Roman Letters: A Digital Corpus of Late Antique Correspondence

Vander Galien, Craig

doi:10.5281/zenodo.19142059

Letter 12: Chrysostom writes after a severe winter illness, rejoices in Olympias's recovery and courage, and praises her as a steadying force for the city.

consolationexileillnesspersecutionspiritual lifewomen

First-time modern English rendering from the Greek text of Chrysostom's Letters to Olympias.

I am writing this to your good order after climbing up from the very gates of death. That is why I was so glad that your servants arrived only now, when I am at last putting into harbor. If they had met me while I was still being tossed at sea and waiting for the harsh waves of illness, it would not have been easy for me to deceive your reverence by reporting good news instead of painful things. The winter became harsher than usual and brought on an even harsher winter in my stomach. For two months I was no better than the dead, and in some ways worse. I was alive only enough to feel the terrors pressing on every side. Everything was night to me: day, dawn, and noon. I spent my days nailed to the bed. I tried countless remedies, but I was not strong enough to shake off the injury from the cold. I lit a fire and endured the bitter smoke. I shut myself in one room under countless coverings and did not dare cross the threshold. I suffered to the limit, with constant vomiting, headache, loss of appetite, and sleeplessness that never let go. That is how I crossed the long seas of the night while lying awake. But I will not strain your mind by dwelling longer on these hardships. We are now free of all these things. As soon as spring arrived and the air changed even a little, all of them dissolved by themselves. Even now, though, I need great care in my diet, so I keep the burden on my stomach light enough for it to manage easily. It gave us no small anxiety to learn that your good order was at the last breath. But because we love you so deeply and are so anxious and concerned for your affairs, even before your letters arrived we were released from this fear. Many people came from there and reported that you were well. Now I rejoice and am exceedingly glad, not only because you were delivered from illness, but still more because you bear what happens with such nobility, calling all these things a fable. What is greater, you have given the same name even to the sickness of your body. That is the mark of a youthful soul overflowing with the great fruit of courage. To bear hard things nobly is already admirable. But not even to notice them while they are present, to look down on them, and with deep calm to weave for yourself the crown of patience, not growing weary, not sweating, not making trouble for yourself or others, but almost leaping and dancing: this is proof of the most exact wisdom. For these things I rejoice and leap. I fly with pleasure. I do not feel this desolate place or the other troubles around me, because I am made glad, delighted, and lifted up by your greatness of soul and your victories one after another. And I rejoice not for you alone, but also for that great and populous city, for which you have become a tower, a harbor, and a wall. Through your deeds you send out a brilliant voice, teaching both men and women through your sufferings to strip readily for contests like these, to go down into the arena with full courage, and to bear easily the sweat of such struggles. What is wonderful is that you do this without rushing into the marketplace or occupying the center of the city. Sitting in a small house, in one room, you strengthen and anoint those who stand firm. The sea is raging, the waves are cresting, rocks, hidden reefs, ledges, and wild beasts appear everywhere, and deepest night holds everything. Yet you, as if it were midday and calm weather with the wind at your stern, have spread the sails of patience and sail with great ease. You are not only unshaken by this harsh storm; you are not even splashed. That is what the rudders of virtue are like. Merchants, pilots, sailors, and seafarers, when they see clouds gathering, violent winds attacking, and waves roaring with thick foam, keep their ships inside the harbor. If they are already being tossed on the open sea, they do everything they can to bring the vessel to a mooring, an island, or a shore. But you, with countless winds, with so many wild waves breaking from every side, with the bottom of the sea stirred up by the violence of the storm, with some people sunk, others floating dead on the water, and others carried naked on a plank, leap into the middle of the sea of evils and call all these things a story. You sail with a fair wind in the storm, and rightly so. Pilots, however wise they may be in their craft, do not have skill sufficient for every storm; that is why they often flee the battle with the waves. But you have an art stronger than every storm: the power of a philosophic soul. It is stronger than countless armies, more powerful than weapons, and safer than towers and walls. Weapons, walls, and towers help soldiers only with the safety of the body, and not always even then; sometimes all these defenses are defeated and leave those who trusted them stripped of protection. But your weapons are not exposed to barbarian arrows, enemy machines, assaults, or raids. They have trampled on the necessities of nature, destroyed their tyranny, and pulled down their citadel. You fight continually with demons and have won countless victories, yet you have not received a single wound. You stand unharmed in such a storm of arrows, and the javelins thrown at you turn back again on those who threw them. Such is the wisdom of your art: through what you suffer, you ward off those who do it; through what is plotted against you, you grieve those who fight you, because their wickedness becomes the richest material for your greater reputation. You know these things well yourself, having learned them by experience, and rightly you call all these troubles a story. How could you not call them that? You have a mortal body and yet despise death as people despise a foreign land when they are eager to return home. You live with a most severe illness and are more cheerful than people who are healthy and strong. You are not humbled by insults, and you are not lifted up by honors and glory. Honors have become the cause of countless evils for many people who shone in the priesthood and reached extreme old age and deep gray hair, only to slip because of them and become a public spectacle for mockery. But you, a woman clothed in a body frailer than a spider's web, have endured so many assaults and not only suffered none of that harm but also prevented many others from suffering it. Those men did not even advance far into the contests; they were thrown down at the very preliminaries, almost as soon as they sprang from the starting line. You, after rounding the final post countless times in every race, have seized the prize and displayed many different forms of wrestling and contest. And rightly so. The struggles of virtue are not decided by age or body, but by soul and mind alone. Thus women have been crowned and men tripped up; children have been proclaimed victors and old men put to shame. We should always admire those who pursue virtue, but especially when many abandon it and only a few are found holding fast. For this reason your steadfastness is worthy of extraordinary admiration. So many people have been turned aside: men, women, the aged, even those who seemed to have the highest reputation. They lie in full view, not overthrown by the great rush of war or by a fierce battle line, but fallen before the engagement, defeated before the conflict. Yet you, after so many battles and battle lines, have not been softened or hardened by the multitude of evils. You grow younger, and the increase of contests gives you an increase of strength. The memory of what you have already accomplished becomes for you a source of gladness, joy, and greater eagerness. For these reasons we rejoice, leap, and are glad. I will not stop saying this continually and carrying everywhere the cause of my joy. So even if our separation grieves you, let your achievements be your greatest consolation. We too, though settled so far away along the road, draw no small gladness from this, I mean from your courage.

