Opening
ST. BASIL OF CAESAREA
ST. BASIL OF CAESAREA
To Gregory his friend.
To Gregory his friend.
My brother Gregory writes to tell me that he has long been wanting to be with me, and adds that you feel the same way. However, I could not wait, partly because I find it hard to believe, since I have been disappointed so often, and partly because I am being pulled in all directions by various responsibilities. I must go at once to Pontus, where, God willing, I may perhaps put an end to my wandering. After giving up, with difficulty, the empty hopes I once had about you—or rather the dreams, for it is well said that hopes are waking dreams—I left for Pontus in search of a place to live. There God has revealed to me a spot that matches my taste exactly, so that I actually see before my eyes what I have often pictured in my mind through idle imagination. There is a high mountain covered with dense woods, watered on the north side by cool and clear streams. A plain lies below, enriched by the waters that continually drain from it, and bordered by a natural abundance of trees almost thick enough to serve as a fence, so much so that it even surpasses Calypso's Island, which Homer seems to have considered the most beautiful spot on earth. Indeed, it is like an island, since it is enclosed on all sides. Deep ravines cut off two sides of it; the river, which has recently fallen down a cliff, runs all along the front and is impassable like a wall; while the mountain extends behind and meets the ravines in a crescent shape, blocking off the path at its base. There is only one pass, and I control it. Behind my dwelling there is another gorge that rises into a ledge above, commanding a view of the expanse of the plains and the stream that borders them, which is no less beautiful to me than the Strymon as seen from Amphipolis. For while the latter flows slowly and swells almost into a lake, and is too still to seem like a river, the former is the fastest-moving stream I know, and somewhat cloudy too from the rocks just above. From there it shoots down and swirls in a deep pool, forming a most pleasant scene for me or anyone else, and is an inexhaustible resource for the local people because of the countless fish its depths contain. Why should I bother to mention the vapors rising from the earth or the breezes from the river? Someone else might admire the multitude of flowers and singing birds, but I have no time for such thoughts. However, the chief merit of the place is that, being well suited for producing everything, it nurtures what is to me the sweetest produce of all: quietness. Indeed, it is not only free from the noise of the city, but is even unvisited by travelers, except for the occasional hunter. It does abound in game, as well as other things, but not, I am glad to say, in bears or wolves like you have, but in deer, wild goats, hares, and the like. Does it not strike you what a foolish mistake I nearly made when I was eager to exchange this spot for your Tiberina, the very pit of the whole earth?
My brother Gregory writes me word that he has long been wishing to be with me, and adds that you are of the same mind; however, I could not wait, partly as being hard of belief, considering I have been so often disappointed, and partly because I find myself pulled all ways by business. I must at once make for Pontus, where, perhaps, God willing, I may make an end of wandering. After renouncing, with trouble, the idle hopes which I once had, [about you] or rather the dreams, (for it is well said that hopes are waking dreams), I departed into Pontus in quest of a place to live in. There God has opened on me a spot exactly answering to my taste, so that I actually see before my eyes what I have often pictured to my mind in idle fancy. There is a lofty mountain covered with thick woods, watered towards the north with cool and transparent streams. A plain lies beneath, enriched by the waters which are ever draining off from it; and skirted by a spontaneous profusion of trees almost thick enough to be a fence; so as even to surpass Calypso's Island, which Homer seems to have considered the most beautiful spot on the earth. Indeed it is like an island, enclosed as it is on all sides; for deep hollows cut off two sides of it; the river, which has lately fallen down a precipice, runs all along the front and is impassable as a wall; while the mountain extending itself behind, and meeting the hollows in a crescent, stops up the path at its roots. There is but one pass, and I am master of it. Behind my abode there is another gorge, rising into a ledge up above, so as to command the extent of the plains and the stream which bounds it, which is not less beautiful, to my taste, than the Strymon as seen from Amphipolis. For while the latter flows leisurely, and swells into a lake almost, and is too still to be a river, the former is the most rapid stream I know, and somewhat turbid, too, from the rocks just above; from which, shooting down, and eddying in a deep pool, it forms a most pleasant scene for myself or any one else; and is an inexhaustible resource to the country people, in the countless fish which its depths contain. What need to tell of the exhalations from the earth, or the breezes from the river? Another might admire the multitude of flowers, and singing birds; but leisure I have none for such thoughts. However, the chief praise of the place is, that being happily disposed for produce of every kind, it nurtures what to me is the sweetest produce of all, quietness; indeed, it is not only rid of the bustle of the city, but is even unfrequented by travellers, except a chance hunter. It abounds indeed in game, as well as other things, but not, I am glad to say, in bears or wolves, such as you have, but in deer, and wild goats, and hares, and the like. Does it not strike you what a foolish mistake I was near making when I was eager to change this spot for your Tiberina, the very pit of the whole earth?
Forgive me, then, if I am now determined to do this, for I don't think even Alcmæon himself could have endured wandering any further once he had found the Echinades.
Pardon me, then, if I am now set upon it; for not Alcmæon himself, I suppose, could endure to wander further when he had found the Echinades.