Classical Echoes in Gregory of Nyssa’s Εἰς Πουλχερίαν: Literary Parallels and Rhetorical Strategies ^†

Abstract

This paper aims to analyze the reception and rephrasing of illustrious Classical literary quotes and five references in Gregory of Nyssa’s παραμυθητικὸς λόγος for the Princess Pulcheria (Pulch. 461.3–472.18). Composed specifically for the firstborn daughter of the Roman Emperor Theodosius the Great, this speech represents a significant case study, as it offers the opportunity to investigate how the Cappadocian bishop, in the rhetorical construction of this oratio consolatoria, incorporated nine passages from Classical literature to enhance both his theological content and political message. Since this is the first study of this kind on Gregory’s Εἰς Πουλχερίαν, it will go through a philological analysis and a careful examination of intertextual references, casting light upon literary allusions and rhetorical strategies within the text, which reveal Gregory’s familiarity with Classical authors, both Latin (e.g., Catullus, Ovid, Seneca) and Greek (e.g., Herodotus, Thucydides).

1. Introduction

Oὐκ οἶδα ὅπως τῷ λόγῳ χρήσομαι, “I do not know how to approach this speech”:1 in these exact words, following the conventions of a carefully cultivated rhetorical tradition, Gregory of Nyssa commenced his consolatory speech for Pulcheria, performed at the imperial mausoleum of the Holy Apostles in Constantinople, most presumably on 25 August 385, on the thirtieth day after the princess’ death.2 The bishop of Nyssa, official court orator, composed an address for the occasion (May 1966)—combining rhetorical ability and Classical education—one of his most dramatic and touching pièces.3

This eloquent composition was dedicated to the firstborn daughter of the Roman Emperor Theodosius the Great (r. 379–395) and his first wife, Aelia Flavia Flaccilla (married 376), whose brief existence left little trace beyond the solemnity of her commemoration. Regrettably, historical records yield scant information about this young girl beyond the approximate date of her premature death (in the summer of 385 or 386), at which time she was no more than seven to nine years old (born 377 or 378; Chiriatti 2023, pp. 87–89). Her passing coincided with a pivotal moment in her father’s career: already elevated to the rank of co-emperor by Gratian (19 January 379), Theodosius had departed from his native Spain and was making his way eastward to assume his imperial responsibilities (Holum 1982, pp. 7–16).

As is characteristic of such orations—texts bound by precise rhetorical structures, literary conventions, and ideological functions (Gantz 1998, pp. 21–24)—Pulcheria is depicted as having already embodied, even within the brevity of her years, the essential virtues befitting a ruler entrusted with the preservation of Orthodoxy and the governance of empire (Holum 1977, p. 22; Busch 2015, pp. 26, 30). These qualities, Gregory intimates, were inherited from her pious mother, Aelia Flaccilla, a notion reinforced by both this consolatory speech and the funeral oration delivered shortly thereafter in her honor (Chiriatti and Marín 2021, pp. 46–63).4 The impact of the premature loss of such a promising young figure, as Gregory remarks in his speech, not only elicited profound grief within the imperial household but also stirred widespread mourning throughout Constantinople and their subjects.5 It means that his work hovers between Gregory’s depiction of the city’s collective sorrow and the intensity comparable to the aftermath of a natural catastrophe—evoking the imagery of a recent earthquake—to illustrate the magnitude of the people’s lamentation and share a deep sense of πάθος among the audience.6

Considering these premises, this study undertakes a critical analysis of the reception and reformulation of distinguished Greek and Latin literary quotations and allusions within Gregory’s funeral oration, an address that reflects his dual role as a court orator and a theologian.7 His rhetorical strategy was twofold: to align his discourse with the imperatives of official imperial propaganda and to fulfil the sovereigns’ objective of strengthening the bond between the ruling family and their subjects, a feature that could make the work swing between a funeral lamentation and a political speech (Cameron 1991, p. 123). This initiative formed part of a broader strategy of dynastic affirmation, one that wove personal narratives seamlessly into the fabric of military affairs, political agendas, and religious interests.

Indeed, within the evolving ideological landscape of the Theodosian court, the public expression of intimate emotions and the deliberate cultivation of communal sympathy emerged as potent instruments for fostering collective identity and social memory, a true συμπάθεια, which made private grief a common disaster. Furthermore, the empire stood at a defining juncture, having only recently embraced Christianity as its sole legally sanctioned religion (Holum 1982, pp. 16–18). In this context, natural disasters were not merely recorded as chronological markers in Byzantine liturgical books; they assumed a deeper significance as moments of collective remembrance, particularly for key societal groups. It is no coincidence, therefore, that Gregory invokes such imagery at the very outset of his oration. By framing Pulcheria’s death within this symbolic register, he subtly reinforces the dynastic narrative, strengthening the perception of familial bonds between the emperors and their devoted subjects.

