論祭司職分 第 6 章

That the priests are also liable to give account for the sins of others. And the things here are such as you have heard;

but how shall we bear the things there, when for each of those entrusted to us we are compelled to render account? For the penalty does not stop at shame, but eternal punishment also awaits.

For the saying, "Obey your leaders and submit to them, for they keep watch over your souls"—though I said it before, yet not even now will I keep silent;

for the fear of this threat continually shakes my soul.

For if it is profitable for the one who scandalizes even a single, very least person, that an ass's millstone be hung about his neck and he be sunk in the sea, and if all who wound the conscience of the brethren sin against Christ Himself, then those who destroy not one or two or three, but such great multitudes, what indeed will they suffer, and what penalty will they pay? For one cannot plead inexperience, nor take refuge in ignorance, nor put forward necessity and constraint; rather, sooner would one of the governed, if it were at all possible, make use of this refuge in his own sins than would those who preside in the sins of others.

Why so? Because the one appointed to correct the ignorance of others and to forewarn of the diabolical war that is coming will not be able to plead ignorance, nor to say:

"I did not hear the trumpet, I did not foresee the war."

For he was set in place for this, as Ezekiel says, that he might sound the trumpet for others also and forewarn of the troubles to come.

And on this account the punishment is inescapable, even if the one who perished happen to be but a single soul;

for, He says, "If the sword come and the watchman do not sound the trumpet to the people, nor give warning, and the sword come and take a soul, that soul indeed is taken because of its own iniquity, but its blood will I require from the hand of the watchman."

That those in monastic life need greater strictness. Cease, then, from thrusting us into so inescapable a judgment;

for our discussion is not about generalship nor about kingship, but about a matter requiring angelic virtue.

For the priest's soul must be purer than the very sunbeams, so that the Holy Spirit may never leave him desolate, that he may be able to say:

"It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me." For if those who dwell in the desert, freed from the city and the marketplace and the tumults that come from there, and enjoying continual harbors and calm, are unwilling to trust in the security of that mode of life, but add countless other safeguards, fencing themselves about on every side and striving with much exactness both to say and to do all things, so that with boldness and pure sincerity—so far as it lies in human power—they may be able to approach God: how much, do you think, of both power and force must the consecrated man have, in order to be able to snatch his soul away from every defilement and to keep the spiritual beauty unharmed? For he needs far greater purity than they; and the one who needs greater purity is subject to more compulsions, capable of defiling him, than they are, unless, by continual sobriety and great strain, he renders his soul inaccessible to them.

For the comeliness of faces, and the affectation of gestures, and the studied manner of walking, and the modulation of the voice, and the painting of the eyes, and the rouging of the cheeks, and the arrangements of braids, and the dyeing of hair, and the costliness of garments, and the variety of gold ornaments, and the beauty of gems, and the fragrance of perfumes, and all the other things which womankind cultivates, are sufficient to throw a soul into turmoil, unless it happen to be hardened by much austerity of self-control.

But that one should be disturbed by these things is nothing to wonder at;

but that the devil is able to shoot also through the things contrary to these,

and to strike down the souls of men—this is the thing full of much astonishment and perplexity.

That the monk enjoys greater ease than the one who presides over the Church. For already some, having escaped these snares, have been caught by things far removed from them;

for indeed a neglected appearance, and unkempt hair, and a filthy robe, and an unaffected demeanor, and a simple character, and plain speech, and an unstudied gait, and an unshaped voice, and living in poverty, and being despised, and being without a patron, and solitude—these first led the beholder to pity, and from pity to the utmost ruin.

And many who escaped the former nets—those woven of gold and perfumes and garments and the rest of the things I mentioned—fell easily into these other nets so far removed from them, and perished.

When, then, the war is kindled in the soul of the beholder both through poverty and through wealth, both through adornment and through a carelessly worn appearance, both through manners studied and unaffected, and through simply all the things I have enumerated, and the contrivances surround him on every side, whence will he be able to draw breath, with so many snares set round about him in a circle? What hiding place can he find—I do not say so as not to be taken by force (for that is not very hard), but so as to keep his own soul undisturbed by foul thoughts? And I pass over the honors, the cause of countless evils.

For the honors that come from women damage the vigor of chastity and often cast it down, whenever someone does not know how to be ever watchful against such plots;

but the honors that come from men, unless one receives them with much magnanimity, ensnare him in two contrary passions: the servility of flattery and the folly of arrogance—being compelled to crouch before those who court him, and, on account of the honors from them, swelling against his inferiors and being thrust into the pit of madness.

