Tag: Letters — Division II — Correspondence with St. Basil the Great

(The bishops of the province had informed the elder Gregory about their synod, but they did not mention when it would take place, what its purpose was, or invite him to participate—probably because they knew he would strongly support Basil's election, which they opposed. Saint Gregory therefore wrote the following letter in his father's name.)

(The comprovincial Bishops had notified the elder Gregory of their Synod, but without mentioning its date or purpose or inviting him to take part in it — probably because they knew how strongly he would support the election of Basil, to which they were unfavourable. S. Gregory therefore wrote the following letter in his father's name.)

How sweet and kind you are, and how full of love. You have invited me to the Metropolis because, I imagine, you are going to make some decision about a Bishop. I have learned this much from you, though you have not told me either that I am to be present, or why, or when. You have merely announced to me suddenly that you were setting out, as if you were determined not to respect me and did not want me to share in your deliberations. Instead, you are putting an obstacle in the way of my coming so that you will not meet me even against my will. This is how you act, and I will endure the insult. But I will set before you my view and how I feel. Various people will put forward various candidates, each according to his own preferences and interests, as usually happens at such times. But I cannot prefer anyone—for my conscience would not allow it—to my dear son and fellow priest Basil. For whom among all my acquaintances do I find more approved in his life, or more powerful in his word, or more completely furnished with the beauty of virtue? But if you raise his weak health as an objection against him, I reply that we are choosing not an athlete but a teacher. And at the same time, the power of Him who strengthens and supports the weak, if such they are, is demonstrated in this case. If you accept this vote, I will come and take part, either in spirit or in body. But if you are marching toward a predetermined outcome and faction is going to overrule justice, I shall be glad to have been overlooked. The work must be yours, but pray for me.

How sweet and kind you are, and how full of love. You have invited me to the Metropolis, because, as I imagine, you are going to take some counsel about a Bishop. So much I learn from you, though you have not told me either that I am to be present, or why, or when, but have merely announced to me suddenly that you were setting out, as though resolved not to respect me, and as not desirous that I should share your counsels, but rather putting a hindrance in the way of my coming, that you may not meet me even against my will. This is your way of action, and I will put up with the insult, but I will set before you my view and how I feel. Various people will put forward various candidates, each according to his own inclinations and interests, as is usually the case at such times. But I cannot prefer anyone, for my conscience would not allow it, to my dear son and fellow priest Basil. For whom of all my acquaintance do I find more approved in his life, or more powerful in his word, or more furnished altogether with the beauty of virtue? But if you allege weak health against him, I reply that we are choosing not an athlete but a teacher. And at the same time is seen in this case the power of Him that strengthens and supports the weak, if such they be. If you accept this vote I will come and take part, either in spirit or in body. But if you are marching to a foregone conclusion, and faction is to overrule justice, I shall rejoice to have been overlooked. The work must be yours; but pray for me.

I am a little shepherd who leads a tiny flock, and I am among the least of the servants of the Spirit. But grace is not limited or restricted by location. Therefore, let freedom of speech be given even to someone small—especially when the subject is so important and concerns everyone—even to discuss matters with elderly men who may speak with greater wisdom than most people. You are discussing no ordinary or minor matter, but one by which the common good will necessarily be helped or harmed depending on the decision you reach. For our subject is the Church, for which Christ died, and the leader who is to present it and guide it to God. For the light of the body is the eye, as we have heard—not only the physical eye that sees and is seen, but also the one that observes and is observed spiritually. But the light of the Church is the Bishop, as is clear to you even without my writing it. So just as the straight or crooked movement of the body depends on whether the eye is clear or dim, the Church must necessarily share in the danger or safety that results from the conduct of its leader. You must therefore consider the whole Church as the Body of Christ, but especially your own church, which was from the beginning and is now the mother of nearly all the churches. The entire Christian world looks to it, like a circle drawn around a center, not only because of its orthodoxy proclaimed long ago to everyone, but also because of the grace of unity so clearly given to it by God. You have also called us to your discussion of this matter, and you are acting rightly and according to church law. But we are burdened by age and illness, and if by the strength given us by the Holy Spirit we could be present (nothing is impossible for those who believe), this would be best for the common good and most pleasing to us, so that we might contribute something to you and ourselves receive part of the blessing. But if I am prevented from coming by weakness, I will at least give whatever can be given by someone who is absent.

I am a little shepherd, and preside over a tiny flock, and I am among the least of the servants of the Spirit. But Grace is not narrow, or circumscribed by place. Wherefore let freedom of speech be given even to the small — especially when the subject matter is of such great importance, and one in which all are interested — even to deliberate with men of hoary hairs, who speak with perhaps greater wisdom than the ordinary run of men. You are deliberating on no ordinary or unimportant matter, but on one by which the common interest must necessarily be promoted or injured according to the decision at which you arrive. For our subject matter is the Church, for which Christ died, and the guide who is to present it and lead it to God. For the light of the body is the eye, Matthew 6:22 as we have heard; not only the bodily eye which sees and is seen, but that which contemplates and is contemplated spiritually. But the light of the Church is the Bishop, as is evident to you even without our writing it. As then the straightness or crookedness of the course of the body depends upon the clearness or dulness of the eye, so must the Church necessarily share the peril or safety incurred by the conduct of its Chief. You must then take thought for the whole Church as the Body of Christ, but more especially for your own, which was from the beginning and is now the Mother of almost all the Churches, to which all the Commonwealth looks, like a circle described round a centre, not only because of its orthodoxy proclaimed of old to all, but also because of the grace of unanimity so evidently bestowed upon it by God. You then have summoned us also to your discussion of this matter, and so are acting rightly and canonically. But we are oppressed by age and infirmity, and if we by the strength given us by the Holy Ghost could be present (nothing is incredible to them that believe), this would be best for the common welfare and most pleasant to ourselves, that we might confer something on you, and ourselves have a part of the blessing; but if I should be kept away through weakness, I will give at any rate whatever can be given by one who is absent.

I believe there are others among you worthy of this leadership position, both because your city is so large and because it has been governed in the past so well and by such outstanding men. But there is one man among you whom I cannot rank below anyone else: our son beloved by God, Basil the Priest (I say this with God as my witness). He is a man of pure life and teaching, and he alone, or nearly alone, is qualified in both respects to stand against the challenges of our present age and the excessive wordiness of the heretics. I am writing this to members of the priestly and monastic orders, and also to the civic leaders and councillors, and to all the people. If you approve of this and my choice prevails—being so just and right, and given with God's help—I am and will be with you in spirit. In fact, I have already committed myself to this work and am confident in the Spirit. But if you disagree with me and decide on someone else, and if this matter is to be settled through political factions and family connections, and if mob rule is once again going to corrupt the honesty of your decision, then do what you want—I will stay home.

I believe that there are others among you worthy of the Primacy, both because of the greatness of your city, and because it has been governed in times past so excellently and by such great men; but there is one man among you to whom I cannot prefer any, our son well beloved of God, Basil the Priest (I speak before God as my witness); a man of pure life and word, and alone, or almost alone, of all qualified in both respects to stand against the present times, and the prevailing wordiness of the heretics. I write this to men of the priestly and monastic Orders, and also to the dignitaries and councillors, and to the whole people. If you should approve it, and my vote should prevail, being so just and right, and given with God's aid, I am and will be with you in spirit; or rather I have already set my hand to the work and am bold in the Spirit. But if you should not agree with me, but determine something else, and if the matter is to be settled by cliques and relationships, and if the hand of the mob is again to disturb the sincerity of your vote, do what pleases you — I shall stay at home.