A closer examination of the oration reveals that it deviates from the expectations of a conventional imperial funeral address. Though one might anticipate a formal encomium, even in the case of a eulogy for a child and a woman, the speech instead adopts the tone of an oratio consolatoria. This shift in genre is evident not only in the absence of the customary συγκρίσεις typically found in such rhetorical compositions but also in the profoundly personal nature of the question Gregory poses at the outset. The interplay of monodic lamentation and consolatory reflection further underscores the oration’s distinctive character.

Within this nuanced framework, our analysis will focus on the specific passages Gregory incorporated to reinforce both his theological message and his political rhetoric (Kennedy 1983, pp. 240–41). Notably, his intertextual engagement extends beyond the standard repertoire of Greek Christian literature—and sometimes even quotes from the Classics, such as Homer, Hesiod, and Herodotus, as well as from Plato, Thucydides, Demosthenes, Isocrates, and Plutarch. In addition to drawing upon biblical and patristic sources, he exhibits a familiarity with Latin literary traditions, integrating allusions to authors, such as Catullus, Ovid, and Seneca. This phenomenon constitutes a remarkable case study within the corpus of the Cappadocian Fathers, shedding light on the rhetorical strategies employed by Gregory in crafting this oratio consolatoria.

2. Structure and Themes of the Oratio

As is characteristic of Gregory of Nyssa’s rhetorical style, the Εἰς Πουλχερίαν commences in medias res, a technique that immediately immerses the audience in the discourse. However, this abrupt opening is tempered by the inclusion of a succinct yet purposeful prologue (προοίμιον). It serves to establish the overarching theme, progressing from the particular to the universal by drawing upon the commemoration of the Nicomedia earthquake as an illustrative example.8 Entirely anchored in the immediacy of the present moment, this introduction engages the audience directly, invoking their shared grief over the untimely loss of a young and unblemished soul. Gregory confidently asserts the legitimacy of his lamentation, framing it as a response so deeply warranted by the circumstances that it stands beyond the reach of reproach or censure.9

Upon the conclusion of the prologue—marked by a series of reflections offering consolation for contemporary sorrows—the text shifts its gaze from the present to the past, meticulously recounting and extolling the defining moments of Pulcheria’s brief but virtuous life (ἐγκώμιον). This approach notably curtails any prolonged lamentation over the unfulfilled potential of the future of such a dove and pure flower, consigned to the realm of speculation and unrealized possibility, but taken away by a widespread envy. Instead, the narrative concentrates on the profound admiration she inspired, the envy her virtues provoked, and the aspirations she instilled in those who sought to emulate her exemplary conduct. The profound anguish of her bereaved parents—whose high social standing could neither avert nor mitigate their suffering—resonates through the description of Pulcheria’s funeral, an event that profoundly unsettled the entire city.10 The monody reaches its most poignant and sorrow-laden climax with an evocative meditation on death’s relentless nature, which spares not even the purest and most exquisite of earthly beings. In the wake of such devastation, the text turns to the sole refuge available to humanity in the face of suffering: the pursuit of consolation (παραμυθία).11

The ultimate and most fundamental source of solace, Gregory asserts, lies in the unshakable certainty that Pulcheria has been received among the blessed, wholly removed from the corruption of sin (also aided by her young age at the moment of death). Furthermore, he systematically offers remedies for every conceivable sorrow or weakness, drawing upon an extensive array of scriptural references to fortify his argument (σύγκρισις).12 Among the most notable are the tribulations of Job, the plight of Sarah, and the episode of Isaac, each serving to reaffirm the incorruptibility and supreme justice of God’s divine majesty.

The composition culminates in a fervent prayer (εὐχή), imploring God to restore Pulcheria’s soul to the pristine position of divine perfection in which it was first created so that she can reach a well-deserved state of beatitude (μακαρισμός).13

3. The Re-Adoption of Classical Literary Topoi

3.1. The Intertwined Plants

Following the prescriptions of rhetorical treatises, the author introduces a celebratory excursus on the imperial couple at the heart of the encomium.14 The description begins with Theodosius, portrayed as an illustrious offspring—a towering palm tree with a lofty, leafy crown, evoking an epic-tragic aura—enveloped by his consort in the shape of a vine.

