Letters

Yesterday, when a good many monks had come to me, in the course of our continual stories and long conversation mention happened to be made of my little book which I published on the life of the blessed man Martin, the bishop, and I was very glad to hear that it was being eagerly read by many.

Meanwhile it is reported to me that someone, stirred up by an evil spirit, had said: why had Martin, who had raised the dead and driven flames back from houses, lately been burned in a fire himself and exposed to a dangerous injury?

O wretched man, whoever he is! In his words we recognize the faithlessness and the sayings of the Jews, who taunted the Lord as he hung on the cross with these words: “He saved others; he cannot save himself.”

Truly this man, whoever he is, would have been born in those times so as to be able to use that cry against the Lord, since he blasphemes the Lord’s saint in a similar way.

What then, whoever you are? Was Martin therefore not powerful, therefore not holy, because he was endangered by fire? O blessed man, like the apostles in all things, even in these reproaches! Surely the Gentiles are said to have thought this of Paul too, when the viper had bitten him: “This man must be a murderer, whom, though saved from the sea, the fates have not allowed to live.” But he shook the viper off into the fire and suffered no harm. They thought that he would suddenly fall and die at once; but when they saw that no harm came to him, they changed their minds and said that he was a god. Yet by their example, most unhappy of all mortals, you yourself ought to have refuted your own faithlessness: if it had been a stumbling block to you that Martin seemed to have been touched by the flame of the fire, you should in turn have ascribed that touching to his merits and power, in that, though surrounded by fire, he did not perish.

Recognize, wretched man, recognize what you do not know: nearly all the saints have been more distinguished by the power they showed in their dangers. I see indeed that Peter, mighty in faith, walked on the sea against the opposition of nature and pressed the unstable waters with his bodily step. But the preacher to the Gentiles does not seem to me less on that account, he whom the waves swallowed and whom the sea gave back after three days and as many nights as he came up from the deep. And I do not know whether it was almost greater to have lived in the deep or to have passed over the deeps of the sea.

But these things, I suppose, you foolish man, you had not read, or, having read them, had not heeded. For the blessed Evangelist would not have set down an example of this kind in the sacred writings without divine counsel, except that the human mind might be taught by them about the hazards of shipwrecks and serpents; and that, as the Apostle relates, who glories in nakedness and hunger and the dangers of robbers, all these things are common to holy men to endure, but that the chief virtue of the righteous has always lain in bearing and overcoming them, while, patient through all temptations and always unconquered, they conquered the more bravely the more heavily they had suffered.

So this thing, which is called a weakness of Martin’s, is full of dignity and glory, since, tried by a most dangerous accident, he overcame. For the rest, let no one wonder that this was left out by me in that little book which I wrote about his life, since I declared there that I had not included all his deeds; for if I had wished to go through them all, I would have put out an enormous volume for my readers. Nor are the things he did so few that they could all be comprehended.

Nevertheless, I will not allow this matter, about which the question arose, to lie hidden, and I will relate the whole affair as it happened, lest we should seem to have deliberately passed over something that could be brought up to discredit the blessed man.

When Martin, in keeping with the regular custom by which bishops visit their churches, had come to a certain parish at about midwinter, the clergy prepared lodging for him in the sacristy of the church, and laid a large fire under the floor, which was already rough and very thin; they built up a bed for him with a great deal of straw. Then, when Martin had lain down to sleep, he shuddered at the unaccustomed softness of the bed, which flattered him to his harm, since he was used to lying on the bare ground with only a hair shirt spread over it.

So, as though stung by an insult, he threw out all the straw. By chance he heaped part of the straw he had removed on top of the little furnace. He himself, as was his custom, rested on the bare ground, pressed by the weariness of his journey. At about midnight the blazing fire, through the broken floor, as we said above, caught the dry straw.

Martin, woken from sleep by the unexpected event, overtaken by a danger he could not judge and especially, as he used to tell, by the devil lying in wait and pressing on him, took refuge in the help of prayer more slowly than he should have. For in his eagerness to burst out, he struggled long and hard with the bolt he had fastened on the door, and felt a very heavy fire all around him, so that the fire consumed the garment he had on.

