THE STORY OF PSELLUS'S TONSURE

191. The story that I am about to tell will explain why I adopted the life of a monk. Most people have expressed astonishment that I should hurriedly abandon the brilliant reputation so painfully acquired, just at the moment when I had overcome the jealous machinations of my rivals, and turn to the Church. The change was due partly to an innate desire which I had experienced from my earliest years, a deep love for the meditative life, and partly to the complete metamorphosis in political affairs. The emperor's fickleness alarmed me. He was like a soldier in war, striking out at his foes indiscriminately. In order to trace the whole story, however, I will explain what happened from the very beginning.

192. Many persons had claims on my friendship, but two men in particular. They came from other countries and migrated to our magnificent capital. For these two I had the deepest affection.**147 The reason for our mutual attachment was an interest in learning. They were both much older than I, and lest I should be accused of perverting the truth, I must admit that, while they loved philosophy, I was more advanced in my studies. When they met me, each of them recognized in me something of a kindred spirit, and I, no less, saw mirrored in them my own enthusiasms: we were complementary one to the other. Just as my studies were more advanced, so, if I may [192] be allowed to say it, was my spiritual progress. My position at court, moreover, was higher than theirs. Since I could not bear to be separated from them in any way, I at once introduced one of them to the emperor. The other, who was not so willing to approach the sovereign, was presented later.

193. When we were all admitted to the imperial circle and enjoyed to the full what men call 'high life', we naturally got to know how affairs were conducted, and we were not very favourably impressed by this outward splendour. However, each of us was afraid to express his feelings: each waited for a suitable opportunity before revealing his inmost thoughts. The primary cause of our mutual revelations was provided by the emperor himself. It was he who set in motion the chariot of state, and of those who rode in it most were thrown overboard or struck down by him. As we, too, were aboard, there was every reason why we should fear some great jolt on the wheel: he might jerk us off, as well as the rest, for we were not very firmly seated.

194. Such was the reason for our common decision — it was the emperor's own character that made us choose the monastic life. Having once arrived at the same conclusion, each of us revealed his secret intention to the other two. It was as if each read the other's thoughts. We were agreed, therefore, on the action to be taken and we made an everlasting covenant, but seeing that any immediate or sudden alteration of status on the part of all together would be, necessarily, out of the question, we postponed it for the present. Nevertheless, we bound ourselves by solemn oaths to follow the example of the first one to become a monk.

195. First to lead us along the path to God was he on whom Fortune had smiled most favourably. True to his character, having once made a decision on solid grounds and having once determined to serve God, he brought forward a pretext for his conversion. He pleaded ill-health. Bit by bit, with much panting and puffing, he informed the emperor of his trouble, and begged to be allowed to go. Constantine was much concerned over the matter, but he gave his permission. It grieved him exceedingly to lose so soon a man of such qualities.**148

196. The outcome of this interview reacted instantly on me. I could neither sleep nor rest because of it, and it was equally difficult to wait patiently for my own opportunity to go. I visited my friend [193] and with many tears of protestation I promised that I would follow his example forthwith. And he, once again with a feigned excuse — this time that his health had miraculously improved since he had donned the monkish habit — without more ado retired to the holy monastery on Mount Olympus.

197. I decided to imitate him exactly, and alleged, by way of excuse, that I was suffering from liver trouble and serious heart-burn, I pretended to be delirious and talked to myself, as though the business of everyday life were too much for me. I went dumb and made signs with my fingers that I desired tonsuration. Messages soon reached the emperor that I was out of my senses. He was told that I was on the point of dying, that I was heartbroken by the terrible disaster that had overtaken me, but that whenever I did recover my wits, I longed for the chance to enter Holy Church. At the news of my 'illness' Constantine was greatly upset, far more than my position deserved. His first concern was that my life was in danger — a prospect that filled him with consternation and called forth bitter laments. The thought that he was about to lose me particularly worried him, for he loved my conversation immensely. There is no reason, surely, why I should not admit it. Perhaps I may be permitted to speak with some little pride of my own resourcefulness in dealing with him. My life, as far as possible, was dedicated to the pursuit of philosophy, but I carefully accommodated myself to his every mood. He was a man who soon tired of his enthusiasms. He liked change — in musical parlance, he alternated the highest treble with the deepest bass; sometimes he struck a chord of both together. There were certain occasions, therefore, when I would discourse to him in philosophic vein on the First Cause, on the Universal Good, on Virtue, on the Soul. I would prove to him how the soul can be visible in the body, and again, how it can float above the body, like a cork, but still attached to it: this phenomenon I compared to some object, suspended in the air, balancing itself lightly on the wing, relying entirely on its own strength and altogether unaffected by the weight of the bond that ties it to something else below it.**149 Then, when I saw that he was becoming bored with these lectures, and that he wanted to change the subject to something more to his taste, I would turn to the Muse of Rhetoric and introduce him to another aspect of Excellence, delighting him with word-harmonies and rhythmic cadences, composition and figures of speech (which lend the art its

[194] peculiar force). The function of Rhetoric is not merely to deceive by persuasive argument, or to deck itself out with ambiguous sentiments: it is an exact science. On the one hand, it expresses philosophic ideas; on the other, by means of its flowery imagery, it beautifies them. The listener is equally charmed by both. Rhetoric teaches a man to think clearly, undisturbed by the associations of words; to classify, to analyse, to make one's meaning plain without undue fuss. Its peculiar excellence lies in its freedom from confusion its clarity, the way it suits itself to time or to circumstance, even when a man uses simple diction, without recourse to periods or long sentences. By dwelling on all these points I inspired him to a love of the art. But if I perceived that he was growing weary, I would alter my tactics and pretend that my memory was failing, or that my fire, after the manner of Hermogenes's Heat, had almost burnt itself out through its own excess.**150

198. Constantine, recalling these conversations, was by no means inclined to let me go to a monastery. To begin with, in his eagerness to stop my designs, he sent me letters and deputations of noblemen. He assured me that I would soon recover my health, and promised me a brilliant future. Even to this day I cannot read those letters without shedding tears, so great was the affection he displayed in them. He called me 'the apple of his eye', 'the comfort of his soul', 'his heart and light and life'. He begged me not to 'leave him in darkness'. Despite this, I was deaf to all entreaties, for my friend, who had preceded me to the monastery, meant more to me than Constantine's letters. So, as gentle persuasion had failed, he abandoned the fox for the lion, and brandished the big stick. He swore that he would consign me, and my fellow-conspirators, to the flames with no more ado: he would bring utter disaster, not only on myself, but on all my family.

199. I heard these threats with composure — they were an omen of better things to come — and took refuge in the harbour of Holy Church. There I surrendered that which covered my head, and cut myself off from the life of this world.**151 When he heard that I had undergone the ceremony, he did not bear me a grudge. In fact, he sent me other messages, of quite a different tenor, in which he congratulated me on preferring the spiritual life and actually encouraged me in my resolve. He criticized the courtier's brilliant coloured robes, and praised the rough habit I was now wearing; he crowned me [195] with the victor's diadem — all because I had risen superior to every enticement.

200. But enough about myself, for it was not my wish that I should figure in this history. Unfortunately, my plans were upset by these digressions. What compelled me to adopt a monastic life was the emperor's inconstancy. We were afraid of his whimsy and therefore we preferred a monk's life to the inferior existence of a courtier, the untroubled calm of the Church to the confusion and disorder of the Palace.

201. Now that the emperor was deprived of our comforting presence, and now that he no longer had the lyre of rhetoric to charm him, he took refuge again in worldly pleasures. For instance, in the middle of a park, teeming with all kinds of fruit, he had a deep pond made. It was so constructed that the edge of it was level with the surrounding earth. Water was then directed into it by channels. The result was, that unless someone knew beforehand that the ground in the middle of the park had been excavated, he would walk about unsuspectingly to gather apples or pears, and fall into the pond. Getting into deep water, he would bob up to the surface and swim for it — much to the amusement of the emperor. However, the pond was not made only for fun, and a pleasure-house was built near it, in most beautiful surroundings. Here Constantine would bathe several times a day in the warm water, and it was while going in and out on one of these occasions that he caught a chill. At the time he did not notice it, and although not much troubled by it at first, the poison later spread to his vital organs and affected his lungs.

202. He thought he was going to die, and lay on his bed like an expiring ox that has just been sacrificed. Yet he held no consultation with the empress Theodora about a successor.**152 Instead, he kept his designs secret, and without any reference to her considered by himself who was to be the next occupant of the throne. Such an inquiry, of course, could not remain a secret, and Theodora was told of it. She at once embarked on one of the imperial galleys with her leading advisers and, like a traveller returning home from a stormy voyage, took refuge in the courts of the palace. Having arrived she won over to her side the whole of the imperial bodyguard. There were certain factors that made her influence with them all-powerful: the fact that she had been born in the purple; her gentle character; the sad circumstances of her former life. The emperor was seriously [196] perturbed by this news and he became more ill than ever, but as a restoration to normal health and the making of any sensible plan were equally out of the question now, he plunged once more into deep meditation. His eyes closed; his mind and tongue wandered. He did rally for a brief interval, enough to realize the seriousness of his condition. Then he died, cursing his fate.

203. So passed the emperor Constantine Monomachus, after a reign of twelve years.**153 In public life, he had, for the most part, covered himself with glory; in his private habits too, he had set a fine example to those who cultivate the good life. I say this, because apart from his quick temper, he was in other respects the mildest of men. His history appears to be somewhat inconsistent, on account of his moodiness: the changes in himself and the various phases of his character are reflected in my record of his reign. It is a true record, not a rhetorical exercise — a sympathetic picture of the emperor as he really was.