GNO IX, 463.2–10 (Spira)

Εἶδον ἐγὼ καὶ τὸ ὑψηλὸν ἔρνος, τὸν ὑψίκομον φοίνικα (τὸ βασιλικόν φημι κράτος) τὸν ταῖς βασιλικαῖς ἀρεταῖς οἷόν τισι κλάδοις πάσης ὑπερανεστῶτα τῆς οἰκουμένης καὶ πάντα διαλαμβάνοντα· εἶδον αὐτὸν τῶν μὲν ἄλλων κρατοῦντα, τῇ δὲ φύσει καμπτόμενον καὶ πρὸς τὴν ἀποβολὴν τοῦ ἄνθους ἐπικλινόμενον. Εἶδον καὶ τὴν εὐγενῆ κληματίδα τὴν περιειλημμένην τῷ φοίνικι τὴν τὸ ἄνθος ἡμῖν τοῦτο ὠδίνασαν, οἵας ὑπέστη ἐκ δευτέρου πάλιν ὠδῖνας ἐν ψυχῇ, οὐκ ἐν σώματι, ὅτε αὐτῆς οὗτος ὁ βλαστὸς ἀπετίλλετο.

I saw the illustrious offspring, the palm tree with the leafy crown (I make reference to the imperial power) which, with the royal virtues as branches, extended across the whole ecumene and encompassed everything; I saw him, who rules towering above the others, though bent by nature and forlorn by the loss of its blossom. I saw also the noble vine clinging to the trunk of the palm tree, the one that brought this flower into the world with pain, that suffered again the labours of childbirth for the second time in its soul, not in its body, when this bud was torn from it.15

This majestic palm symbolizes royal authority, offering protection to his subjects, while its evergreen nature signifies resilience in the face of adversity and opposition. As discussed in the introduction, Gregory employs the imagery of intertwined plants to underscore the concepts of unity, mutual support, and shared grief—an idea reinforced by their symbiotic nature. This motif had a well-established Classical and elevated tradition, as attested in Iliad 14.398–399 (οὔτ’ ἄνεμος τόσσόν γε περὶ δρυσὶν ὑψικόμοισι/ἠπύει, ὅς τε μάλιστα μέγα βρέμεται χαλεπαίνων, “not even the wind so much indeed around the high-leafed oaks/roars, when it especially crashes loudly in its rage”) and Odyssey 9.184–186 (περὶ δ’ αὐλὴ/ὑψηλὴ δέδμητο κατωρυχέεσσι λίθοισι/μακρῇσίν τε πίτυσσιν ἰδὲ δρυσὶν ὑψικόμοισιν; “and around it a elevated courtyard had been built with quarried stones and long pine trees and lofty-crowned oaks”), in Hesiod’s Shield of Heracles 376–378 (πολλαὶ δὲ δρῦς ὑψίκομοι, πολλαὶ δέ τε πεῦκαι/αἴγειροί τε τανύρριζοι ῥήγνυνται ὑπ’ αὐτέων/ῥίμφα κυλινδομένων; “many lofty-crowned oaks, and many pines/and tall-rooted black poplars are torn up by them/as they swiftly roll along”), as well as Euripides’ Alcestis 584–587 (Φοῖβε, ποικιλόθριξ/νεβρὸς ὑψικόμων πέραν/βαίνουσ’ ἐλατᾶν σφυρῶι κούφωι,/χαίρουσ’ εὔφρονι μολπᾶι; “Phoebus, she of variegated hair,/like a fawn beyond the high-crested woods,/stepping with light ankle through the pines,/rejoicing in the gracious dance”). Notably, the imagery of the φοῖνιξ and the ἔρνος, used by Gregory, appear also in a distinguished Homeric passage in Odyssey 6.162–164: Δήλῳ δή ποτε τοῖον Ἀπόλλωνος παρὰ βωμῷ/φοίνικος νέον ἔρνος ἀνερχόμενον ἐνόησα·/ἦλθον γὰρ καὶ κεῖσε, πολὺς δέ μοι ἕσπετο λαός,/τὴν ὁδὸν ᾗ δὴ μέλλεν ἐμοὶ κακὰ κήδε᾽ ἔσεσθαι, “of a truth, in Delos once, springing up beside the altar of Apollo,/I saw such a thing, a young shoot of a palm;/for thither, too, I went, and much people followed with me,/on that journey on which evil woes were to be my portion”.

On this metaphor (invoking the palm tree), it is worth noting that a similar use appears in a similar funerary context, in Ambrose’s epitaph for the emperor Valentinian I, who passed away in 375. The phrase procera sicut palma, “tall as a palm tree”, possesses a similar symbolic meaning.16

Of particular interest here, however, is the case of empress Flaccilla, who is associated with a vine—more precisely, a winding vine shoot that coils around and embraces the trunk of a nearby palm tree. This imagery appears to echo a well-known passage from Catullus (61.106–109), a wedding poem composed for the marriage of Manlius Torquatus and Vinia Aurunculeia, whose name the poet cleverly modifies in a witty pun.17

lenta sed velut adsitas vitis implicat arbores, implicabitur in tuum complexum.

Sinuous as it is, the vine embraces the trees, and thus [the husband] becomes entangled in your embrace.