At last, coming to himself, and knowing that his protection lay not in flight but in the Lord, he took up the shield of faith and prayer, and, wholly turned to the Lord, lay prostrate in the midst of the flames. Then indeed, the fire being removed by God, he prayed within a circle of flames that did him no harm. But the monks who were outside the doors, hearing the crackling and roaring of the fire, broke open the bolted doors, pulled the fire apart, and carried Martin out of the midst of the flames, when he was thought to have been utterly consumed by so long a fire.

Moreover (the Lord is witness to my words), he himself told me, and confessed not without a groan, that he had been deceived by the devil’s cunning in this: that, roused from sleep, he did not have the presence of mind to resist the danger by faith and prayer; and so the fire had raged around him as long as, troubled in mind, he was trying to break out through the door.

But when he had taken up again the banner of the cross and the weapons of prayer, the flames in the middle gave way, and he then felt as dewy the flames which he had found to his harm to be burning. From this let whoever reads these things understand that Martin was indeed tried by that danger, but truly proved.

After you left me in the morning, I was sitting alone in my little cell, and there came over me the thought that often takes hold of me: the hope of things to come and weariness of things present, fear of judgment, dread of punishment; and, what followed from these and was the source from which the whole train of thought had come down, the remembrance of my sins had made me sad and worn out.

Then, when I had laid my limbs, wearied by the anguish of my mind, on my little bed, sleep crept over me, as usually happens from sadness; and since sleep in the morning hours is always lighter and unsettled, it spreads through the limbs so suspended and uncertain that you feel yourself almost awake while asleep, which does not happen in other slumber.

Suddenly I seem to see the holy bishop Martin, clothed in a white toga, his face like fire, his eyes like stars, his hair shining; and he appeared to me in that bodily form and appearance in which I had known him, so that (what is almost hard for us to express) he could not be looked at, though he could be recognized. And smiling at me a little, he held out in his right hand the little book I had written about his life.

I clasped his holy knees and begged for his blessing, and I felt his hand laid on my head with the gentlest touch, while among the solemn words of blessing he repeated that name of the cross so familiar on his lips. Soon, while my eyes were fixed on him and I could not have my fill of his face and appearance, he was suddenly snatched from me and carried on high, until, having passed through the vast expanse of this air, while we still followed him with our gaze as he was borne up on a swift cloud, he was received into the opened heaven and could be seen no longer.

Not long afterwards I see the holy presbyter Clarus, his disciple, who had died lately, climbing by the same way as his master. I, shamelessly wishing to follow, while I strove and struggled to take those lofty steps, woke up; and, roused from sleep, I had begun to rejoice over the vision I had seen, when a servant of my household comes in to me, with a face sadder than usual, as of one who both speaks and grieves.

“Why are you so sad,” I said, “and what are you eager to say?” “Two monks,” he said, “have just come from Tours: they report that the lord Martin has died.” I collapsed, I confess, and, as the tears welled up, I wept abundantly. Indeed, even while I write this to you, brother, the tears flow, and I admit no consolation for a grief I cannot bear. As for you, when this was announced to me, I wanted you to share my mourning, since you shared my love.

Come to me at once, then, so that we may mourn together the man we love together; although I know that that man is not to be mourned, to whom, after he had conquered the world and triumphed over the age, the crown of righteousness has now at last been given. But still I cannot command myself not to grieve.

I have indeed sent a patron on before me, but I have lost the comfort of the present life; though, if grief admitted any reason, I ought to rejoice. For he is joined with the apostles and prophets, and (I would say it with the leave of all the saints) second to none in that flock of the righteous; as I hope, believe, and trust, he has been added above all to those who have washed their robes in blood, and, spotless, follows the Lamb as his leader.

For although the circumstances of his time could not give him martyrdom, he will not lack the glory of a martyr, because by desire and by virtue he both could have been and wished to be a martyr. And if it had been permitted him to fight in the contest that took place in the times of Nero and Decius, I call to witness the God of heaven and earth, he would have mounted the rack of his own accord, would have thrown himself willingly into the fire, and, the equal of the Hebrew youths, would have sung the Lord’s hymn amid the balls of flame, even in the middle of the furnace.

And if the persecutor had chosen that punishment of Isaiah, he would surely never have shrunk, no less than the prophet, from having his limbs cut through with saws and blades; and if impious fury had preferred to drive the blessed man over sheer rocks and steep mountains, I bear witness confidently to the truth, he would have fallen willingly. And if, after the example of the Teacher of the Gentiles, he had been assigned to the sword and led out among other victims, as often happens, he would have been the first of all to urge on the executioner and seize the palm of blood.