These things have been spoken by us, but how great a harm they bring no one could rightly learn without experience;

for not only these things, but also things far more numerous and more perilous than these, must necessarily befall the man who moves in the midst of the world.

But he who cherishes solitude is free from the imperfection of all these things;

and if at any time some absurd thought should sketch something of this kind for him, yet the imagination is weak and quickly able to be extinguished, because there is not added from outside the fuel from sight to the flame.

And the monk fears for himself alone;

but if he should be compelled to care for others also, yet they are very few in number; and even if they be more, still they are fewer than those in the churches and provide the superior with far lighter cares on their behalf—not only because of their fewness, but also because all of them are freed from worldly affairs and have neither children, nor wife, nor any other such thing to be anxious about.

And this has made them both very obedient to their leaders and possessed of a common dwelling, so that their leaders are able accurately to discern their faults and to correct them—which is no small thing toward the advancement of virtue.

That the protection of the whole world is entrusted to the priest, and other dreadful matters. But of those ranked under the priest, the greater part are fettered by the cares of this life, and this renders them more sluggish toward the work of spiritual things;

whence it is necessary for the teacher to sow, so to speak, every day, that at least by continuity the word may be able to take hold among those who hear the teaching.

For indeed excessive wealth, and the greatness of power, and the indolence that comes from luxury, and many other things besides these, choke the seeds that are cast down; and often the

thickness of the thorns does not even allow the thing sown to fall as far as the surface.

And again, excess of affliction, and the constraint of poverty, and continual injuries, and other such things contrary to the former, lead away from zeal for divine things; while of their sins not even the smallest fraction can become evident to him;

for how could it, when he does not even know the greater part of them by sight? And the matters concerning the people, then, hold for him such perplexity.

But if one should examine the matters concerning God, he will find these to be nothing, so much greater and more exacting is the diligence which those require.

For what manner of man must he be who acts as ambassador on behalf of a whole city—why do I say a city?—nay, of the whole inhabited world, and entreats God to be merciful for the sins of all, not only of the living but also of the departed? I, for my part, do not think that even the boldness of Moses and of Elijah suffices for so great a supplication.

For indeed, as one entrusted with the whole world and being himself the father of all, so he comes to God, asking that the wars everywhere be quenched, the tumults dissolved, that there be peace, prosperity, and a swift deliverance from the evils pressing upon each, both privately and publicly.

And he must so far surpass in all things, on behalf of those for whom he prays, as is fitting that one who presides should surpass those whom he protects.

And when he calls upon the Holy Spirit and accomplishes the most awe-inspiring sacrifice and continually touches the common Master of all, where, tell me, shall we rank him? What purity and what reverence shall we require of him? For consider what manner the hands that minister these things must be, what manner the tongue that pours forth those words, and how pure and holy beyond all the soul must be that receives so great a Spirit.

At that time angels too stand beside the priest, and the whole sanctuary and the space around the altar is filled with heavenly powers in honor of Him who lies there.

And this is sufficient to be believed even from the very things accomplished at that time.

But I once heard someone relating that a certain elder, an admirable man accustomed to seeing revelations, told him that he had been deemed worthy of such a vision, and at that very time suddenly saw a multitude of angels, as far as was possible for him, clothed in shining robes and encircling the altar and bowing low, as one might see soldiers standing in the presence of a king;

And another also related to me, not having learned it from another but having himself been deemed worthy to see and to hear, that those about to depart from here, if they happen to have partaken of the mysteries with a pure conscience, when they are about to breathe their last, are escorted away from here by angels because of that which they received.

And do you not yet shudder, introducing into so holy a rite such a soul, and raising to the dignity of the priesthood one clothed in filthy garments, whom Christ has thrust out even from the company of the rest of the guests? The priest's soul must shine like a light that illumines the world;

but our soul has so great a darkness surrounding it from an evil conscience that it is always sinking down and can never with boldness gaze upon its own Master.

The priests are the salt of the earth;

but who could easily bear our foolishness and our inexperience in all things, except you who are accustomed to love us beyond measure? For not only must he be pure, as one deemed worthy of so great a ministry, but also exceedingly intelligent and experienced in many things.

And he must know all the affairs of this life no less than those who move in the midst of the world, yet be more freed from them than the monks who have taken to the mountains.