By employing this image—highly significant given its enduring presence in nuptial poetry as a symbol of the perfect union of the bridal couple—Gregory seeks to emphasize the most human and intimate aspects of the imperial pair, highlighting the deep marital bond between them. Moreover, he seems to adapt also a common metaphor used in Christian literature, according to which the vine symbolizes the single believer, originating and always referring to the Church as a plant.

In this light, when considering this imagery more widely, we note that Flaccilla emerges not only to be the lawful and devout spouse of Theodosius but also the closest of the Christians to the majesty of the emperor, making her the perfect representative of the orthodox faith at the court and is, above all, an anticipation of her sainthood.

3.2. The Funeral Procession

Using a highly effective ἔκφρασις, Gregory vividly describes, although in reverse, the scenario in contemporary Constantinople, when he illustrates the path taken by the procession from the Imperial Palace to the church of the Holy Apostles. It moved all along the μέση and passed most likely across the new forum, the so-called Forum tauri, which Theodosius had built to host several monuments propagandizing himself and his house. The solemn gait of the mourning people is articulated by the succession of several πλάγια, the arterial roads crossing the main boulevard:

GNO IX 463.17–21 (Spira)
πλήρης ὁ ναός, πλῆρες τοῦ ναοῦ τὸ προαύλιον, ἡ ἐκδεχομένη πλατεῖα, οἱ στενωποί, τὰ ἄμφοδα, ἡ μέση, τὰ πλάγια, ἡ ἐπὶ τῶν δωμάτων εὐρυχωρία· πᾶν τὸ ὁρώμενον ἀνθρώπων πλήρωμα ἦν, ὥσπερ πάσης τῆς οἰκουμένης εἰς ταὐτὸν συνδραμούσης ἐπὶ τῷ πάθει.	Full was the church, full [was] the vestibule of the church, the adjoining square, the alleys, the streets, the mésē, the cross streets, the rooftops of the houses; everything visible was a human throng, as if the whole ecumene had assembled in that place for mourning.18

Upon closer examination, this passage parallels not only his own description of empress Flaccilla’s funeral or Gregory of Nazianzus’ depiction of Basil’s funeral procession but also Jerome’s Epistle 77.11.3, which is, in our opinion, almost identical to Gregory’s ekphrasis.19 In all these texts, there is a pronounced emphasis on the multitude of people attending the rite, achieved through the repetition of a specific semantic group:20

praecedentium turmas et catervatim exequias eius multitudinem fluctuantem non plateae, non porticus, non inminentia desuper tecta capere poterant prospectantes

The advancing crowds and the thronging multitude following his funeral procession could not be contained by the streets, the colonnades, or even the overhanging roofs above, as they looked on.

3.3. The Consolation via the Soul’s Immortality

The contemplation of physical beauty—τὸ τοῦ σώματος κάλλος (“the beauty of the body”)—which originates from Menander’s concept of τὸ τοῦ σώματος εἶδος (“the appearance of the body”), serves as an introduction to the core of the paramythetical part. In this context, setting aside such human attributes, which are subject to the passage of time and, consequently, to inevitable death, Gregory of Nyssa adopts a Christian perspective, emphasizing the paramount importance of τὸ ἀληθινὸν τῆς ψυχῆς κάλλος (“the true beauty of the soul”). Transcending material qualities, he underscores the immortality of the soul and the eternal life of the innocent child:

GNO IX 464.19–465.2 (Spira)

Πῶς γάρ ἐστι δυνατὸν ὑπεραρθῆναι τοῦ πάθους τὸν ἐν τῇ φύσει ζῶντα καὶ μὴ κρατηθῆναι τῇ λύπῃ ἐπὶ τοιούτῳ θεάματι, ὅταν μὴ καθ’ ὥραν ἐν γήρᾳ συμπέσῃ ὁ θάνατος, ἀλλ’ ἐν τῇ πρώτῃ ἡλικίᾳ κατασβεσθῇ μὲν τῷ θανάτῳ ἡ ὥρα, καλυφθῇ δὲ τοῖς βλεφάροις ἡ τῶν ὀμμάτων ἀκτίς, μεταπέσῃ δὲ εἰς ὠχρότητα τῆς παρειᾶς τὸ ἐρύθημα, κρατηθῇ δὲ τῇ σιωπῇ τὸ στόμα, μελαίνηται δὲ τὸ ἐπὶ τοῦ χείλους ἄνθος, χαλεπὸν δὲ μὴ μόνον τοῖς γεννησαμένοις τοῦτο δοκῇ, ἀλλὰ καὶ παντὶ τῷ πρὸς τὸ πάθος βλέποντι; Τί οὖν πρὸς τούτοις ἡμεῖς; Oὐχ ἡμέτερον ἐροῦμεν, ἀδελφοί, λόγον, ἀλλὰ τὴν ἀναγνωσθεῖσαν ἡμῖν ἐκ τοῦ Εὐαγγελίου ῥῆσιν παραθησόμεθα.