Indeed, against all the penalties and tortures to which human weakness has most often given way, he would have stood unmoved, never retreating from the confession of the Lord, so that, glad in his wounds and rejoicing in his torments, he would have laughed amid any tortures whatever.

But although he did not endure these things, he nevertheless fulfilled a martyrdom without blood. For what sufferings of human pain did he not endure for the hope of eternity: hunger, watching, nakedness, fasting, the reproaches of the envious, the persecutions of the wicked, care for the sick, anxiety for those in danger? For who was grieved, and he was not grieved?

Who was made to stumble, and he did not burn? Who perished, and he did not groan? Besides those various daily contests of his against the force of human and spiritual wickedness, in which, though he was attacked by various temptations, his fortitude in overcoming, his patience in waiting, and his composure in enduring always prevailed.

O truly indescribable man, in devotion, in mercy, in love, which, while the world grows cold, grows cold every day even in holy men, but in him persevered to the end, increasing day by day! I enjoyed this goodness of his in a special way, since he loved me uniquely, unworthy and undeserving as I was.

See, the tears flow again, and a groan bursts from the depth of my breast. In what man shall I find such rest hereafter, in whose love shall there be comfort? Wretched me, unhappy me! Shall I ever be able, if I live longer, not to grieve that I have outlived Martin? Will life be pleasant hereafter? Will there be a day or an hour without tears? Or shall I be able, dearest brother, to mention him with you without weeping? Or shall I ever be able, speaking with you, to speak of anything but him?

But why do I move you to tears and weeping? See, now I want to comfort you, I who cannot comfort myself. He will not fail us, believe me, he will not fail us: he will be present when we talk about him, he will stand by us when we pray; and, as he has already today deigned to do, he will often let himself be seen in his glory, and will protect us with his constant blessing, as he did a little while ago.

Then, following the order of the vision, he showed that heaven stands open to those who follow him, and taught where he is to be followed; he instructed us where our hope should be aimed, where our mind directed. But what will happen, brother? As my conscience tells me, I shall not be able to climb that steep road and pass through: so heavily does a troublesome load weigh me down, and, pressed down by the weight of sin and denied the ascent to the stars, it drags me, miserable, to cruel Tartarus.

Yet there remains a hope, the only one, the last one: that what we cannot obtain by ourselves we may at least deserve through Martin praying for us. But why, brother, do I keep you longer with so wordy a letter and delay you from coming? Besides, the page is already full and can take no more.

But my reason for drawing out this talk at greater length was this: since the letter was bringing you news of grief, the same sheet might give you comfort through a kind of conversation with me.

Sulpicius Severus to his venerable kinswoman Bassula, greeting. If it were permitted to summon relatives to court, I would certainly drag you, with just resentment, before the praetor’s tribunal as guilty of plunder and theft. For how can I not complain of the wrong I suffer from you? You have left me no sheet of paper at home, no little book, no letter: you steal everything, you publish everything.

If I have written anything to a friend in familiar terms, if perhaps I have dictated something in jest which I nevertheless want kept private, everything reaches you almost before it is written or dictated. No doubt you have my secretaries in your debt, and through them my trifles are made public to you. Yet I cannot be angry with them if they obey you, since they came into my service chiefly through your generosity and still remember that they are yours rather than mine.

You alone are the defendant, you alone are to blame, for you lay snares for me and get round them by trickery, so that things written in familiar style or sent off carelessly are handed over to you without any selection, unrevised and unpolished. For, to say nothing of the rest, how, I ask, could that letter which I lately wrote to the deacon Aurelius reach you so quickly? For I am at Toulouse, and you are at Trier, torn so far from your homeland by your son’s unrest: on what occasion, then, did you steal that private letter?

For I have received your letter, in which you write that in the same letter in which I made mention of the death of Saint Martin I ought to have set out the passing of the blessed man itself; as though I had published that letter to be read by anyone other than the one to whom it is addressed, or as though I were appointed to so great a work that everything that ought to be known about Martin must become known chiefly through my writing.

So if you want to hear anything about the death of the holy bishop, learn it rather from those who were present. I had decided to write you nothing, so that you would not make me public everywhere. Yet if you promise to read it to no one, I will satisfy your wish in a few words, and so I will make you a sharer in what I have learned.