12.t ΕΠΙΣΤΟΛΗ ΙΒʹ 12.1 Ἀπ' αὐτῶν ἀναβὰς τῶν τοῦ θανάτου πυλῶν ταῦτα ἐπιστέλλω πρὸς τὴν σὴν κοσμιότητα· διὸ καὶ σφόδρα ἥσθην ὅτι νῦν ἀπηντήκασιν οἱ παῖδες εἰς λιμένα λοιπὸν ὁρμίζουσιν ἡμῖν. Εἰ γὰρ πελαγίῳ μοι σαλεύοντι ἔτι καὶ τὰ χαλεπὰ τῆς ἀρρωστίας ἐκδεχομένῳ κύματα συνήντησαν, οὐδὲ ἀπατῆσαί μοι ῥᾴδιον ἦν τὴν σὴν εὐλάβειαν χρηστὰ ἀντὶ δυσχερῶν ἀπαγγέλλοντι. Καὶ γὰρ ὁ χειμὼν τοῦ συνήθους γενόμενος σφοδρότερος καλεπώτερον ἡμῖν καὶ τοῦ στομάχου τὸν χειμῶνα ἐπήγαγε καὶ νεκρῶν οὐδὲν ἄμεινον τοὺς δύο διετέλεσα μῆνας τούτους, ἀλλὰ καὶ χαλεπώτερον. Τοσοῦτον γὰρ ἔζων ὅσον ἐπαισθάνεσθαι τῶν πάντοθεν κυκλούντων με δεινῶν, καὶ πάντα μοι νὺξ ἦν καὶ ἡμέρα καὶ ὄρθρος καὶ μεσημβρία μέση καὶ διημέρευον τῇ κλίνῃ προσηλωμένος· καὶ μυρία μηχανώμενος οὐκ ἴσχυον τὴν ἐκ τοῦ κρυμοῦ βλάβην ἀποτινάξασθαι· ἀλλὰ καὶ πῦρ ἀνακαίων καὶ καπνοῦ χαλεπωτάτου ἀνεχόμενος καὶ ἐν ἑνὶ δωματίῳ καθειργμένος καὶ μυρία ἐπιβλήματα ἔχων καὶ μηδὲ τὸν οὐδὸν ὑπερβῆναι τολμῶν τὰ ἔσχατα ἔπασχον, ἐμέτων τε συνεχῶς ἐπιγινομένων, κεφαλαλγίας, ἀνορεξίας, ἀγρυπνίας διηνεκοῦς. Τὰ γοῦν πελάγη τῆς νυκτὸς τὰ οὕτω μακρὰ ἀγρυπνῶν διετέλουν. Ἀλλ' ἵνα μὴ πλέον τοῖς δυσχερέσιν ἐνδιατρίβων κατατείνω σου τὴν διάνοιαν, πάντων ἀπηλλάγμεθα τούτων νῦν. Ὁμοῦ τε γὰρ ἐπέστη τὸ ἔαρ καὶ μικρά τις τοῦ ἀέρος γέγονε μεταβολή, αὐτόματα πάντα ἐλύθη. Ἀλλ' ὅμως καὶ νῦν πολλῆς δέομαι τῆς ἀκριβείας κατὰ τὴν δίαιταν· διὰ δὴ τοῦτο κοῦφον ποιῶ τῷ στομάχῳ τὸ φορτίον ὥστε αὐτὸ δύνασθαι καὶ ῥᾳδίως διατιθέναι. Οὐχ ὡς ἔτυχε δὲ ἡμᾶς κατέστησεν ἐν φροντίδι καὶ τὸ μαθεῖν πρὸς ἐσχάτας ἀναπνοὰς εἶναί σου τὴν κοσμιότητα. Ἀλλ' ὅμως διὰ τὸ στέργειν σφόδρα καὶ μεριμνᾶν καὶ φροντίζειν τὰ σά, καὶ πρὸ τῶν γραμμάτων τῆς τιμιότητός σου ταύτης ἀπηλλάγημεν τῆς μερίμνης, πολλῶν ἐκεῖθεν ἐλθόντων καὶ ἀπαγγειλάντων τὰ περὶ τῆς ὑγιείας τῆς σῆς. Καὶ νῦν χαίρω σφόδρα καὶ εὐφραίνομαι, οὐχ ὅτι τῆς ἀρρωστίας ἀπηλλάγης μόνον, ἀλλὰ πρὸ πάντων ὅτι οὕτω γενναίως φέρεις τὰ συμπίπτοντα μῦθον ἅπαντα ταῦτα καλοῦσα· καὶ τὸ δὴ μεῖζον ὅτι καὶ τῇ τοῦ σώματος ἀρρωστίᾳ ταύτην περιέθηκας τὴν προσηγορίαν, ὃ ψυχῆς ἐστι νεανικῆς καὶ πολλῷ τῷ τῆς ἀνδρείας βρυούσης καρπῷ. Τὸ γὰρ μὴ μόνον φέρειν γενναίως τὰ δυσχερῆ, ἀλλὰ μηδὲ παρόντων αὐτῶν αἰσθάνεσθαι, ἀλλ' ὑπερορᾶν καὶ μετὰ πολλῆς τῆς ἀπραγμοσύνης τὸν τῆς ὑπομονῆς ἀναδήσασθαι στέφανον, οὐ κάμνουσαν, οὐδὲ ἱδροῦσαν, οὐδὲ πράγματα ἔχουσαν, οὐδὲ ἑτέροις παρέχουσαν, ἀλλ' ὥσπερ σκιρτῶσαν καὶ χορεύουσαν, τοῦτο τῆς ἀκριβεστάτης φιλοσοφίας ἐστὶν ἀπόδειξις. ∆ιὰ ταῦτα χαίρω καὶ σκιρτῶ, πέτομαι ὑπὸ τῆς ἡδονῆς, οὐκ αἰσθάνομαι τῆς παρούσης ἐρημίας οὐδὲ τῶν λοιπῶν περιστάσεων, εὐφραινόμενος καὶ γαννύμενος καὶ σφόδρα καλλωπιζόμενος ἐπὶ τῇ σῇ μεγαλοφροσύνῃ καὶ ταῖς ἐπαλλήλοις νίκαις, οὐ διὰ σὲ μόνον, ἀλλὰ καὶ διὰ τὴν μεγάλην καὶ πολυάνθρωπον πόλιν ἐκείνην ᾗ καὶ ἀντὶ πύργου καὶ λιμένος γέγονας καὶ τείχους, λαμπρὰν τὴν διὰ τῶν πραγμάτων ἀφιεῖσα φωνὴν καὶ ἑκάτερον τὸ γένος ἐν τοῖς παθήμασί σου παιδεύουσα καὶ ἀποδύεσθαι ῥᾳδίως πρὸς τοὺς τοιούτους ἀγῶνας καὶ καταβαίνειν εἰς τὰ σκάμματα μετὰ ἀνδρείας ἁπάσης καὶ φέρειν εὐκόλως τοὺς ἐκ τῶν τοιούτων ἀγώνων ἱδρῶτας. Καὶ τὸ δὴ θαυμαστὸν ὅτι οὐκ εἰς ἀγορὰν ἐμβάλλουσα, οὐδὲ τὰ μέσα τῆς πόλεως καταλαμβάνουσα, ἀλλ' ἐν οἰκίσκῳ βραχεῖ καὶ θαλάμῳ καθημένη, νευροῖς, ἀλείφεις τοὺς ἑστῶτας, καὶ τῆς θαλάσσης οὕτω μαινομένης καὶ τῶν κυμάτων οὕτω κορυφουμένων, σκοπέλων τε καὶ ὑφάλων καὶ σπιλάδων καὶ θηρίων πάντοθεν ἀγρίων ἀναφαινομένων καὶ νυκτὸς βαθυτάτης πάντα κατεχούσης, ὡς ἐν μεσημβρίᾳ καὶ γαλήνῃ καὶ κατὰ πρύμναν τοῦ πνεύματος ἱσταμένου, οὕτως ἀναπετάσασα τῆς ὑπομονῆς τὰ ἱστία μετὰ πολλῆς πλέεις τῆς εὐκολίας οὐ μόνον οὐ κλυδωνιζομένη ὑπὸ τοῦ χαλεποῦ τούτου χειμῶνος, ἀλλ' οὐδὲ περιρραντιζομένη· καὶ μάλα εἰκότως· τοιαῦτα γὰρ τῆς ἀρετῆς τὰ πηδάλια. Καὶ ἔμποροι μὲν καὶ κυβερνῆται καὶ ναῦται καὶ πλωτῆρες, ἐπειδὰν ἴδωσι νεφῶν συνδρομὴν ἢ ἀγρίων ἀνέμων ἐμβολὴν ἢ τὸ ῥόθιον τοῦ κύματος σφοδροτάτῳ ζέον ἀφρῷ, εἴσω λιμένος τὰ πλοῖα κατέχουσιν· εἰ δέ που καὶ τύχοιεν ἐν πελάγει σαλεύοντες, πάντα ποιοῦσι καὶ μηχανῶνται ὥστε πρὸς ὅρμον ἢ νῆσον ἢ ἀκτὴν ὁρμίσαι τὸ σκάφος. Σὺ δὲ μυρίων πνευμάτων, τοσούτων ἀγρίων κυμάτων πάντοθεν συρρηγνυμένων, τοῦ βυθοῦ τῆς θαλάσσης ἀναστραφέντος διὰ τὴν χαλεπότητα τοῦ χειμῶνος, καὶ τῶν μὲν ὑποβρυχίων γενομένων, τῶν δὲ ἐπιπλεόντων νεκρῶν τοῖς ὕδασιν, ἑτέρων γυμνῶν ἐπὶ σανίδος φερομένων, εἰς μέσον ἁλλομένη τὸ πέλαγος τῶν κακῶν μῦθον ἅπαντα ταῦτα καλεῖς ἐξ οὐρίας ἐν χειμῶνι πλέουσα· καὶ μάλα εἰκότως. Οἱ μὲν γὰρ κυβερνῆ σαν καὶ χορεύουσαν, τοῦτο τῆς ἀκριβεστάτης φιλοσοφίας ἐστὶν ἀπόδειξις. ∆ιὰ ταῦτα χαίρω καὶ σκιρτῶ, πέτομαι ὑπὸ τῆς ἡδονῆς, οὐκ αἰσθάνομαι τῆς παρούσης ἐρημίας οὐδὲ τῶν λοιπῶν περιστάσεων, εὐφραινόμενος καὶ γαννύμενος καὶ σφόδρα καλλωπιζόμενος ἐπὶ τῇ σῇ μεγαλοφροσύνῃ καὶ ταῖς ἐπαλλήλοις νίκαις, οὐ διὰ σὲ μόνον, ἀλλὰ καὶ διὰ τὴν μεγάλην καὶ πολυάνθρωπον πόλιν ἐκείνην ᾗ καὶ ἀντὶ πύργου καὶ λιμένος γέγονας καὶ τείχους, λαμπρὰν τὴν διὰ τῶν πραγμάτων ἀφιεῖσα φωνὴν καὶ ἑκάτερον τὸ γένος ἐν τοῖς παθήμασί σου παιδεύουσα καὶ ἀποδύεσθαι ῥᾳδίως πρὸς τοὺς τοιούτους ἀγῶνας καὶ καταβαίνειν εἰς τὰ σκάμματα μετὰ ἀνδρείας ἁπάσης καὶ φέρειν εὐκόλως τοὺς ἐκ τῶν τοιούτων ἀγώνων ἱδρῶτας. Καὶ τὸ δὴ θαυμαστὸν ὅτι οὐκ εἰς ἀγορὰν ἐμβάλλουσα, οὐδὲ τὰ μέσα τῆς πόλεως καταλαμβάνουσα, ἀλλ' ἐν οἰκίσκῳ βραχεῖ καὶ θαλάμῳ καθημένη, νευροῖς, ἀλείφεις τοὺς ἑστῶτας, καὶ τῆς θαλάσσης οὕτω μαινομένης καὶ τῶν κυμάτων οὕτω κορυφουμένων, σκοπέλων τε καὶ ὑφάλων καὶ σπιλάδων καὶ θηρίων πάντοθεν ἀγρίων ἀναφαινομένων καὶ νυκτὸς βαθυτάτης πάντα κατεχούσης, ὡς ἐν μεσημβρίᾳ καὶ γαλήνῃ καὶ κατὰ πρύμναν τοῦ πνεύματος ἱσταμένου, οὕτως ἀναπετάσασα τῆς ὑπομονῆς τὰ ἱστία μετὰ πολλῆς πλέεις τῆς εὐκολίας οὐ μόνον οὐ κλυδωνιζομένη ὑπὸ τοῦ χαλεποῦ τούτου χειμῶνος, ἀλλ' οὐδὲ περιρραντιζομένη· καὶ μάλα εἰκότως· τοιαῦτα γὰρ τῆς ἀρετῆς τὰ πηδάλια. Καὶ ἔμποροι μὲν καὶ κυβερνῆται καὶ ναῦται καὶ πλωτῆρες, ἐπειδὰν ἴδωσι νεφῶν συνδρομὴν ἢ ἀγρίων ἀνέμων ἐμβολὴν ἢ τὸ ῥόθιον τοῦ κύματος σφοδροτάτῳ ζέον ἀφρῷ, εἴσω λιμένος τὰ πλοῖα κατέχουσιν· εἰ δέ που καὶ τύχοιεν ἐν πελάγει σαλεύοντες, πάντα ποιοῦσι καὶ μηχανῶνται ὥστε πρὸς ὅρμον ἢ νῆσον ἢ ἀκτὴν ὁρμίσαι τὸ σκάφος. Σὺ δὲ μυρίων πνευμάτων, τοσούτων ἀγρίων κυμάτων πάντοθεν συρρηγνυμένων, τοῦ βυθοῦ τῆς θαλάσσης ἀναστραφέντος διὰ τὴν χαλεπότητα τοῦ χειμῶνος, καὶ τῶν μὲν ὑποβρυχίων γενομένων, τῶν δὲ ἐπιπλεόντων νεκρῶν τοῖς ὕδασιν, ἑτέρων γυμνῶν ἐπὶ σανίδος φερομένων, εἰς μέσον ἁλλομένη τὸ πέλαγος τῶν κακῶν μῦθον ἅπαντα ταῦτα καλεῖς ἐξ οὐρίας ἐν χειμῶνι πλέουσα· καὶ μάλα εἰκότως. Οἱ μὲν γὰρ κυβερνῆ ται, κἂν μυριάκις ὦσι σοφοὶ τὴν ἐπιστήμην ἐκείνην, ἀλλ' οὐκ ἔχουσι τέχνην ἀρκοῦσαν ἀντιστῆναι παντὶ χειμῶνι· διὸ καὶ φεύγουσι πολλάκις τὴν πρὸς τὰ κύματα μάχην. Σοὶ δέ ἐστιν ἐπιστήμη παντὸς ἀνωτέρα χειμῶνος, τῆς φιλοσόφου ψυχῆς ἡ δύναμις ἣ καὶ στρατοπέδων μυρίων ἐστὶν ἰσχυροτέρα καὶ ὅπλων δυνατωτέρα καὶ πύργων καὶ τειχῶν ἀσφαλεστέρα. Στρατιώταις μὲν γὰρ καὶ ὅπλα καὶ τείχη καὶ πύργοι, πρὸς σώματος ἀσφάλειαν χρήσιμα μόνον, καὶ τοῦτο οὐκ ἀεὶ οὐδὲ διὰ παντός, ἀλλ' ἔστιν ὅτε καὶ ἡττᾶται ἅπαντα ταῦτα καὶ ἐρήμους τῆς αὐτῶν προστασίας τοὺς καταφεύγοντας ἀφίησιν. Τὰ δὲ ὅπλα τὰ σὰ οὐ βέλη βαρβαρικά, οὐδὲ μηχανήματα πολεμίων ἀνθρώπων, οὐδὲ ἐφόδους καὶ κλοπὰς τοιαύτας διελέγχει, ἀλλὰ τὰς τῆς φύσεως κατεπάτησεν ἀνάγκας καὶ τὴν τυραννίδα κατέλυσε καὶ τὴν ἀκρόπολιν αὐτῶν καθεῖλε. Καὶ δαίμοσι πυκτεύουσα διηνεκῶς μυρίας μὲν ἤρω νίκας, οὐδεμίαν δὲ ἐδέξω πληγήν, ἀλλ' ἕστηκας ἄτρωτος ἐν τοσαύτῃ βελῶν νιφάδι καὶ τὰ ἀκόντια τὰ κατὰ σοῦ ῥιπτόμενα πρὸς τοὺς ἀφιέντας ὑποστρέφει πάλιν. Τοιαύτη σου τῆς τέχνης ἡ σοφία· δι' ὧν πάσχεις κακῶς, τοὺς ποιοῦντας ἀμύνῃ, δι' ὧν ἐπιβουλεύῃ, τοὺς πολεμοῦντας λυπεῖς ὑπόθεσιν μεγίστην ἔχουσα πρὸς εὐδοκιμήσεως ἀφορμὴν μείζονος τὴν ἐκείνων κακίαν. Ταῦτα καὶ αὐτὴ εἰδυῖα καλῶς καὶ τῇ πείρᾳ τὴν αἴσθησιν ἔχουσα, εἰκότως μῦθον ἅπαντα ταῦτα καλεῖς. Πῶς γὰρ οὐκ ἂν καλέσῃς μῦθον, εἰπέ μοι, θνητὸν σῶμα λαχοῦσα καὶ θανάτου οὕτω καταφρονοῦσα ὡς οἱ τὴν ἀλλοτρίαν ἐπειγόμενοι καταλιπεῖν καὶ πρὸς τὴν οἰκείαν ἐπανελθεῖν πατρίδα; ἀρρωστίᾳ συζῶσα χαλεπωτάτῃ καὶ τῶν εὐσαρκούντων καὶ σφριγώντων ἥδιον διακειμένη, οὐχ ὕβρεσι ταπεινουμένη, οὐ τιμαῖς καὶ δόξαις ἐπαιρομένη· τοῦτο δὴ τὸ μυρίων πολλοῖς αἴτιον γενόμενον κακῶν οἳ καὶ ἐν ἱερωσύνῃ διαλάμψαντες καὶ πρὸς ἔσχατον γῆρας ἐλάσαντες καὶ βαθυτάτην πολιὰν ἐντεῦθεν ὤλισθον καὶ κοινὸν πρόκεινται τοῖς βουλομένοις κωμῳδεῖν θέατρον; Ἀλλ' ἡ γυνὴ καὶ ἀραχνῶδες περικειμένη σῶμα καὶ τοσαύτας ἐνεγκοῦσα προσβολάς, οὐ μόνον οὐδὲν ἔπαθες τοιοῦτον, ἀλλὰ καὶ ἑτέρους πολλοὺς παθεῖν ἐκώλυσας. Κἀκεῖνοι μὲν οὐδὲ μέχρι πολλοῦ τῶν ἀγώνων προελθόντες, ἀλλὰ ἐξ αὐτῶν τῶν προοιμίων, καὶ βαλβῖδος αὐτῆς, ὡς εἰπεῖν, ἁλλόμενοι κατηνέχθησαν· σὺ δὲ μυριάκις τὴν ἐσχάτην νύσσαν περιελθοῦσα καθ' ἕκαστον δρόμον τὸ βραβεῖον ἥρπασας, ποικίλα παλαισμάτων ἐπιδειξαμένη καὶ ἀγώνων εἴδη· καὶ μάλα εἰκότως. Οὐδὲ γὰρ ἐν ἡλικίᾳ, οὔτε ἐν σώματι τὰ παλαίσματα τῆς ἀρετῆς, ἀλλ' ἐν ψυχῇ μόνῃ καὶ γνώμῃ. Οὕτω καὶ γυναῖκες ἐστεφανώθησαν καὶ ἄνδρες ὑπεσκελίσθησαν· οὕτω καὶ παῖδες ἀνεκηρύχθησαν καὶ γεγηρακότες κατῃσχύνθησαν. Ἀεὶ μὲν οὖν χρὴ θαυμάζειν τοὺς μετιόντας ἀρετήν, μάλιστα δὲ ὅταν πολλῶν αὐτὴν ἀπολειπόντων, εὑρεθῶσί τινες αὐτῆς ἀντεχόμενοι. ∆ιὰ δὴ τοῦτο καὶ τὴν σὴν ἐμμέλειαν θαυμάζειν ἄξιον ὑπερβολῆς ὅτι τοσούτων τραπέντων ἀνδρῶν, γυναικῶν, γεγηρακότων, τῶν δοκούντων μεγίστην ὑπόληψιν ἔχειν, πάντων ἐπ' ὄψιν κειμένων, οὐδὲ ἐκ πολλῆς πολέμου ῥύμης, οὐδὲ ἀπὸ σφοδρᾶς τῶν ἐχθρῶν παρατάξεως, ἀλλὰ πρὸ συμβολῆς πεσόντων, πρὸ συμπλοκῆς ἡττηθέντων, αὐτὴ μετὰ τοσαύτας μάχας καὶ παρατάξεις οὐ μόνον οὐ κατεμαλακίσθης, οὐδὲ ἐταριχεύθης τῷ πλήθει τῶν κακῶν, ἀλλὰ καὶ νεανιεύῃ μειζόνως καὶ τῶν ἀγώνων ἡ προσθήκη προσθήκην σοι δίδωσιν ἰσχύος. Ἡ γὰρ τῶν ἤδη κατορθωθέντων μνήμη καὶ εὐφροσύνης καὶ χαρᾶς καὶ μείζονός σοι γίνεται προθυμίας ὑπόθεσις. ∆ιὰ ταῦτα χαίρομεν, σκιρτῶμεν, εὐφραινόμεθα· οὐ γὰρ παύσομαι συνεχῶς τοῦτο λέγων καὶ περιφέρων μου πανταχοῦ τῆς χαρᾶς τὴν ὑπόθεσιν. Ὥστε εἰ καὶ ὁ ἡμέτερός σε λυπεῖ χωρισμός, ἀλλὰ μεγίστη σοι αὕτη τῶν κατορθωμάτων ἡ παράκλησις· ἐπεὶ καὶ ἡμεῖς τοσοῦτον ἀπῳκισμένοι μῆκος ὁδοῦ, οὐ μικρὰν ἐντεῦθεν, ἀπὸ τῆς σῆς ἀνδρείας λέγω, καρπούμεθα εὐφροσύνην.