How is it possible, in fact, for someone living within the parameters of the human condition to overcome suffering and not be overcome by sorrow at such a sight, when death did not come at the right time, in old age, but when the springtime of life was cut short by death in the very first age and the light of their eyes covered by their eyelids, and the colouring of their cheeks turned pallor, and their mouth sealed by silence, and the flower on their lips blackened, and all seems hard to bear not only to their parents, but to anyone who gives their consideration to that sorrow? What, then, can we object against these considerations? We shall not be able, brethren, to find an answer of our own, but we shall need the text of the Gospel that has just been read to us.21

Gregory’s reflections may find, in our opinion, a close parallel with a later passage from a sermon by Augustine composed probably around 418, in which the Latin Church Father cites and comments on a similar consideration by Paul, thereby conveying the same fundamental idea (Serm. 173.3). Despite the time gap, the similarities between both sources are clear, and so we may argue that Gregory and Augustine could have resorted to a common source:22

Necesse est enim ut contristemini: sed ubi contristaris, consoletur te spes. Quomodo enim non contristaris, ubi corpus quod vivit ex anima, fit exanime, discedente anima? Qui ambulabat iacet, qui loquebatur tacet, clausi oculi lucem non capiunt, aures nulli voci patescunt: omnia membrorum officia conquieverunt; non est qui moveat gressus ad ambulandum, manus ad operandum, sensus ad percipiendum. Nonne ista est domus, quam nescio quis invisibilis habitator ornabat? Discessit qui non videbatur, remansit quod cum dolore videatur. Ista est causa tristitiae. Si haec est causa tristitiae, sit huius tristitiae consolatio. Quae consolatio? Quia ipse Dominus in iussu et in voce archangeli, et in novissima tuba descendet de caelo, et mortui in Christo resurgent primi: deinde non viventes, qui reliqui sumus, simul cum illis rapiemur in nubibus obviam Christo in aera. Numquid et hoc ad tempus? Non; sed quid est? Et ita semper cum Domino erimus. Pereat contristatio, ubi tant est consolatio; detergatur luctus ex animo, fides expellat dolorem.

It is necessary that you grieve; but when you grieve, let hope console you. For how can you not grieve when the body, which lives by the soul, becomes lifeless once the soul departs? The one who walked now lies still, the one who spoke is silent, closed eyes no longer perceive light, ears are open to no voice; all the functions of the body have ceased. There is no one to move the feet for walking, the hands for working, or the senses for perceiving. Is this not the house, which some unseen inhabitant once adorned? The one who was unseen has departed, and what remains is what is now seen with sorrow. This is the cause of grief. If this is the cause of grief, then let there also be consolation for this grief. And what is that consolation? “That the Lord Himself, at His command, with the voice of an archangel, and at the sound of the last trumpet, will descend from heaven, and the dead in Christ will rise first. Then, we who are alive and remain will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet Christ in the air” (1Tes. 4.17). Will this be only for a time? No; but what does it say? “And so we shall always be with the Lord”. Let sorrow perish where there is such great consolation; let mourning be wiped away from the soul, and let faith drive out grief.

3.4. The Metaphor of the Garment

Consistently seeking to console the parents, Gregory relied on the profound symbolism associated with the imperial insignia, whose strict codification allowed for the conveyance of unequivocal messages to observers. In particular, the act of removing one’s customary robe to don a new, pristine garment—an allegorical representation of liberation from sin and the impurities of worldly concerns—constitutes a striking image:

GNO IX 465.9–16 (Spira)

Ἐκ βασιλείας εἰς βασιλείαν μετέστη. Ἐξεδύσατο τὸ τῆς πορφύρας ἄνθος, ἀλλὰ τῆς ἄνω βασιλείας τὴν περιβολὴν ἐνεδύσατο. Εἴπω σοι τὴν ὕλην τοῦ θείου ἐνδύματος; οὐ λίνον ἐστὶν οὐδὲ ἔριον οὐδὲ τὰ ἐκ σηρῶν νήματα. ἄκουσον τοῦ Δαβίδ, ὅθεν ἐξυφαίνεσθαι λέγει τῷ θεῷ τὰ ἐνδύματα· Ἐξομολόγησιν καὶ μεγαλοπρέπειαν ἐνεδύσω, ἀναβαλλόμενος φῶς ὡς ἱμάτιον. ὁρᾷς οἷα ἀνθ’ οἵων ἠλλάξατο;

She transmigrated from this realm to the other. She has put off the bloom of the purple, but has put on the garment of the kingdom above. Should I, perhaps, describe to you the material of the divine garment? It is not made of linen, wool or silken threads. Listen to David, of what are the garments woven by God. He says: “Thou hast clothed thyself with confession and magnificence, wrapping thyself in light as in a robe”. Do you see what garments she changed instead of others?23

The significance of such imagery, particularly its incorporation into an ἐπιτάφιος, appears to be influenced by Ambrose, who employed similar motifs in his funeral orations for Emperor Theodosius (2):

Et ille quidem abiit sibi regnumque non deposuit, sed mutavit.