For since he must associate with men who have wives and rear children and possess servants and are surrounded by much wealth and conduct public affairs and are in positions of power, he must be versatile.

But by versatile I do not mean underhanded, nor

a flatterer, nor a hypocrite, but full of much freedom and boldness, yet knowing how to condescend usefully when the matter at hand requires it, and to be at once kindly and severe.

For one must not treat all the governed in one manner, since neither is it good for physicians' children to apply one rule to the sick, nor for a pilot to know but one way of battling against the winds;

for indeed this ship too is surrounded by continual storms, and these storms assail not only from outside but are also begotten from within, and there is need of much condescension and exactness.

But all these various things look to one end: the glory of God and the edification of the Church.

That the priest must be fit for all things. Great is the contest of the monks and much the toil;

but if one should compare the sweats of monastic life with a priesthood rightly administered, he will find as great a difference as there is between a layman and a king.

For there, even if the labor be great, yet the struggle is common to soul and body;

or rather, the greater part is accomplished by the constitution of the body.

And if this be not strong, the zeal remains by itself, having no power to issue in deed;

for indeed intense fasting and sleeping on the ground and vigils and going unwashed and much sweat and all the rest that they practice for the body's affliction—all these go for nothing, when the one who is to be chastised is not strong.

But here the art is purely of the soul and needs nothing of the body's good condition in order to display its virtue.

For what does the body's strength contribute to our being neither self-willed, nor irascible, nor rash, but sober and chaste and orderly, and all the other things by which the blessed Paul completed for us the image of the best priest?

That to preside well over a multitude is a sign of endurance not so much as monastic life is. But one could not say this of the monk's virtue.

But just as conjurers need many instruments—wheels and ropes and knives—while the philosopher has all his art laid up in his soul, needing none of the things from outside, so too is it here.

But how shall we bear the things there, when for each of those entrusted to us we are compelled to render account?

Now I believe my punishment will be as great as the magnitude of my sins demands;

but after receiving the office, not only double and triple, but many times more, both by scandalizing more people and by giving offense, after a greater honor, to the God who honored me.

That a far harsher punishment awaits the sins of priests than those of laymen. For this reason indeed, in rebuking the Israelites more severely, He shows by this that they are worthy of greater punishment, in that they sinned after the honors He had bestowed upon them, saying at one time:

"Only you have I known out of all the families

of the earth; therefore will I visit upon you all your iniquities." And at another time:

"I took of your sons for prophets and of your young men for consecration." And before the prophets, wishing to show that sins incur far greater punishment when they are committed by priests than when by laymen, He commands that as great a sacrifice be offered for the priests as for the whole people;

and this signifies nothing other than that the priest's wounds need greater aid—as great as the wounds of the whole people together.

But it would not need greater aid unless they were more grievous;

and they become more grievous not by their nature, but by being weighted with the dignity of the priest who dares to commit them.

And why do I speak of the men who undertake the ministry? For even the daughters of the priests, who have no claim to the priesthood, nevertheless, on account of their father's dignity, undergo a far bitterer punishment for the same sins;

and the transgression is equal for them and for the daughters of laymen—for in both cases it is fornication—but the penalty is far harsher for these.

Do you see with how great an emphasis God shows you that He requires of the ruler far greater punishment than of the governed?

For surely He who punishes his daughter more than others for his sake—the one who was the cause of the addition to her torments—will not exact an equal penalty from him as from the many, but a far greater one;

for the loss does not fall back upon him alone, but also casts down the souls of the weaker who look to him.

This too Ezekiel, wishing to teach, distinguishes from one another the judgment of the rams and that of the sheep.

A demonstration from examples, both of the anguish that arose because of the expectation of the priesthood, and of the fear. Do we seem to you to have feared with a reasonable fear? For besides what has been said, now indeed, even though I need much labor in order not to be utterly overcome by the passions of the soul, yet still I endure the labor and do not flee the contest.

For I am indeed caught by vainglory even now, but I often come to myself and perceive that I have been caught;

and there are times when I even rebuke my enslaved soul.

Improper desires fall upon me even now;

but they kindle the flame more sluggishly, since the eyes do not lay hold from outside upon the fuel of the fire.

And from speaking ill of this or that person, and from hearing oneself spoken ill of, I am wholly delivered, since those who converse are not present;

for surely these walls could not give forth a voice.