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I am writing this to your good order after climbing up from the very gates of death. That is why I was so glad that your servants arrived only now, when I am at last putting into harbor. If they had met me while I was still being tossed at sea and waiting for the harsh waves of illness, it would not have been easy for me to deceive your reverence by reporting good news instead of painful things.

The winter became harsher than usual and brought on an even harsher winter in my stomach. For two months I was no better than the dead, and in some ways worse. I was alive only enough to feel the terrors pressing on every side. Everything was night to me: day, dawn, and noon. I spent my days nailed to the bed. I tried countless remedies, but I was not strong enough to shake off the injury from the cold. I lit a fire and endured the bitter smoke. I shut myself in one room under countless coverings and did not dare cross the threshold. I suffered to the limit, with constant vomiting, headache, loss of appetite, and sleeplessness that never let go. That is how I crossed the long seas of the night while lying awake.

But I will not strain your mind by dwelling longer on these hardships. We are now free of all these things. As soon as spring arrived and the air changed even a little, all of them dissolved by themselves. Even now, though, I need great care in my diet, so I keep the burden on my stomach light enough for it to manage easily.

It gave us no small anxiety to learn that your good order was at the last breath. But because we love you so deeply and are so anxious and concerned for your affairs, even before your letters arrived we were released from this fear. Many people came from there and reported that you were well. Now I rejoice and am exceedingly glad, not only because you were delivered from illness, but still more because you bear what happens with such nobility, calling all these things a fable. What is greater, you have given the same name even to the sickness of your body. That is the mark of a youthful soul overflowing with the great fruit of courage.

To bear hard things nobly is already admirable. But not even to notice them while they are present, to look down on them, and with deep calm to weave for yourself the crown of patience, not growing weary, not sweating, not making trouble for yourself or others, but almost leaping and dancing: this is proof of the most exact wisdom. For these things I rejoice and leap. I fly with pleasure. I do not feel this desolate place or the other troubles around me, because I am made glad, delighted, and lifted up by your greatness of soul and your victories one after another.

And I rejoice not for you alone, but also for that great and populous city, for which you have become a tower, a harbor, and a wall. Through your deeds you send out a brilliant voice, teaching both men and women through your sufferings to strip readily for contests like these, to go down into the arena with full courage, and to bear easily the sweat of such struggles.

What is wonderful is that you do this without rushing into the marketplace or occupying the center of the city. Sitting in a small house, in one room, you strengthen and anoint those who stand firm. The sea is raging, the waves are cresting, rocks, hidden reefs, ledges, and wild beasts appear everywhere, and deepest night holds everything. Yet you, as if it were midday and calm weather with the wind at your stern, have spread the sails of patience and sail with great ease. You are not only unshaken by this harsh storm; you are not even splashed. That is what the rudders of virtue are like.

Merchants, pilots, sailors, and seafarers, when they see clouds gathering, violent winds attacking, and waves roaring with thick foam, keep their ships inside the harbor. If they are already being tossed on the open sea, they do everything they can to bring the vessel to a mooring, an island, or a shore. But you, with countless winds, with so many wild waves breaking from every side, with the bottom of the sea stirred up by the violence of the storm, with some people sunk, others floating dead on the water, and others carried naked on a plank, leap into the middle of the sea of evils and call all these things a story. You sail with a fair wind in the storm, and rightly so.

Pilots, however wise they may be in their craft, do not have skill sufficient for every storm; that is why they often flee the battle with the waves. But you have an art stronger than every storm: the power of a philosophic soul. It is stronger than countless armies, more powerful than weapons, and safer than towers and walls. Weapons, walls, and towers help soldiers only with the safety of the body, and not always even then; sometimes all these defenses are defeated and leave those who trusted them stripped of protection. But your weapons are not exposed to barbarian arrows, enemy machines, assaults, or raids. They have trampled on the necessities of nature, destroyed their tyranny, and pulled down their citadel.

You fight continually with demons and have won countless victories, yet you have not received a single wound. You stand unharmed in such a storm of arrows, and the javelins thrown at you turn back again on those who threw them. Such is the wisdom of your art: through what you suffer, you ward off those who do it; through what is plotted against you, you grieve those who fight you, because their wickedness becomes the richest material for your greater reputation.

You know these things well yourself, having learned them by experience, and rightly you call all these troubles a story. How could you not call them that? You have a mortal body and yet despise death as people despise a foreign land when they are eager to return home. You live with a most severe illness and are more cheerful than people who are healthy and strong. You are not humbled by insults, and you are not lifted up by honors and glory. Honors have become the cause of countless evils for many people who shone in the priesthood and reached extreme old age and deep gray hair, only to slip because of them and become a public spectacle for mockery.

But you, a woman clothed in a body frailer than a spider's web, have endured so many assaults and not only suffered none of that harm but also prevented many others from suffering it. Those men did not even advance far into the contests; they were thrown down at the very preliminaries, almost as soon as they sprang from the starting line. You, after rounding the final post countless times in every race, have seized the prize and displayed many different forms of wrestling and contest. And rightly so. The struggles of virtue are not decided by age or body, but by soul and mind alone. Thus women have been crowned and men tripped up; children have been proclaimed victors and old men put to shame.

We should always admire those who pursue virtue, but especially when many abandon it and only a few are found holding fast. For this reason your steadfastness is worthy of extraordinary admiration. So many people have been turned aside: men, women, the aged, even those who seemed to have the highest reputation. They lie in full view, not overthrown by the great rush of war or by a fierce battle line, but fallen before the engagement, defeated before the conflict. Yet you, after so many battles and battle lines, have not been softened or hardened by the multitude of evils. You grow younger, and the increase of contests gives you an increase of strength. The memory of what you have already accomplished becomes for you a source of gladness, joy, and greater eagerness.

For these reasons we rejoice, leap, and are glad. I will not stop saying this continually and carrying everywhere the cause of my joy. So even if our separation grieves you, let your achievements be your greatest consolation. We too, though settled so far away along the road, draw no small gladness from this, I mean from your courage.

AI-assisted translation - This translation was produced with AI assistance and has not been peer-reviewed. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek below for scholarly use.