(Around the middle of the year 370, after the death of Eusebius, Basil appears to have wanted his friend Gregory to succeed to the vacant position of Metropolitan. He wrote to Gregory without mentioning the Archbishop's death, asking him to come to Caesarea and claiming he was dangerously ill. Gregory, deeply upset by this news, immediately set out. However, he had not gone far when he learned that Basil was in his usual health and that the bishops of the province were gathering at Caesarea to elect a Metropolitan. He immediately understood the deception. Believing that Basil had wanted him present at the Metropolis so that his influence would help secure Basil's own election, he wrote him the following angry letter. Despite this, both Gregory and his father believed that no one was better suited to fill the vacant position. Therefore, Gregory wrote three letters in his father's name, which we have placed next. These were addressed to the people of Caesarea, to the bishops attending the Synod, and to Eusebius, Bishop of Samosata, respectively.)

(About the middle of the year 370. On the death of Eusebius Basil seems to have formed a desire that his friend Gregory should succeed to the vacant Metropolitanate; and so he wrote to him, without mentioning the death of the Archbishop, to come to him at Cæsarea, representing himself as dangerously ill. Gregory, deeply grieved at the news, set off at once, but had not proceeded far on his way when he learned that Basil was in his usual health, and that the Bishops of the Province were assembling at Cæsarea for the Election of a Metropolitan. He saw through the artifice at once; and thinking that Basil had wished to secure his presence at the Metropolis in order that his influence might bring about his own (Basil's) Election, he wrote him the following indignant letter. Nevertheless both he and his father felt that no one was so well fitted to succeed to the vacant throne; and so Gregory wrote in his father's name the three letters which we have placed next, addressed respectively to the people of Cæsarea, to the Bishops attending the Synod, and to Eusebius Bishop of Samosata.)

Do not be surprised if I say something strange that no one has said before. I think you have the reputation of being a steady, safe, and strong-minded man, but also of being more simple than safe in much that you plan and do. For whoever is free from evil is also proportionally slow to suspect evil, as is shown by what has just happened. You have summoned me to the Metropolis at the very moment when a council has been called for the election of a bishop, and your excuse is very seemly and plausible. You pretend to be very ill, indeed at your last breath, and to long to see me and bid me a last farewell—I do not know for what purpose, or even what my presence can accomplish in the matter. I started out in great grief at what had happened, for what could be of higher value to me than your life, or more distressing than your departure? I shed a fountain of tears, and I wailed aloud, and I felt myself now for the first time unphilosophically disposed. What did I leave undone of all that befits a funeral? But as soon as I discovered that the bishops were assembling at the city, I immediately stopped in my course. I wondered first that you had not perceived what was proper, or guarded against people's tongues, which are so given to slandering the guileless. Secondly, I wondered that you did not think the same course fitting for me as for yourself, though our life and our rule and everything is common to us both, who have been so closely associated by God from the first. Thirdly—for I must say this also—I wondered whether you remembered that such nominations are worthy of the more religious, not of the more powerful, nor of those most in favor with the multitude. For these reasons then I backed away and held back. Now, if you think as I do, come to this determination: to avoid these public turmoils and evil suspicions. I shall see your Reverence when the matters are settled and time allows, and I shall have more and graver reproaches to address to you.

Do not be surprized if I say something strange, which has not been said before by anyone. I think you have the reputation of being a steady safe and strong-minded man, but also of being more simple than safe in much that you plan and do. For that which is free from evil is also in proportion slow to suspect evil, as is shown by what has just occurred. You have summoned me to the Metropolis at the moment when a council has been called for the election of a Bishop, and your pretext is very seemly and plausible. You pretend to be very ill, indeed at your last breath, and to long to see me and to bid me a last farewell; I do not know with what object, even what my presence can effect in the matter. I started in great grief at what had happened; for what could be of higher value to me than your life, or more distressing than your departure? And I shed a fountain of tears; and I wailed aloud; and I felt myself now for the first time unphilosophically disposed. What did I leave unperformed of all that befits a funeral? But as soon as I found that the Bishops were assembling at the City, at once I stopped short in my course; and I wondered first that you had not perceived what was proper, or guarded against people's tongues, which are so given to slander the guileless; and secondly that you did not think the same course to be fitting for me as for yourself, though our life and our rule and everything is common to us both, who have been so closely associated by God from the first. Thirdly, for I must say this also, I wondered whether you remembered that such nominations are worthy of the more religious, not of the more powerful, nor of those most in favour with the multitude. For these reasons then I backed water, and held back. Now, if you think as I do, come to this determination, to avoid these public turmoils and evil suspicions. I shall see your Reverence when the matters are settled and time allows, and I shall have more and graver reproaches to address to you.