But anger one cannot likewise escape, even though there are none to provoke;

for often the memory of absurd men and of the things done by them, falling upon me, makes my heart swell—yet not to the end;

for we quickly check it while it is inflamed and persuade it to be still, saying that it is utterly out of harmony and the mark of the utmost wretchedness to leave one's own evils and busy oneself with those of one's neighbors.

But once I have gone out into the multitude and been caught up in countless turmoils, I shall not be able to enjoy this admonition, nor to find the reasonings that train these passions;

but just as those thrust down precipices by some torrent or otherwise can foresee the destruction in which they will end, yet have no means of devising any aid, so too I myself, having fallen into the great tumult of the passions, shall be able to perceive the punishment increasing for me with each day, but to come to myself as now, and to rebuke on every side these maladies raging within me, will no longer be as easy for me as before.

For my soul is a weak and small one, easily mastered not only by these passions, but also by envy, the bitterest of all; and it knows how to bear neither insults nor honors with moderation, but with excess the latter exalt it and

Just as savage beasts, when they are in good bodily condition and full of vigor, overcome those who fight against them—and especially when these are weak and inexperienced—but if someone should waste them away with hunger, he both lulls their fury and quenches the greater part of their strength, so that even the not very noble man may take up the contest and war against them; so too the passions of the soul: he who makes them weak places them under right reasonings, but he who carefully nourishes them sets up for himself a harder battle against them, and so renders them fearful to him as to live the whole of his time in slavery and cowardice.

What, then, is the food of these beasts? Of vainglory, honors and praises; of madness, the greatness of authority and power; of envy, the good repute of one's neighbors; of avarice, the lavish gifts of donors; of dissipation, luxury and the continual encounters with women; and one feeds upon another.

And all these things, if I go out into the midst, will vehemently set upon me and tear my soul, and will be fearful and will make my war against them harder.

But while I sit here, even so it will indeed be subdued with much force—but subdued it will be nonetheless, by the grace of God—and their barking will avail them nothing.

For these reasons I keep this little dwelling, and I endure to hear myself called inaccessible and unsociable and unfriendly, and countless other such reproaches, though I would gladly shake them off, yet am bitten and pained by being unable to do so;

for it is not easy for me at once to become sociable and to remain in my present security.

Wherefore I also entreat you to pity rather than to accuse one who is hemmed in by so great a difficulty.

It is high time, then, to cast forth to you also this one thing which alone I held as a secret.

And perhaps it will seem incredible to many;

but I, even so, will not be ashamed to bring it forth into the open.

For even if what is said be a proof of a wicked conscience and of countless sins, since God who is to judge us knows all things accurately, what more can accrue to us from the ignorance of men?

What, then, is the secret? From that day on which you put this suspicion into me, my body has often been in danger of being utterly paralyzed, so great a fear, and so great a despondency, seized my soul.

For considering the glory of Christ's bride—her holiness, her spiritual beauty, her understanding, her seemliness—and reckoning up my own evils, I did not cease to mourn for her and to bewail myself, and groaning continually and in perplexity I said to myself:

Who indeed counseled these things? What so great sin did the Church of God commit? What such great thing provoked her Master, that she should be handed over to me, the most worthless of all, and endure so great a disgrace? Reckoning these things often with myself, and unable to bear even the thought of so great an absurdity, I lay speechless like those struck dumb, able neither to see nor to hear anything.

And when this great helplessness released me—for there are times when it would relent—tears and despondency succeeded it; and after my fill of tears, fear again came in upon me, troubling and confounding and shaking my mind.

In such a tempest I lived through the time that is past;

but you knew it not, and supposed me to be passing my days in calm.

But now I shall try to reveal to you the storm of my soul;

for perhaps from this too you will pardon me, letting go your charges.

How, then, how shall we lay it open to you? If you should wish to see it clearly, there was no other way than to lay bare my heart.

But since this is impossible, by means of some faint image, as far as I am able, I will try to show you for the present the smoke of my despondency;

and do you gather from the image the despondency alone.

Let us suppose that someone is betrothed to the daughter of the king who reigns over all the land that lies beneath the sun, and that this maiden has beauty

indescribable and surpassing human nature, and by far surpasses the whole race of women by a great interval, and a virtue of soul so great that she leaves the race of men—both those who have been and those who shall ever be—far behind by a great measure, and surpasses all the bounds of philosophy by the seemliness of her character, and hides every bloom of body by the beauty of her own countenance;

and that her bridegroom is inflamed with love for the maiden not only on account of these things, but even apart from them feels something toward her, and by this passion eclipses the most frenzied of all the lovers that have ever been.