Latin / Greek Original

12.t ΕΠΙΣΤΟΛΗ ΙΒʹ 12.1 Ἀπ' αὐτῶν ἀναβὰς τῶν τοῦ θανάτου πυλῶν ταῦτα ἐπιστέλλω πρὸς τὴν σὴν κοσμιότητα· διὸ καὶ σφόδρα ἥσθην ὅτι νῦν ἀπηντήκασιν οἱ παῖδες εἰς λιμένα λοιπὸν ὁρμίζουσιν ἡμῖν. Εἰ γὰρ πελαγίῳ μοι σαλεύοντι ἔτι καὶ τὰ χαλεπὰ τῆς ἀρρωστίας ἐκδεχομένῳ κύματα συνήντησαν, οὐδὲ ἀπατῆσαί μοι ῥᾴδιον ἦν τὴν σὴν εὐλάβειαν χρηστὰ ἀντὶ δυσχερῶν ἀπαγγέλλοντι. Καὶ γὰρ ὁ χειμὼν τοῦ συνήθους γενόμενος σφοδρότερος καλεπώτερον ἡμῖν καὶ τοῦ στομάχου τὸν χειμῶνα ἐπήγαγε καὶ νεκρῶν οὐδὲν ἄμεινον τοὺς δύο διετέλεσα μῆνας τούτους, ἀλλὰ καὶ χαλεπώτερον. Τοσοῦτον γὰρ ἔζων ὅσον ἐπαισθάνεσθαι τῶν πάντοθεν κυκλούντων με δεινῶν, καὶ πάντα μοι νὺξ ἦν καὶ ἡμέρα καὶ ὄρθρος καὶ μεσημβρία μέση καὶ διημέρευον τῇ κλίνῃ προσηλωμένος· καὶ μυρία μηχανώμενος οὐκ ἴσχυον τὴν ἐκ τοῦ κρυμοῦ βλάβην ἀποτινάξασθαι· ἀλλὰ καὶ πῦρ ἀνακαίων καὶ καπνοῦ χαλεπωτάτου ἀνεχόμενος καὶ ἐν ἑνὶ δωματίῳ καθειργμένος καὶ μυρία ἐπιβλήματα ἔχων καὶ μηδὲ τὸν οὐδὸν ὑπερβῆναι τολμῶν τὰ ἔσχατα ἔπασχον, ἐμέτων τε συνεχῶς ἐπιγινομένων, κεφαλαλγίας, ἀνορεξίας, ἀγρυπνίας διηνεκοῦς. Τὰ γοῦν πελάγη τῆς νυκτὸς τὰ οὕτω μακρὰ ἀγρυπνῶν διετέλουν. Ἀλλ' ἵνα μὴ πλέον τοῖς δυσχερέσιν ἐνδιατρίβων κατατείνω σου τὴν διάνοιαν, πάντων ἀπηλλάγμεθα τούτων νῦν. Ὁμοῦ τε γὰρ ἐπέστη τὸ ἔαρ καὶ μικρά τις τοῦ ἀέρος γέγονε μεταβολή, αὐτόματα πάντα ἐλύθη. Ἀλλ' ὅμως καὶ νῦν πολλῆς δέομαι τῆς ἀκριβείας κατὰ τὴν δίαιταν· διὰ δὴ τοῦτο κοῦφον ποιῶ τῷ στομάχῳ τὸ φορτίον ὥστε αὐτὸ δύνασθαι καὶ ῥᾳδίως διατιθέναι. Οὐχ ὡς ἔτυχε δὲ ἡμᾶς κατέστησεν ἐν φροντίδι καὶ τὸ μαθεῖν πρὸς ἐσχάτας ἀναπνοὰς εἶναί σου τὴν κοσμιότητα. Ἀλλ' ὅμως διὰ τὸ στέργειν σφόδρα καὶ μεριμνᾶν καὶ φροντίζειν τὰ σά, καὶ πρὸ τῶν γραμμάτων τῆς τιμιότητός σου ταύτης ἀπηλλάγημεν τῆς μερίμνης, πολλῶν ἐκεῖθεν ἐλθόντων καὶ ἀπαγγειλάντων τὰ περὶ τῆς ὑγιείας τῆς σῆς. Καὶ νῦν χαίρω σφόδρα καὶ εὐφραίνομαι, οὐχ ὅτι τῆς ἀρρωστίας ἀπηλλάγης μόνον, ἀλλὰ πρὸ πάντων ὅτι οὕτω γενναίως φέρεις τὰ συμπίπτοντα μῦθον ἅπαντα ταῦτα καλοῦσα· καὶ τὸ δὴ μεῖζον ὅτι καὶ τῇ τοῦ σώματος ἀρρωστίᾳ ταύτην περιέθηκας τὴν προσηγορίαν, ὃ ψυχῆς ἐστι νεανικῆς καὶ πολλῷ τῷ τῆς ἀνδρείας βρυούσης καρπῷ. Τὸ γὰρ μὴ μόνον φέρειν γενναίως τὰ δυσχερῆ, ἀλλὰ μηδὲ παρόντων αὐτῶν αἰσθάνεσθαι, ἀλλ' ὑπερορᾶν καὶ μετὰ πολλῆς τῆς ἀπραγμοσύνης τὸν τῆς ὑπομονῆς ἀναδήσασθαι στέφανον, οὐ κάμνουσαν, οὐδὲ ἱδροῦσαν, οὐδὲ πράγματα ἔχουσαν, οὐδὲ ἑτέροις παρέχουσαν, ἀλλ' ὥσπερ σκιρτῶσαν καὶ χορεύουσαν, τοῦτο τῆς ἀκριβεστάτης φιλοσοφίας ἐστὶν ἀπόδειξις. ∆ιὰ ταῦτα χαίρω καὶ σκιρτῶ, πέτομαι ὑπὸ τῆς ἡδονῆς, οὐκ αἰσθάνομαι τῆς παρούσης ἐρημίας οὐδὲ τῶν λοιπῶν περιστάσεων, εὐφραινόμενος καὶ γαννύμενος καὶ σφόδρα καλλωπιζόμενος ἐπὶ τῇ σῇ μεγαλοφροσύνῃ καὶ ταῖς ἐπαλλήλοις νίκαις, οὐ διὰ σὲ μόνον, ἀλλὰ καὶ διὰ τὴν μεγάλην καὶ πολυάνθρωπον πόλιν ἐκείνην ᾗ καὶ ἀντὶ πύργου καὶ λιμένος γέγονας καὶ τείχους, λαμπρὰν τὴν διὰ τῶν πραγμάτων ἀφιεῖσα φωνὴν καὶ ἑκάτερον τὸ γένος ἐν τοῖς παθήμασί σου παιδεύουσα καὶ ἀποδύεσθαι ῥᾳδίως πρὸς τοὺς τοιούτους ἀγῶνας καὶ καταβαίνειν εἰς τὰ σκάμματα μετὰ ἀνδρείας ἁπάσης καὶ φέρειν εὐκόλως τοὺς ἐκ τῶν τοιούτων ἀγώνων ἱδρῶτας. Καὶ τὸ δὴ θαυμαστὸν ὅτι οὐκ εἰς ἀγορὰν ἐμβάλλουσα, οὐδὲ τὰ μέσα τῆς πόλεως καταλαμβάνουσα, ἀλλ' ἐν οἰκίσκῳ βραχεῖ καὶ θαλάμῳ καθημένη, νευροῖς, ἀλείφεις τοὺς ἑστῶτας, καὶ τῆς θαλάσσης οὕτω μαινομένης καὶ τῶν κυμάτων οὕτω κορυφουμένων, σκοπέλων τε καὶ ὑφάλων καὶ σπιλάδων καὶ θηρίων πάντοθεν ἀγρίων ἀναφαινομένων καὶ νυκτὸς βαθυτάτης πάντα κατεχούσης, ὡς ἐν μεσημβρίᾳ καὶ γαλήνῃ καὶ κατὰ πρύμναν τοῦ πνεύματος ἱσταμένου, οὕτως ἀναπετάσασα τῆς ὑπομονῆς τὰ ἱστία μετὰ πολλῆς πλέεις τῆς εὐκολίας οὐ μόνον οὐ κλυδωνιζομένη ὑπὸ τοῦ χαλεποῦ τούτου χειμῶνος, ἀλλ' οὐδὲ περιρραντιζομένη· καὶ μάλα εἰκότως· τοιαῦτα γὰρ τῆς ἀρετῆς τὰ πηδάλια. Καὶ ἔμποροι μὲν καὶ κυβερνῆται καὶ ναῦται καὶ πλωτῆρες, ἐπειδὰν ἴδωσι νεφῶν συνδρομὴν ἢ ἀγρίων ἀνέμων ἐμβολὴν ἢ τὸ ῥόθιον τοῦ κύματος σφοδροτάτῳ ζέον ἀφρῷ, εἴσω λιμένος τὰ πλοῖα κατέχουσιν· εἰ δέ που καὶ τύχοιεν ἐν πελάγει σαλεύοντες, πάντα ποιοῦσι καὶ μηχανῶνται ὥστε πρὸς ὅρμον ἢ νῆσον ἢ ἀκτὴν ὁρμίσαι τὸ σκάφος. Σὺ δὲ μυρίων πνευμάτων, τοσούτων ἀγρίων κυμάτων πάντοθεν συρρηγνυμένων, τοῦ βυθοῦ τῆς θαλάσσης ἀναστραφέντος διὰ τὴν χαλεπότητα τοῦ χειμῶνος, καὶ τῶν μὲν ὑποβρυχίων γενομένων, τῶν δὲ ἐπιπλεόντων νεκρῶν τοῖς ὕδασιν, ἑτέρων γυμνῶν ἐπὶ σανίδος φερομένων, εἰς μέσον ἁλλομένη τὸ πέλαγος τῶν κακῶν μῦθον ἅπαντα ταῦτα καλεῖς ἐξ οὐρίας ἐν χειμῶνι πλέουσα· καὶ μάλα εἰκότως. Οἱ μὲν γὰρ κυβερνῆ σαν καὶ χορεύουσαν, τοῦτο τῆς ἀκριβεστάτης φιλοσοφίας ἐστὶν ἀπόδειξις. ∆ιὰ ταῦτα χαίρω καὶ σκιρτῶ, πέτομαι ὑπὸ τῆς ἡδονῆς, οὐκ αἰσθάνομαι τῆς παρούσης ἐρημίας οὐδὲ τῶν λοιπῶν περιστάσεων, εὐφραινόμενος καὶ γαννύμενος καὶ σφόδρα καλλωπιζόμενος ἐπὶ τῇ σῇ μεγαλοφροσύνῃ καὶ ταῖς ἐπαλλήλοις νίκαις, οὐ διὰ σὲ μόνον, ἀλλὰ καὶ διὰ τὴν μεγάλην καὶ πολυάνθρωπον πόλιν ἐκείνην ᾗ καὶ ἀντὶ πύργου καὶ λιμένος γέγονας καὶ τείχους, λαμπρὰν τὴν διὰ τῶν πραγμάτων ἀφιεῖσα φωνὴν καὶ ἑκάτερον τὸ γένος ἐν τοῖς παθήμασί σου παιδεύουσα καὶ ἀποδύεσθαι ῥᾳδίως πρὸς τοὺς τοιούτους ἀγῶνας καὶ καταβαίνειν εἰς τὰ σκάμματα μετὰ ἀνδρείας ἁπάσης καὶ φέρειν εὐκόλως τοὺς ἐκ τῶν τοιούτων ἀγώνων ἱδρῶτας. Καὶ τὸ δὴ θαυμαστὸν ὅτι οὐκ εἰς ἀγορὰν ἐμβάλλουσα, οὐδὲ τὰ μέσα τῆς πόλεως καταλαμβάνουσα, ἀλλ' ἐν οἰκίσκῳ βραχεῖ καὶ θαλάμῳ καθημένη, νευροῖς, ἀλείφεις τοὺς ἑστῶτας, καὶ τῆς θαλάσσης οὕτω μαινομένης καὶ τῶν κυμάτων οὕτω κορυφουμένων, σκοπέλων τε καὶ ὑφάλων καὶ σπιλάδων καὶ θηρίων πάντοθεν ἀγρίων ἀναφαινομένων καὶ νυκτὸς βαθυτάτης πάντα κατεχούσης, ὡς ἐν μεσημβρίᾳ καὶ γαλήνῃ καὶ κατὰ πρύμναν τοῦ πνεύματος ἱσταμένου, οὕτως ἀναπετάσασα τῆς ὑπομονῆς τὰ ἱστία μετὰ πολλῆς πλέεις τῆς εὐκολίας οὐ μόνον οὐ κλυδωνιζομένη ὑπὸ τοῦ χαλεποῦ τούτου χειμῶνος, ἀλλ' οὐδὲ περιρραντιζομένη· καὶ μάλα εἰκότως· τοιαῦτα γὰρ τῆς ἀρετῆς τὰ πηδάλια. Καὶ ἔμποροι μὲν καὶ κυβερνῆται καὶ ναῦται καὶ πλωτῆρες, ἐπειδὰν ἴδωσι νεφῶν συνδρομὴν ἢ ἀγρίων ἀνέμων ἐμβολὴν ἢ τὸ ῥόθιον τοῦ κύματος σφοδροτάτῳ ζέον ἀφρῷ, εἴσω λιμένος τὰ πλοῖα κατέχουσιν· εἰ δέ που καὶ τύχοιεν ἐν πελάγει σαλεύοντες, πάντα ποιοῦσι καὶ μηχανῶνται ὥστε πρὸς ὅρμον ἢ νῆσον ἢ ἀκτὴν ὁρμίσαι τὸ σκάφος. Σὺ δὲ μυρίων πνευμάτων, τοσούτων ἀγρίων κυμάτων πάντοθεν συρρηγνυμένων, τοῦ βυθοῦ τῆς θαλάσσης ἀναστραφέντος διὰ τὴν χαλεπότητα τοῦ χειμῶνος, καὶ τῶν μὲν ὑποβρυχίων γενομένων, τῶν δὲ ἐπιπλεόντων νεκρῶν τοῖς ὕδασιν, ἑτέρων γυμνῶν ἐπὶ σανίδος φερομένων, εἰς μέσον ἁλλομένη τὸ πέλαγος τῶν κακῶν μῦθον ἅπαντα ταῦτα καλεῖς ἐξ οὐρίας ἐν χειμῶνι πλέουσα· καὶ μάλα εἰκότως. Οἱ μὲν γὰρ κυβερνῆ ται, κἂν μυριάκις ὦσι σοφοὶ τὴν ἐπιστήμην ἐκείνην, ἀλλ' οὐκ ἔχουσι τέχνην ἀρκοῦσαν ἀντιστῆναι παντὶ χειμῶνι· διὸ καὶ φεύγουσι πολλάκις τὴν πρὸς τὰ κύματα μάχην. Σοὶ δέ ἐστιν ἐπιστήμη παντὸς ἀνωτέρα χειμῶνος, τῆς φιλοσόφου