And indeed, he departed, yet he did not lay down his kingdom, but rather changed it.

And for Emperor Valentinianus (69):

Ornatus capitis gloriosus, quod non regalia diademata, sed domini sanguinis insignia coronarent.

Glorious is the adornment of the head, for it was crowned not with royal diadems, but with the emblems of the Lord’s blood.

Towards the conclusion of the consolatory section, Gregory enumerates several examples to reinforce the central message of his work. In doing so, he adheres to a traditional prescription of the consolatory genre, as Seneca explicitly states at the beginning of his Consolatio ad Marciam (2.1): scio a praeceptis incipere omnes qui monere aliquem volunt, in exemplis desinere, “I know that all who wish to advise someone begin with precepts and end with examples”. The three figures chosen by Gregory are Abraham and Sarah—closely linked through the episode of Isaac’s sacrifice and frequently referenced elsewhere in his writings, directly from the Book of Genesis—and Job, from the eponymous biblical book.

3.5. The Story of Job: A κοινὸς τόπος?

Among the various episodes of Job’s life (Pulch. 467.18–21 and 470.30–471.4), Gregory selects and indulges in describing the moments when the patriarch loses his ten children during a banquet, in order to intensify, as much as possible, the πάθος. This choice allows the author to direct his audience’s attention toward a convivial and joyful familial gathering, and to bend the context to a typical Greek symposium. In so doing, he presents some reminiscences from Xenophon’s Symposium but prefers to amplify the πάθος with a tragic and unsettling outcome.24 The contrast is striking, indeed, even macabre.25 A particularly evocative comparison arises with the banquet scene in Seneca’s Thyestes (58–67):

nondum Thyestes liberos deflet suos? et quando tollet? ignibus iam subditis spument aena, membra per partes eant discerpta, patrios polluat sanguis focos, epulae instruantur—non novi sceleris tibi conviva venies. Liberum dedimus diem tuamque ad istas solvimus mensas famem; ieiunia exple, mixtus in Bacchum cruor spectante te potetur; inveni dapes quas ipse fugeres—Siste, quo praeceps ruis?

Has Thyestes not yet mourned for his children? And when will he cease? Already, with the fires lit, the cauldron foams, the limbs are scattered in parts, the blood defiles the father’s heart, and the feast is prepared—not of new wickedness, will you come as a guest? We have given you this day and have freed your hunger for those tables; fill your fast, the blood mixed with Bacchus’ wine will be drunk while you watch; I have found the feast which you yourself would flee—Halt, where are you rushing?

This continued further with additional gruesome details (ibidem, 916–918):

Hoc, hoc mensa claudatur scypho. Mixtum suorum sanguinem genitor bibat: meum bibisset.

This, this let the table be closed with the cup. Let the father drink the mixed blood of his own, he would have drunk mine.

To intensify the imagery of the afterlife and imbue the scene with macabre tones, Gregory draws upon Classical traditions. For instance, in his depiction of the devastation following the banquet’s collapse and the subsequent deaths of the young guests—whose blood mingles with the spilled wine and whose remains defile the prepared feast—one can discern echoes of Homer’s Odyssey, concerning Antinous’s banquet (22.19–21): θοῶς δ’ ἀπὸ εἷο τράπεζαν/ὦσε ποδὶ πλήξας, ἀπὸ δ’ εἴδατα χεῦεν ἔραζε·/σῖτός τε κρέα τ’ ὀπτὰ φορύνετο, “swiftly he pushed away from himself the table,/striking it with his foot, and he poured the drink onto the ground;/both bread and roasted meat were scattered”. Even more relevant to the present study, however, is the influence of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, which of the same Homeric reference gave the bishop of Nyssa his own interpretation (12.238–240):

sanguinis ille globos pariter cerebrumque merumque vulnere et ore vomens madida resupinus harena calcitrat.

That blood in globes and parts of the brain, and wine vomiting from the wound and mouth, he, fell backwards on the wet sand, and kicks.

See also Statius’ Thebaid, which is close to Gregory’s ἔκφρασις especially for the Baroque allure (5.255–257):

crateras pronos epulasque in caede natantis cernere erat, iugulisque modo torrentis apertis sanguine permixto redeuntem in pocula Bacchum.

Beholding the craters slanting and the feasts in the floating blood, one could see, and the jugulars now opened as rivers, wine mixed with blood returned into the cups.