Then suppose that, in the midst of his being inflamed with love, he hears from somewhere that that wondrous beloved of his is about to be led in marriage to one of the worthless and outcast men—one of base birth, maimed in body, and the most wretched of all that exist.

Have we now set before you some small part of our anguish? And is it enough to halt the image at this point? As far as concerns the despondency, I think it is enough;

for it was on this account alone that we adopted it.

But in order that I may show you also the measure of the fear and the consternation, let us go on again to another sketch.

And let there be an army assembled of foot soldiers and horsemen and men who fight at sea; and let the number of triremes cover the sea, and let the phalanxes of foot and horse cover the throngs of the plains and the summits of the mountains; and let the bronze of the weapons gleam against the sun, and let the flashing of helmets and shields be cast back against the rays sent from there;

and let the clash of spears and the neighing of horses be borne up to heaven itself, and let neither sea nor land appear, but bronze and iron everywhere.

And let enemies too be drawn up against them, certain savage and untamed men;

and let the moment of engagement now be at hand.

Then let someone suddenly snatch up a lad of those reared in the country, who knows nothing more than the shepherd's pipe and the crook, and arm him with bronze armor;

and let him lead him round the whole army and show him the companies and the captains, the archers, the slingers, the company-commanders, the generals, the heavy-armed, the horsemen, the javelin-throwers, the triremes, the trireme-captains, the soldiers drawn up in array there, the multitude of engines stowed away in the ships;

and let him show also the whole battle-array of the enemy, and certain forbidding faces and a strange array of weapons, and a countless multitude, and ravines and deep precipices and the difficult passes of the mountains;

and let him show besides, among the adversaries, horses flying by some sorcery and heavy-armed men borne through the air, and the power and appearance of every kind of magic.

[JOHN:] "I have it even now," I said;

"for how is it possible, being a man and living this much-toiling life, to be free from cares and anxiety? But it is not the same thing to fall into a boundless ocean and to sail along beside a river;

for so great is the difference between these cares and those.

For now, if I could become useful to others as well, I myself would wish it, and this would be a matter of much prayer for me;

but if it is not possible to profit another, if it should be granted me at least to save myself and to draw myself out of the surge, I shall be content with this."

"Then do you think this a great thing," said Basil, "and do you even suppose you will be saved at all, having become useful to no one else?" [JOHN:] "Well and rightly," I said, "have you spoken;

for neither can I myself believe this, that it is possible for him to be saved who labors nothing for the salvation of his neighbor;

for neither did it profit that wretched man at all not to have diminished his talent; rather, he perished for not having increased it and brought it back doubled.

Yet still I think the punishment will be milder for me if I am accused of why I did not also save others, than if I am accused of why I destroyed both others and myself, having become much worse after so great an honor.

For now I believe my punishment will be as great as the magnitude of my sins demands;

but after receiving the office, not only double and triple, but many times more—both by scandalizing more people and by giving offense, after a greater honor, to the God who honored me.

That a far harsher punishment awaits the sins of priests than those of laymen. For this very reason indeed, in rebuking the Israelites more severely, He shows by this that they are worthy of greater punishment, in that they sinned after the honors He had bestowed upon them, saying at one time:

"Only you have I known out of all the tribes

of the earth; therefore will I visit upon you your iniquities." And at another time:

"I took of your sons for prophets and of your young men for consecration." And before the prophets, wishing to show that sins incur far greater punishment when they are committed by priests than when by laymen, He commands that as great a sacrifice be offered for the priests as for the whole people;

and this signifies nothing other than that the priest's wounds need greater aid—as great as the wounds of the whole people together.

But it would not need greater aid unless they were more grievous;

and they become more grievous not by their nature, but by being weighted with the dignity of the priest who dares to commit them.

And why do I speak of the men who undertake the ministry? For even the daughters of the priests, who have no claim to the priesthood, nevertheless, on account of their father's dignity, undergo a far bitterer punishment for the same sins;

and the offense is equal for them and for the daughters of laymen—for in both cases it is fornication—but the penalty is far harsher than these.

Do you see with how great an emphasis God shows you that He requires of the ruler far greater punishment than of the governed?

For surely He who punishes his daughter more than others for his sake will not exact an equal penalty from the one who was also the cause of the addition to her torments as from the many, but a far greater one;

for the loss does not fall back upon him alone, but also casts down the souls of the weaker who look to him.