I was never unfavorably inclined toward your Reverence; do not consider me guilty. But after allowing myself a little freedom and boldness, just to relieve and heal my distress, I immediately yielded and submitted, and willingly placed myself under the Canon. What else could I have done, knowing both you and the Law of the Spirit? But even if I had been extremely petty and ignoble in my feelings, the present circumstances would not permit such attitudes, nor would the wild beasts that are attacking the Church, nor your own courage and strength, which fights so purely and genuinely for the Church. I will come then, if you wish, and join you in prayers and in struggle, and will serve you, and like encouraging boys I will inspire the noble athlete through my exhortations.

I was never meanly disposed towards your Reverence; do not find me guilty. But after allowing myself a little liberty and boldness, just to relieve and heal my grief, I at once bowed and submitted, and willingly subjected myself to the Canon. What else could I have done, knowing both you and the Law of the Spirit? But if I had been ever so mean and ignoble in my sentiments, yet the present time would not allow such feelings, nor the wild beasts which are rushing on the Church, nor your own courage and manliness, so purely and genuinely fighting for the Church. I will come then, if you wish it, and take part with you in prayers and in conflict, and will serve you, and like cheering boys will stir up the noble athlete by my exhortations.

I did not write in an arrogant spirit, as you complain about my letter, but rather in a spiritual and philosophical one, and as was appropriate—unless this too offends your most eloquent Gregory. For though you are my superior in rank, you will still grant me some liberty and proper freedom of speech. Therefore, be kinder to me. But if you regard my letter as coming from a servant, and from one who does not even have the right to look you in the face, I will in this case accept your rebuke and not even shed a tear. Will you blame me for this as well? That would suit anyone rather than your Reverence. For it is the mark of a noble person to accept more readily the frankness of a friend than the flattery of an enemy.

I did not write in an insolent spirit, as you complain of my letter, but rather in a spiritual and philosophical one, and as was fitting, unless this too wrongs your most eloquent Gregory. For though you are my Superior in rank, yet you will grant me something of liberty and just freedom of speech. Therefore be kinder to me. But if you regard my letter as coming from a servant, and from one who has not the right even to look you in the face, I will in this instance accept your stripes and not even shed a tear. Will you blame me for this also? That would befit anyone rather than your Reverence. For it is the part of a high-souled man to accept more readily the freedom of a friend than the flattery of an enemy.

Since I am addressing a man who does not love falsehood and who is the sharpest person I know at detecting it in another, no matter how it may be wrapped up in skillful and complicated deceptions; and moreover, on my own part I will say it, though reluctantly, I do not like artifice either, both because of my natural character and because God's Word has shaped me this way. Therefore I write what comes to my mind, and I ask you to forgive my plain speaking, or you will wrong the truth by taking away my freedom and forcing me to keep the pain of my grief bottled up inside myself, like some hidden and harmful disease. I am glad that I have your respect (for I am a man, as someone has said before), and that I am invited to synods and spiritual conferences. But I am troubled by the disrespect that has been shown to my most reverend brother Basil, and is still being shown to him by Your Reverence; for I chose him as the companion of my life and words and highest philosophy, and he still is; and I have never had reason to regret my judgment of him. It is more restrained to speak of him this way, so that I may not seem to be praising myself by admiring him. You, however, I think, by honoring me and dishonoring him, seem to be acting like a man who strokes someone's head with one hand while striking him in the face with the other; or who tears up the foundations of a house while painting the walls and decorating the exterior. If then you will listen to me, this is what you should do, and I claim the right to be heard, for this is justice. If you will pay proper attention to him, he will do the same for you. And I will follow him as a shadow follows the body, being of little worth and inclined to peace. For I am not so petty as to be willing in other matters to pursue philosophy and to be on the better side, but to overlook a matter which is the goal of all our teaching, namely love; especially regarding a priest, and one of such high character, and one whom I know among all my acquaintances to be the best both in life and doctrine and conduct. For my pain shall not obscure the truth.