ψυχῆς ἡ δύναμις ἣ καὶ στρατοπέδων μυρίων ἐστὶν ἰσχυροτέρα καὶ ὅπλων δυνατωτέρα καὶ πύργων καὶ τειχῶν ἀσφαλεστέρα. Στρατιώταις μὲν γὰρ καὶ ὅπλα καὶ τείχη καὶ πύργοι, πρὸς σώματος ἀσφάλειαν χρήσιμα μόνον, καὶ τοῦτο οὐκ ἀεὶ οὐδὲ διὰ παντός, ἀλλ' ἔστιν ὅτε καὶ ἡττᾶται ἅπαντα ταῦτα καὶ ἐρήμους τῆς αὐτῶν προστασίας τοὺς καταφεύγοντας ἀφίησιν. Τὰ δὲ ὅπλα τὰ σὰ οὐ βέλη βαρβαρικά, οὐδὲ μηχανήματα πολεμίων ἀνθρώπων, οὐδὲ ἐφόδους καὶ κλοπὰς τοιαύτας διελέγχει, ἀλλὰ τὰς τῆς φύσεως κατεπάτησεν ἀνάγκας καὶ τὴν τυραννίδα κατέλυσε καὶ τὴν ἀκρόπολιν αὐτῶν καθεῖλε. Καὶ δαίμοσι πυκτεύουσα διηνεκῶς μυρίας μὲν ἤρω νίκας, οὐδεμίαν δὲ ἐδέξω πληγήν, ἀλλ' ἕστηκας ἄτρωτος ἐν τοσαύτῃ βελῶν νιφάδι καὶ τὰ ἀκόντια τὰ κατὰ σοῦ ῥιπτόμενα πρὸς τοὺς ἀφιέντας ὑποστρέφει πάλιν. Τοιαύτη σου τῆς τέχνης ἡ σοφία· δι' ὧν πάσχεις κακῶς, τοὺς ποιοῦντας ἀμύνῃ, δι' ὧν ἐπιβουλεύῃ, τοὺς πολεμοῦντας λυπεῖς ὑπόθεσιν μεγίστην ἔχουσα πρὸς εὐδοκιμήσεως ἀφορμὴν μείζονος τὴν ἐκείνων κακίαν. Ταῦτα καὶ αὐτὴ εἰδυῖα καλῶς καὶ τῇ πείρᾳ τὴν αἴσθησιν ἔχουσα, εἰκότως μῦθον ἅπαντα ταῦτα καλεῖς. Πῶς γὰρ οὐκ ἂν καλέσῃς μῦθον, εἰπέ μοι, θνητὸν σῶμα λαχοῦσα καὶ θανάτου οὕτω καταφρονοῦσα ὡς οἱ τὴν ἀλλοτρίαν ἐπειγόμενοι καταλιπεῖν καὶ πρὸς τὴν οἰκείαν ἐπανελθεῖν πατρίδα; ἀρρωστίᾳ συζῶσα χαλεπωτάτῃ καὶ τῶν εὐσαρκούντων καὶ σφριγώντων ἥδιον διακειμένη, οὐχ ὕβρεσι ταπεινουμένη, οὐ τιμαῖς καὶ δόξαις ἐπαιρομένη· τοῦτο δὴ τὸ μυρίων πολλοῖς αἴτιον γενόμενον κακῶν οἳ καὶ ἐν ἱερωσύνῃ διαλάμψαντες καὶ πρὸς ἔσχατον γῆρας ἐλάσαντες καὶ βαθυτάτην πολιὰν ἐντεῦθεν ὤλισθον καὶ κοινὸν πρόκεινται τοῖς βουλομένοις κωμῳδεῖν θέατρον; Ἀλλ' ἡ γυνὴ καὶ ἀραχνῶδες περικειμένη σῶμα καὶ τοσαύτας ἐνεγκοῦσα προσβολάς, οὐ μόνον οὐδὲν ἔπαθες τοιοῦτον, ἀλλὰ καὶ ἑτέρους πολλοὺς παθεῖν ἐκώλυσας. Κἀκεῖνοι μὲν οὐδὲ μέχρι πολλοῦ τῶν ἀγώνων προελθόντες, ἀλλὰ ἐξ αὐτῶν τῶν προοιμίων, καὶ βαλβῖδος αὐτῆς, ὡς εἰπεῖν, ἁλλόμενοι κατηνέχθησαν· σὺ δὲ μυριάκις τὴν ἐσχάτην νύσσαν περιελθοῦσα καθ' ἕκαστον δρόμον τὸ βραβεῖον ἥρπασας, ποικίλα παλαισμάτων ἐπιδειξαμένη καὶ ἀγώνων εἴδη· καὶ μάλα εἰκότως. Οὐδὲ γὰρ ἐν ἡλικίᾳ, οὔτε ἐν σώματι τὰ παλαίσματα τῆς ἀρετῆς, ἀλλ' ἐν ψυχῇ μόνῃ καὶ γνώμῃ. Οὕτω καὶ γυναῖκες ἐστεφανώθησαν καὶ ἄνδρες ὑπεσκελίσθησαν· οὕτω καὶ παῖδες ἀνεκηρύχθησαν καὶ γεγηρακότες κατῃσχύνθησαν. Ἀεὶ μὲν οὖν χρὴ θαυμάζειν τοὺς μετιόντας ἀρετήν, μάλιστα δὲ ὅταν πολλῶν αὐτὴν ἀπολειπόντων, εὑρεθῶσί τινες αὐτῆς ἀντεχόμενοι. ∆ιὰ δὴ τοῦτο καὶ τὴν σὴν ἐμμέλειαν θαυμάζειν ἄξιον ὑπερβολῆς ὅτι τοσούτων τραπέντων ἀνδρῶν, γυναικῶν, γεγηρακότων, τῶν δοκούντων μεγίστην ὑπόληψιν ἔχειν, πάντων ἐπ' ὄψιν κειμένων, οὐδὲ ἐκ πολλῆς πολέμου ῥύμης, οὐδὲ ἀπὸ σφοδρᾶς τῶν ἐχθρῶν παρατάξεως, ἀλλὰ πρὸ συμβολῆς πεσόντων, πρὸ συμπλοκῆς ἡττηθέντων, αὐτὴ μετὰ τοσαύτας μάχας καὶ παρατάξεις οὐ μόνον οὐ κατεμαλακίσθης, οὐδὲ ἐταριχεύθης τῷ πλήθει τῶν κακῶν, ἀλλὰ καὶ νεανιεύῃ μειζόνως καὶ τῶν ἀγώνων ἡ προσθήκη προσθήκην σοι δίδωσιν ἰσχύος. Ἡ γὰρ τῶν ἤδη κατορθωθέντων μνήμη καὶ εὐφροσύνης καὶ χαρᾶς καὶ μείζονός σοι γίνεται προθυμίας ὑπόθεσις. ∆ιὰ ταῦτα χαίρομεν, σκιρτῶμεν, εὐφραινόμεθα· οὐ γὰρ παύσομαι συνεχῶς τοῦτο λέγων καὶ περιφέρων μου πανταχοῦ τῆς χαρᾶς τὴν ὑπόθεσιν. Ὥστε εἰ καὶ ὁ ἡμέτερός σε λυπεῖ χωρισμός, ἀλλὰ μεγίστη σοι αὕτη τῶν κατορθωμάτων ἡ παράκλησις· ἐπεὶ καὶ ἡμεῖς τοσοῦτον ἀπῳκισμένοι μῆκος ὁδοῦ, οὐ μικρὰν ἐντεῦθεν, ἀπὸ τῆς σῆς ἀνδρείας λέγω, καρπούμεθα εὐφροσύνην.