This too Ezekiel, wishing to teach, distinguishes from one another the judgment of the rams and that of the sheep.

A demonstration from examples, both of the anguish that arose because of the expectation of the priesthood, and of the fear. Do we seem to you to have feared with a reasonable fear? For besides what has been said, now indeed, even though I need much labor in order not to be utterly overcome by the passions of the soul, yet still I endure the labor and do not flee the contest.

For I am indeed caught by vainglory even now, but I often come to myself and perceive that I have been caught;

and there are times when I even rebuke my enslaved soul.

Improper desires fall upon me even now;

but they kindle the flame more sluggishly, since the eyes do not lay hold from outside upon the fuel of the fire.

And from speaking ill of this or that person, and from hearing oneself spoken ill of, I am wholly delivered, since those who converse are not present;

for surely these walls could not give forth a voice.

But anger one cannot likewise escape, even though there are none to provoke;

for often the memory of absurd men and of the things done by them, falling upon me, makes my heart swell—yet not to the end;

for we quickly check it while it is inflamed and persuade it to be still, saying that it is utterly out of harmony and the mark of the utmost wretchedness to leave one's own evils and busy oneself with those of one's neighbors.

But once I have gone out into the multitude and been caught up in countless turmoils, I shall not be able to enjoy this admonition, nor to find the reasonings that train these passions;

but just as those thrust down precipices by some torrent or otherwise can foresee the destruction in which they will end, yet have no means of devising any aid, so too I myself, having fallen into the great tumult of the passions, shall be able to perceive the punishment increasing for me with each day, but to come to myself as now, and to rebuke on every side these maladies raging within me, will no longer be as easy for me as before.

For my soul is a weak and small one, easily mastered not only by these passions, but also by envy, the bitterest of all; and it knows how to bear neither insults nor honors with moderation, but with excess the latter exalt it and

Just as savage beasts, when they are in good bodily condition and full of vigor, overcome those who fight against them—and especially when these are weak and inexperienced—but if someone should waste them away with hunger, he both lulls their fury and quenches the greater part of their strength, so that even the not very noble man may take up the contest and war against them; so too the passions of the soul: he who makes them weak places them under right reasonings, but he who carefully nourishes them sets up for himself a harder battle against them, and so renders them fearful to him as to live the whole of his time in slavery and cowardice.

What, then, is the food of these beasts? Of vainglory, honors and praises; of madness, the greatness of authority and power; of envy, the good repute of one's neighbors; of avarice, the lavish gifts of donors; of dissipation, luxury and the continual encounters with women; and one feeds upon another.

And all these things, if I go out into the midst, will vehemently set upon me and tear my soul, and will be fearful and will make my war against them harder.

But while I sit here, even so it will indeed be subdued, though with much force—yet subdued it will be nonetheless, by the grace of God—and their barking will avail them nothing.

For these reasons I keep this little dwelling, and I endure to hear myself called inaccessible and unsociable and unfriendly, and countless other such reproaches, though I would gladly shake them off, yet am bitten and pained by being unable to do so;

for it is not easy for me at once to become sociable and to remain in my present security.

Wherefore I also entreat you yourself to pity rather than to accuse one who is hemmed in by so great a difficulty.

It is high time, then, to cast forth to you also this one thing which alone I held as a secret.

And perhaps it will seem incredible to many;

but I, even so, will not be ashamed to bring it forth into the open.

For even if what is said be a proof of a wicked conscience and of countless sins, since God who is to judge us knows all things accurately, what more can accrue to us from the ignorance of men?

What, then, is the secret? From that day on which you put this suspicion into me, my body has often been in danger of being utterly paralyzed, so great a fear, and so great a despondency, seized my soul.

For considering the glory of Christ's bride—her holiness, her spiritual beauty, her understanding, her seemliness—and reckoning up my own evils, I did not cease to mourn for her and to bewail myself, and groaning continually and in perplexity I said to myself:

Who indeed counseled these things? What so great sin did the Church of God commit? What such great thing provoked her Master, that she should be handed over to me, the most worthless of all, and endure so great a disgrace? Reckoning these things often with myself, and unable to bear even the thought of so great an absurdity, I lay speechless like those struck dumb, able neither to see nor to hear anything.

And when this great helplessness released me—for there are times when it would relent—tears and despondency succeeded it; and after my fill of tears, fear again came in upon me, troubling and confounding and shaking my mind.