Alongside a subtle reference to the same Job episode in his brother Basil’s oration De gratiarum actione (where the scene is described with very few details), Gregory’s use of Senecan elements serves as a literary archetype, creating a stoische Kontrapost, an oxymoronic juxtaposition that heightens the dramatic contrast between serenity and extreme πάθος, which was a recurring feature of Senecan tragedies. This technique, building toward the paroxysm of the most tragic moments, enhances the emotional intensity of the narrative.

3.6. The Parallelism of the Athlete

The semantic motif of the athlete emerges in the same biblical reference.26 Nevertheless, in Job’s case, he evolves from a mere competitor into a seasoned trainer (παιδοτριβής) and, ultimately, a paradigmatic figure (exemplum). Gregory reinterprets the Pauline metaphor of the athletic contest, applying it to Job and integrating fundamental Stoic principles into the framework of the Christian ideal.

GNO IX 470.14–31 (Spira)

Τοιαύτης συμφορᾶς τῷ Ἰὼβ ἀγγελθείσης (θέασαί μοι τῷ λόγῳ τὸν ἀθλητήν, οὐχ ἵνα θαυμάσῃς μόνον τὸν νικητήν, μικρὸν γὰρ τὸ ἐκ τοῦ θαύματος κέρδος, ἀλλ’ ἵνα ζηλώσῃς ἐν τοῖς ὁμοίοις τὸν ἄνδρα καί σοι γένηται παιδοτρίβης ὁ ἀθλητής, τῷ καθ’ ἑαυτὸν ὑποδείγματι πρὸς ὑπομονὴν καὶ ἀνδρείαν τὴν ψυχὴν ἀλείφων ἐν καιρῷ τῆς τῶν πειρασμῶν συμπλοκῆς), τί οὖν ἐποίησεν ὁ ἀνήρ; Ἆρά τι δυσγενὲς καὶ μικρόψυχον ἢ εἶπε τῷ ῥήματι ἢ διὰ σχήματος ἐνεδείξατο ἢ παρειὰν ἀμύξας τοῖς ὄνυξιν ἢ τρίχας τῆς κεφαλῆς ἀποτίλας ἢ κόνιν καταπασάμενος ἢ τὰ στήθη ταῖς χερσὶ μαστιγώσας ἢ ἐπὶ γῆν ἑαυτὸν ῥίψας ἢ θρηνῳδοὺς ἑαυτῷ περιστήσας ἢ ἀνακαλῶν τὰ τῶν κατοιχομένων ὀνόματα καὶ ἐποιμώζων τῇ μνήμῃ; Oὐκ ἔστι τούτων οὐδέν. Ἀλλ’ ὁ μὲν τῶν κακῶν μηνυτὴς τὴν κατὰ τοὺς παῖδας συμφορὰν διηγήσατο, ὁ δὲ ὁμοῦ τε ἤκουσε καὶ εὐθὺς περὶ τῆς τῶν ὄντων ἐφιλοσόφει φύσεως, πόθεν τὰ ὄντα λέγων καὶ παρὰ τίνος εἰς γένεσιν ἄγεται καὶ τίνα εἰκὸς τῶν ὄντων ἐπιστατεῖν· Ὁ κύριος ἔδωκεν, ὁ κύριος ἀφείλετο.

Having announced such an adverse fate to Job (display with my speech the athlete, not only in order to admire him as a victor, for in fact the benefit derived from mere admiration is minimal, but to emulate the man in the same circumstances and have the athlete act as instructor, anointing your soul by his example of endurance and courage in the moment of combat against temptation). What then did the man do? Perhaps something ignoble or mean, or saying it out loud or showing it with gestures? Did he scratch his face with his nails, or pull out the hair from his head, or throw ashes on his face, or beat his chest with his hands, or roll on the ground, or surround himself with mourners, or invoke the names of the dead and lament the memory of them? None of these things. On the contrary, when the teller of misfortunes told him of the calamity that befell his children, he, as soon as he heard it, immediately philosophized about the nature of beings, wondering whence they came and by whom they were brought into the world and who has to watch over them: “The Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away”.27

In this sense Gregory seems to have made a summa of Stoic philosophy within Christian thought, in the same way that Marcus Aurelius claimed in his Ad se ipsum 3.4:

ἀθλητὴν ἄθλου τοῦ μεγίστου, τοῦ ὑπὸ μηδενὸς πάθους καταβληθῆναι.

An athlete of the greatest contest, to be overcome by no passion whatsoever.