Since I am addressing a man who does not love falsehood, and who is the keenest man I know at detecting it in another, however it may be twined in skilful and varied labyrinths; and, moreover, on my own part I will say it, though against the grain I do not like artifice, either, both from my natural constitution, and because God's Word has formed me so. Therefore I write what presents itself to my mind; and I beg you to excuse my plain speaking, or you will wrong the truth by depriving me of my liberty, and forcing me to restrain within myself the pain of my grief, like some secret and malignant disease. I rejoice that I have your respect (for I am a man, as some one has said before), and that I am summoned to Synods and spiritual conferences. But I am troubled at the slight which has been inflicted on my most Reverend brother Basil, and is still inflicted on him by Your Reverence; for I chose him as the companion of my life and words and highest philosophy, and he is so still; and I never had reason to regret my judgment of him. It is more temperate to speak thus of him, that I may not seem to be praising myself in admiring him. You, however, I think, by honouring me and dishonouring him, seem to be acting like a man who should with one hand stroke a man's head, and with the other hand strike him on the face; or while tearing up the foundations of a house should paint the walls and decorate the exterior. If then you will listen to me, this is what you will do, and I claim to be listened to, for this is justice. If you will pay due attention to him, he will do the like by you. And I will follow him as a shadow does the body, being of little worth and inclined to peace. For I am not so mean as to be willing in other respects to philosophize, and to be of the better part, but to overlook a matter which is the end of all our teaching, namely love; especially in regard to a Priest, and one of so high a character, and one whom I know of all my acquaintances to be the best both in life and doctrine and conduct. For my pain shall not obscure the truth.

(This letter should be read together with the three letters addressed to Eusebius of Caesarea, which it mentions. For the background circumstances, see General Prolegomena, section 1, page 194.)

(This Epistle should be read in connection with the three addressed to Eusebius of Cæsarea, to which it refers. For the circumstances see General Prolegomena, § 1, p. 194.)

It is a time for prudence and endurance. We should not let anyone appear to have more courage than we do, or let all our hard work and efforts be destroyed in an instant. Why am I writing this, and for what reason? Our Bishop Eusebius, very dear to God (for this is how we must think and write about him from now on), is very much inclined toward agreement and friendship with us. Just as fire softens iron, time has softened him. I believe a letter of appeal and invitation will come to you from him, as he hinted to me, and as many people who know his situation well assure me. Let us take the initiative, either by going to him or by writing to him—or rather by writing first and then going. This way we will not later be put to shame by being defeated when it was in our power to secure a victory by being honorably and philosophically beaten, which is what so many are asking of us. Be persuaded by me, then, and come—both for this reason and because of the difficult times. A conspiracy of heretics is attacking the Church. Some of them are here now and are troubling us, and others, rumor says, are coming. There is reason to fear that the Word of Truth will be swept away unless the spirit of a Bezaleel, the wise master builder of such arguments and dogmas, is stirred up very soon. If you think I should come too, to stay with you and travel with you, I will not refuse to do even this.

It is a time for prudence and endurance, and that we should not let anyone appear to be of higher courage than ourselves, or let all our labours and toils be in an instant brought to nothing. Why do I write this, and wherefore? Our Bishop Eusebius, very dear to God (for so we must for the future both think and write of him), is very much disposed to agreement and friendship with us; and as fire softens iron, so has time softened him; and I think a letter of appeal and invitation will come to you from him, as he intimated to me, and as many persons who are well acquainted with his affairs assure me. Let us be beforehand with him then, either by going to him, or by writing to him; or rather by first writing and then going; in order that we may not by and by be put to shame by being defeated when it was in our power to secure a victory by being honourably and philosophically beaten, which so many are asking from us. Be persuaded by me then, and come; both on this account and on account of the bad times; for a conspiracy of heretics is assailing the Church; some of them are here now, and are troubling us; and others, rumour says, are coming; and there is reason to fear lest the Word of Truth should be swept away, unless there be stirred up very soon the spirit of a Bezaleel, the wise Master builder of such arguments and dogmas. If you think I ought to go too, to stay with you and travel with you, I will not refuse to do even this.

