had contracted a whiteness, making it a foul and pitiable sight. Having entered that divine house, we were separated in that place devoted to wisdom, so that I withdrew to where the men lived, over whom your brother Peter presided, while she went within to the women’s quarters, where she associated with the holy Macrina. When we had stayed there for a short time, we thought it was time to depart. And we were already preparing for our departure, when a certain human impulse came upon us from both sides. For your brother was bidding me to remain and study...
at the table of philosophy; and the blessed one would not let my wife go, but, holding the little daughter in her bosom, she said she would not restore her until she had set a table for them and entertained them with the wealth of philosophy. While kissing the child, as is natural, and bringing her mouth to her eyes, when she saw the affliction of the little girl, she said, "If you grant me the favor and share our table with us, I will give you a reward for such honor that is not unworthy." The child’s mother asked, "What is this?" The Great One replied, "I have a medicine to cure this affliction of the eye." And on these conditions, a sign having come to me from the women’s quarters indicating that she would keep that promise, we gladly remained, setting aside the necessity of departing that urged us on.
B When the banquet had come to an end, and our prayer was complete—with the great Peter having entertained us with his own hands and cheered us, and the holy Macrina having refreshed our partner with every becoming delight—we set out on the same road, happy and joyful, each of us narrating to the other what had happened to him on the journey. I was recounting the things from the men’s quarters, as much as I had seen and heard; and she, in turn, recounting each thing one by one, thought that nothing, however small, should be omitted, just as in a history. And so, as she went through everything in order just as if she were reading from a written text, when she had reached that part which contained the promise of the healing of the eye, she broke off the narrative: "What," she said, "have we suffered? How have we neglected the promise she made us, that medicine promised in the form of an ointment?" And while I joined in censuring the negligence and was bidding someone to run quickly to ask for the medicine, the infant who was in the foster-mother’s arms looked toward her mother; and the mother, fixing her gaze upon the infant’s eyes, said, "Cease, [brother], to be vexed at the negligence." C This she said in a loud voice, accompanied by joy and amazement at once. "For look, nothing of what was promised to us has been left out; but that true medicine of hers, that healer of ailments which is healing through prayer, she has given, and it has already become effective, and there is no part of the affliction of the eye remaining, for it has been cleansed by that divine medicine." And while speaking these things, she herself embraced the child and placed her into my hands. And I then, taking into my mind the miracles narrated in the Gospel which are thought incredible, said, "What is so great about the blind having received the power of sight by the hand of God, when now His handmaid, by the faith in Him, accomplishes those very healings? For we behold the work, which is not much inferior to those miracles." D While I was saying these things, a sob interrupted my voice, and a flood of tears followed as I told the story—these things, I mean, from the soldier.
But as for those other such things that I heard from those who lived with her and who knew her life with precision, I do not believe it is safe to add them to the narrative; for most people, in proportion to that...