4. Conclusions

The present study has shown that Gregory of Nyssa’s Oratio in Pulcheriam is far more than a conventional consolatory speech; it is a deliberate and nuanced synthesis of Christian theology, imperial propaganda, and a richly woven fabric of Classical literary reminiscences. From the very opening—with its earthquake imagery echoing Ammianus Marcellinus and Thucydides—to the closing prayer that reframes Pauline eschatology in Senecan terms, Gregory repurposes pagan motifs to serve distinctly Christian consolatory and dynastic ends. His invocation of the intertwined palm and vine, drawn from Homer and Catullus, not only celebrates Theodosius and Flaccilla’s conjugal unity but also subtly recasts the vine imagery of John 15:5 (ἐγώ εἰμι ἡ ἄμπελος, ὑμεῖς τὰ κλήματα, “I am the vine, you are the branches”) in a political and theological register, binding the imperial family to the Church and the Empire in a single organic metaphor.

Gregory’s engagement with banquet scene ἐκφράσεις—from Ovid’s bloody feast in the Metamorphoses to Seneca’s Thyestes—reveals an authorial boldness in transposing graphic Classical brutality into the context of a young princess’s demise. By doing so, he intensifies the audience’s emotional connection, turning a communal feast into a locus of mourning and theological reflection on sin, suffering, and redemption. This re-adaptation of tragic spectacle is not mere imitation: Gregory selectively appropriates the macabre details of pagan tragedy and reframes them within a Christian moral economy, transforming horror into hope through scriptural exempla (Job, Isaac…) and the promise of resurrection.

In parallel, Gregory’s use of the “athlete” motif demonstrates his profound immersion in Stoic—and through Stoicism, Hellenistic—ethical discourse. While Paul’s Corinthian metaphor was widely known, Gregory reframes the Christian competitor as a trained paidotribes of the soul, whose discipline under trial exemplifies perfect trust in divine providence.28 This subtle fusion of Stoic self-mastery and Christian piety underscores the complexity of Late antique intellectual thought, in which the eastern bishop of Nyssa could read Seneca and Marcus Aurelius not as pagan adversaries but as sources of rhetorical and moral enrichment.

The originality of this research lies, therefore, in its systematic philological mapping of these intertextual and rhetorical strategies—an endeavor hitherto unexplored in Gregory’s oeuvre. Previous scholarship has noted occasional allusions to Classical authors, but this paper aimed to provide the first comprehensive catalogue of Gregory’s borrowings from Latin (Catullus, Ovid, Seneca) and Greek (Homer, Hesiod, Herodotus, Thucydides) sources within the Oratio in Pulcheriam, alongside his use of Christian models (Ambrose, Basil, and most probably Augustine, as we have argued on p. 6). In doing so, it reconsiders the long-held idea that the Cappadocian Fathers were insularly Greek in their cultural references, revealing instead a trans-Mediterranean curriculum in which Latin literary heritage was both known and valorized.

Furthermore, by tracing the philological fingerprints of Gregory’s Classical education—his seamless blending of Greek and Latin texts—invites a re-evaluation of pedagogical practices in Late Antique Cappadocia. Did Gregory consult bilingual florilegia that juxtaposed Ovid with Gregory Nazianzen, or anthologies designed for imperial court rhetors? And to what extent did the educational milieu of Nyssa and Caesarea foster such cross-cultural literacy? These questions point toward a broader investigation into the role of rhetorical handbooks, school florilegia, and imperial libraries as conduits for intellectual exchange between east and west.

At the level of ideological function, Gregory’s Classical echoes serve a dual purpose. Theologically, they leverage the rhetorical prestige of pagan literature to ennoble Christian doctrine—an argument for continuity rather than rupture between the Classical past and the Christian present. Politically, they reinforce Theodosius’s dynastic legitimacy by embedding imperial virtues within the respected literary canon of antiquity. In doing so, Gregory participates in a larger Late Antique trend of “Christianizing” Classical culture: poets became homilists, philosophers became theologians, and themes of empire and virtue persisted under new doctrinal auspices.

This conclusion points toward several promising avenues for further scholarship. First, a detailed paleographical study of manuscript witnesses of Εἰς Πουλχερίαν may uncover marginal annotations or scholia indicating which florilegia or anthologies supplied Gregory’s texts. Second, comparative analyses with other Cappadocian Fathers—particularly Gregory Nazianzen’s orations and Basil’s panegyrics—could elucidate shared or divergent Classical repertoires. Third, explorations into Syriac and Coptic translations of Gregory’s works might reveal how these Classical echoes were received and re-contextualized in other linguistic communities. Finally, an interdisciplinary approach, combining digital humanities methods (intertextual mapping software) with traditional philology, could chart the broader web of literary transmission between Greek Christian authors and their pagan predecessors.

In sum, this study not only enriches our understanding of Gregory of Nyssa’s rhetorical ability but also lays the groundwork for a more expansive reassessment of how Classical heritage persisted and was reimagined in Greek Christian literature of the Late Antique period. By illuminating the channels—educational, textual, and ideological—through which Greco-Roman culture permeated Christian discourse in Greek, it invites scholars to reconsider the Cappadocian circle not as passive inheritors but as active mediators in a dynamic, cross-cultural exchange.