(We insert here the three letters to Eusebius, which are so closely connected with the above as not to seem out of place.)

(We insert here the three letters to Eusebius, which are so closely connected with the above as not to seem out of place.)

(Written to Saint Basil shortly after his ordination as priest, probably toward the end of A.D. 362.)

(Written to S. Basil shortly after his Ordination as Priest, probably toward the end of a.d. 362.)

I approve of the beginning of your letter—but is there anything of yours that I do not approve? And you are proven to have written just like me, for I too was forced into the rank of the priesthood, since I was never eager for it. We are to one another, if any men ever were, trustworthy witnesses of our love for a humble and lowly philosophy. But perhaps it would have been better if this had not happened—or I do not know what to say, as long as I remain ignorant of the purpose of the Holy Spirit. But since it has happened, we must bear it, at least that seems clear to me, especially when we consider the times, which are bringing upon us so many heretical tongues, and we must not put to shame either the hopes of those who have entrusted us with this responsibility, or our own lives.

I approve the beginning of your letter; but what is there of yours that I do not approve? And you are convicted of having written just like me; for I, too, was forced into the rank of the Priesthood, for indeed I never was eager for it. We are to one another, if ever any men were, trustworthy witnesses of our love for a humble and lowly philosophy. But perhaps it would have been better that this had not happened, or I know not what to say, as long as I am in ignorance of the purpose of the Holy Ghost. But since it has come about, we must bear it, at least so it seems clear to me; and especially when we take the times into consideration, which are bringing in upon us so many heretical tongues, and must not put to shame either the hopes of those who have trusted us thus, or our own lives.

(Written around the same time, in a more serious tone.)

(Written about the same time, in a more serious vein.)

What I wrote before about our stay in Pontus was a joke, not serious; what I write now is very serious. If only someone would place me back in those former days, as Job says, when I enjoyed being with you in our hard way of life; since voluntary hardship is more valuable than involuntary pleasure. If only someone would give me back those psalm-singing sessions and nighttime vigils and those visits with God in prayer, and that immaterial, so to speak, unbodied life. If only I could have back the closeness and unity of soul among the brothers who were made divine and lifted up by you. If only I could have the contest and encouragement toward virtue which we secured through written Rules and Canons. If only I could have the devoted labor in the Divine Scriptures, and the light we found in them through the guidance of the Holy Spirit. Or, if I may speak of smaller and less important matters, if only I could have the daily routines and experiences. If only I could have the gathering of wood and the cutting of stone. If only I could have the golden plane tree, more precious than that of Xerxes, under which sat not a king weakened by luxury, but a monk worn out by hard living, which I planted and Apollos—I mean your honorable self—watered, but God gave the increase to our honor, so that a memorial might remain among you of my diligence, just as we read and believe that in the Ark, Aaron's rod that budded remained. To long for all this is very easy, but it is not easy to obtain it. But you should come to me, and join with me in virtue, and work together with me, and help me by your prayers to keep the benefit we used to get together, so that I may not perish little by little, like a shadow as the day draws to its close. I would rather breathe you than the air, and only live while I am with you, either actually in your presence, or virtually through your image in your absence.