In such a tempest I lived through the time that is past;

but you knew it not, and supposed me to be passing my days in calm.

But now I shall try to reveal to you the storm of my soul;

for perhaps from this too you will pardon me, letting go your charges.

How, then, how shall we lay it open to you? If you should wish to see it clearly, there was no other way than to lay bare my heart.

But since this is impossible, by means of some faint image, as far as I am able, I will try to show you for the present the smoke of my despondency;

and do you gather from the image the despondency alone.

Let us suppose that someone is betrothed to the daughter of the king who reigns over all the land that lies beneath the sun, and that this maiden has beauty

indescribable and surpassing human nature, and by far surpasses the whole race of women by a great interval, and a virtue of soul so great that she leaves the race of men—both those who have been and those who shall ever be—far behind by a great measure, and surpasses all the bounds of philosophy by the seemliness of her character, and hides every bloom of body by the beauty of her own countenance;

and that her bridegroom is inflamed with love for the maiden not only on account of these things, but even apart from them feels something toward her, and by this passion eclipses the most frenzied of all the lovers that have ever been.

Then suppose that, in the midst of his being inflamed with love, he hears from somewhere that that wondrous beloved of his is about to be led in marriage to one of the worthless and outcast men—one of base birth, maimed in body, and the most wretched of all that exist.

Have we now set before you some small part of our anguish? And is it enough to halt the image at this point? As far as concerns the despondency, I think it is enough;

for it was on this account alone that we adopted it.

But in order that I may show you also the measure of the fear and the consternation, let us go on again to another sketch.

And let there be an army assembled of foot soldiers and horsemen and men who fight at sea; and let the number of triremes cover the sea, and let the phalanxes of foot and horse cover the throngs of the plains and the summits of the mountains; and let the bronze of the weapons gleam against the sun, and let the flashing of helmets and shields be cast back against the rays sent from there;

and let the clash of spears and the neighing of horses be borne up to heaven itself, and let neither sea nor land appear, but bronze and iron everywhere.

And let enemies too be drawn up against them, certain savage and untamed men;

and let the moment of engagement now be at hand.

Then let someone suddenly snatch up a lad of those reared in the country, who knows nothing more than the shepherd's pipe and the crook, and arm him with bronze armor;

and let him lead him round the whole army and show him the companies and the captains, the archers, the slingers, the company-commanders, the generals, the heavy-armed, the horsemen, the javelin-throwers, the triremes, the trireme-captains, the soldiers drawn up in array there, and the multitude of engines stowed away in the ships;

and let him show also the whole battle-array of the enemy, and certain forbidding faces and a strange array of weapons, and a countless multitude, and ravines and deep precipices and the difficult passes of the mountains;

and let him show besides, among the adversaries, horses flying by some sorcery and heavy-armed men borne through the air, and the power and appearance of every kind of magic.

And let him recount also the calamities of war: the cloud of darts, the snowstorm of arrows, that thick gloom and the blindness, the murkiest night that the multitude of missiles makes, turning back the sun's rays by their density, the dust that darkens the eyes no less than the gloom, the torrents of blood, the wailings of the falling, the war-cries of those still standing, the heaps of the slain, wheels dyed in blood, horses borne headlong together with their riders over the multitude of fallen corpses, the earth holding all things in confusion—blood and bows and darts, horses' hooves and men's heads lying together, and arms and a neck and a greave and a breast cut through, brains stuck to swords, an arrow-point snapped off and holding a pierced eye upon it.

Let him recount also the sufferings of the navy: triremes, some set ablaze in the midst of the waters, others sinking with their very crews; the roar of the waters, the tumult of the sailors, the shouting of the soldiers; the foam of the waves mingled with blood, pouring in over all together with the ships; the dead upon the

decks, those being sunk, those floating, those cast up onto the shores, those within being washed over by the waves and blocking the way with the wrecked ships.

And having accurately taught him all the tragedies of war, let him add also the terrors of captivity and slavery, which is harsher than any death.

And having said these things, let him bid him at once mount his horse and command that whole army.

Do you think that lad would suffice even for the description alone, and not rather, at the very first sight, immediately give up the ghost? (13)

That the temptation of the devil is harsher than any war. And do not suppose that I am magnifying the matter by my words;

nor, because we, shut up in this body as in some prison, can see nothing of things invisible, think that what has been said is exaggerated.