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2026-05-27v2.2.34-import
Initial corpus import from modern chrysostom olympias 11 12 v1.
Fields: letter text, metadata, source links. Source: https://catholiclibrary.org/library/view?docId=Fathers-Synchronized-OR%2FJohn_Chrysostom__Epistulae_ad_Olympiadem.gr.html

The most reverend and divinely favored deaconess Olympias, I John, Bishop, send greeting in the Lord.

John Chrysostom→Olympias the Deaconessc. 405 AD · chrysostom #14

Chrysostom urges Olympias to stop measuring her troubles only by their pain and to see them as brief trials that produce lasting reward.

John Chrysostom→Olympias the Deaconessc. 405 AD · chrysostom #50001

The deaconess Olympias to whom seventeen of Chrysostom's extant letters are addressed was the most eminent of his...

John Chrysostom→Olympias the Deaconessc. 405 AD · chrysostom #15

Chrysostom tells Olympias that a life of virtue necessarily brings conflict, reports his own illness and shortages, and asks her not to send anyone through dangerous roads solely for him.

John Chrysostom→Olympias the Deaconessc. 405 AD · chrysostom #7

Chrysostom tells Olympias not to despair over the church's storm, arguing that only sin can truly harm the soul and that God often waits until disaster seems complete before revealing deliverance.

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