What I wrote before about our stay in Pontus was in joke, not in earnest; what I write now is very much in earnest. O that one would place me as in the month of those former days, Job 29:2 in which I luxuriated with you in hard living; since voluntary pain is more valuable than involuntary delight. O that one would give me back those psalmodies and vigils and those sojournings with God in prayer, and that immaterial, so to speak, and unbodied life. O for the intimacy and one-souledness of the brethren who were by you divinized and exalted: O for the contest and incitement of virtue which we secured by written Rules and Canons; O for the loving labour in the Divine Oracles, and the light we found in them by the guidance of the Holy Ghost. Or, if I may speak of lesser and slighter matters, O for the daily courses and experiences; O for the gatherings of wood, and the cutting of stone; O for the golden plane-tree, more precious than that of Xerxes, under which sat, not a King enfeebled by luxury, but a Monk worn out by hard life, which I planted and Apollos (I mean your honourable self) watered; 1 Corinthians 3:6 but God gave the increase to our honour, that a memorial might remain among you of my diligence, as in the Ark we read and believe, did Aaron's rod that budded. Numbers 17:8, 10 To long for all this is very easy, but it is not easy to attain it. But do you come to me, and conspire with me in virtue, and co-operate with me, and aid me by your prayers to keep the profit which we used to get together, that I may not perish little by little, like a shadow as the day draws to its close. I would rather breathe you than the air, and only live while I am with you, either actually in your presence, or virtually by your likeness in your absence.

(Around the year 361 AD.)

(Circa a.d. 361.)

Since you receive my jokes in good spirits, I am sending you the rest. My introduction comes from Homer.

Since you do take my jokes kindly, I send you the rest. My prelude is from Homer.

Come now, change your theme and sing of the inner adornment.

Come now and change your theme, And sing of the inner adornment. — Od. viii. 492.

Your roofless and doorless hut, your fireless and smokeless hearth, your walls dried by fire so that we wouldn't be hit by drops of mud—condemned like Tantalus thirsting in the midst of water—and that pitiful feast with nothing to eat, to which we were invited from Cappadocia, not to a Lotus-eater's poverty but supposedly to a table of Alcinous—we young and miserable survivors of a shipwreck. For I remember those loaves and the broth (so it was called), yes, and I will remember them too, along with my poor teeth that slipped on your chunks of bread, then braced themselves and pulled themselves as if out of mud. You yourself will elevate these things to a higher level of tragedy, having learned to speak grandly through your own sufferings. For if we had not been quickly rescued by that great supporter of the poor—I mean your mother—who appeared at the right moment like a harbor to men tossed by a storm, we would long ago have died, more pitied than admired for our faith in Pontus. How can I pass over that garden which was no garden and had no vegetables, and the Augean dunghill which we cleared out of the house and with which we filled it up (the garden), when we pulled that mountainous wagon, I the vintager and you the valiant one, with our necks and hands, which still bear the marks of our labors. O earth and sun, O air and virtue (for I will indulge a little in tragic language), not so that we might bridge the Hellespont, but so that we might level a cliff. If you are not embarrassed by the mention of these circumstances, neither am I; but if you are, how much more was I by the reality. I'll pass over the rest, out of respect for the others from whom I received much enjoyment.

Your roofless and doorless hut, your fireless and smokeless hearth, your walls dried by fire, that we may not be hit by the drops of the mud, condemned like Tantalus thirsting in the midst of waters, and that pitiable feast with nothing to eat, to which we were invited from Cappadocia, not as to a Lotus-eater's poverty, but to a table of Alcinous — we young and miserable survivors of a wreck. For I remember those loaves and the broth (so it was called), yes, and I shall remember them too, and my poor teeth that slipped on your hunks of bread, and then braced themselves up, and pulled themselves as it were out of mud. You yourself will raise these things to a higher strain of tragedy, having learned to talk big through your own sufferings…for if we had not been quickly delivered by that great supporter of the poor — I mean your mother — who appeared opportunely like a harbour to men tossed by a storm, we should long ago have been dead, rather pitied than admired for our faith in Pontus. How shall I pass over that garden which was no garden and had no vegetables, and the Augean dunghill which we cleared out of the house, and with which we filled it up (sc. the garden), when we drew that mountainous wagon, I the vintager, and you the valiant, with our necks and hands, which still bear the traces of our labours. O earth and sun, O air and virtue (for I will indulge a little in tragic tones), not that we might bridge the Hellespont, but that we might level a precipice. If you are not put out by the mention of the circumstances, no more am I; but if you are, how much more was I by the reality. I pass by the rest, through respect for the others from whom I received much enjoyment.