For you would have seen a battle far greater and more terrifying than this one, if ever you had been able to behold with these eyes the murkiest array of the devil and his frenzied onset;

for there it is not bronze and iron, nor horses and chariots and wheels, nor fire and arrows—these visible things—but other contrivances far more fearful than these.

These enemies need no breastplate, nor shield, nor swords and spears; rather, the mere sight of that accursed host suffices to paralyze a soul, unless it happen to be very noble and, before its own courage, enjoy much of the providence that comes from God.

And if indeed it were possible to put off this body, or even with the body itself to be able purely and fearlessly to behold with one's eyes that whole array and its war against us, you would see not torrents of blood, nor dead bodies, but such great falls of souls and wounds so grievous that you would reckon that whole sketch of war which I just now went through with you to be some children's plaything, and rather child's play than war—so many are smitten every day.

And the wounds do not work an equal deadening, but as great as the difference between soul and body, so great is the difference between those wounds and these;

for when the soul receives the blow and falls, it does not lie insensible like the body, but is even now tortured here, consumed by an evil conscience; and after its departure hence, at the time of judgment, it is handed over to undying punishment.

And if anyone should be insensible to the devil's blows, the danger becomes the greater for him through that very insensibility;

for he who was not stung by the first blow easily receives a second, and after that another.

For the foul one does not cease striking until the last breath, whenever he finds a soul supine and despising the former blows.

And if you should wish to examine also the manner of the engagement, you would see it to be far more vehement and more varied than this;

for no one knows so many forms of theft and deceit as that foul one;

by this indeed he has acquired the greater part of his power; nor can anyone hold so implacable an enmity against his bitterest foes as the evil one holds against human nature.

And if one should examine also the eagerness with which he fights, to compare men here is even laughable;

but if one should pick out the most irascible and savage of the beasts and wish to set them against his madness, he will find them most gentle and most tame by the comparison—so great a fury does this one breathe, assailing our souls.

And the time of the battle here is short, and even in that short time the respites are many;

for the coming of night, and the weariness of slaughter, and the time for food, and many other things naturally give the soldier rest, so that he may put off his full armor and breathe a little and refresh himself with food and drink, and recover his former strength by many other means.

But in the case of the evil one it is never possible to lay down one's arms, it is never possible to take

sleep—for the one who wishes to remain forever unwounded.

For one of two things must happen: either he is stripped of his armor and so falls and perishes, or he stands forever fully armed, watchful and awake.

For that enemy stands forever with his whole army drawn up in battle line, watching for our moments of slackness, and he brings more zeal to our destruction than we ourselves bring to our own salvation.

And the fact that he is not seen by us and that he attacks suddenly—the very things that, above all, are the cause of countless evils to those who are not perpetually on the alert—shows this warfare to be far more difficult than the other.

Was it here, then, that you wished me to be a commander over the soldiers of Christ? But that would be to serve as a general for the devil;

for when the one whose duty it is to marshal and order the rest is himself the weakest and most inexperienced of all, and through his inexperience betrays those entrusted to him, he has commanded for the devil rather than for Christ.

But why do you groan? Why do you weep? My present situation is not worthy of lamentation, but of gladness and joy.

BASIL: "But my situation is not so," he said, "rather it is worthy of countless laments;

for only now have I scarcely been able to perceive into what evils you have led me.

For I came to you wishing to learn what defense I might ever make on your behalf to those who accuse you;

but you send me away, having put one anxiety in place of another.

For I no longer care what I shall answer those men on your behalf, but what I shall answer to God on behalf of myself and my own evils.

But I beg and implore you—if you have any care for my affairs, if there is any encouragement in Christ, if any comfort of love, if any tender mercies and compassions (for indeed you know that you above all others led me into this peril)—stretch out your hand, doing and saying whatever can set us upright again; do not endure to abandon us even for the briefest moment, but now more than before let us share our time together in common.

JOHN: "And what," I said, "can I contribute, and how can I be of help to you against so great a weight of affairs? But since this is pleasing to you, take heart, dear friend ("O beloved head");

for at any time when you are free to breathe from the cares yonder, I will be present, and I will encourage you, and I will leave nothing undone that lies within my power."

At these words he rose, weeping still more;

and I, throwing my arms around him and kissing his head, escorted him on his way, exhorting him to bear nobly what had befallen him.

"For I trust," I said, "in Christ who has called you and set you over His own sheep, that you will gain from this ministry such boldness that on that Day you will receive even us, who are in peril, into your eternal dwelling."