Martin, then, foreknew his death long beforehand, and told the brothers that the dissolution of his body was at hand. Meanwhile a reason arose for him to visit the parish of Candes. For since the clergy of that church were at odds with one another, he wished to restore peace; and though he knew that the end of his days was near, he did not refuse to set out for such a cause, thinking it a good crown for his virtues if he left peace restored to the church.

So he set out, with that very large and most holy company of disciples which always attended him, and he saw cormorants in the river pursuing their prey of fish, their greedy gullets driving them to constant catches. “This,” he said, “is a picture of the demons: they lie in wait for the unwary, catch them unawares, devour those they catch, and cannot be satisfied with those they devour.”

Then he commanded with a word of power that they should leave the waters they were swimming in and make for dry and desert regions, using with those birds the same command with which he used to put demons to flight. So all those birds gathered together into one flock, left the river, and made for the mountains and woods, not without the wonder of many, who saw in Martin such power that he gave orders even to birds.

He stayed for some time, then, in that village, or in the church to which he had gone; and when peace had been restored among the clergy and he was already thinking of returning to the monastery, he suddenly began to lose the strength of his body; and, calling the brothers together, he tells them that he is now being released.

Then indeed there was grief and mourning among all, and the one cry of those lamenting: “Why are you deserting us, father? To whom are you leaving us desolate? Ravening wolves will attack your flock: who will keep us from their bites when the shepherd is struck? We know indeed that you long for Christ; but your rewards are safe for you and will not be lessened by being delayed. Have pity rather on us, whom you are leaving.”

Then he, moved by these tears, since he always overflowed wholly in the Lord with tender mercy, is said to have wept; and, turning to the Lord, he answered those who were weeping only with these words: “Lord, if I am still necessary to your people, I do not refuse the labor:

your will be done.” Clearly, placed between hope and grief, he almost doubted which he preferred, because he wished neither to desert them nor to be separated longer from Christ. Yet setting nothing on his own wish, and leaving nothing to his own will, committing himself wholly to the Lord’s judgment and power, he prayed thus, saying:

“Heavy indeed, Lord, is the bodily struggle of this warfare, and it is enough that I have fought until now; but if you command me still to stand at the same labor for your camp, I do not refuse, nor will I plead my failing age. I will devotedly fulfill your duties; I will serve under your standards as long as you yourself command. And though rest after labor is longed for by an old man, yet my spirit is a conqueror of years and does not know how to yield to old age. But if you now spare my age, your will is good for me, Lord; and as for these, for whom I fear, you yourself will guard them.”

O indescribable man, neither overcome by labor nor to be overcome by death, who leaned more to neither side, neither feared to die nor refused to live! So, though for several days he was held by the force of fever, he did not cease from the work of God: spending whole nights in prayer and watching, he compelled his failing limbs to serve the spirit, lying on that noble bed of his in ashes and sackcloth. And when his disciples asked him at least to let some cheap straw be put under him, he said: “It is not fitting for a Christian to die except in ashes. If I leave you any other example, I have sinned.” Yet with eyes and hands always fixed on heaven, he did not relax his unconquered spirit from prayer.

And when the presbyters who had then gathered to him asked him to relieve his poor body by turning onto his side, he said: “Let me, brothers, let me look at heaven rather than at earth, so that my spirit, about to go to the Lord, may be directed on its own way.”

When he had said this, he saw the devil standing near. “Why are you standing here,” he said, “bloody beast? You will find nothing in me, deadly one: Abraham’s bosom receives me.”

With these words, then, he gave up his spirit. Those who were there have testified to us that they saw his face like the face of an angel; and his limbs appeared white as snow, so that they said: “Who would ever believe that he had been covered with sackcloth, who that he had been wrapped in ashes?” For he already appeared as though he had been shown in the glory of the resurrection to come and in the nature of flesh transformed.

How great a crowd of people gathered for the funeral cannot be believed: the whole city rushed out to meet the body; all came from the fields and villages, and many even from neighboring cities. O how great the mourning of all, how great especially the laments of the grieving monks! About two thousand are said to have gathered that day, the special glory of Martin: by his example such numerous stocks had sprung up in the service of the Lord.

Clearly the shepherd was driving his flocks before him: the pale crowds of that holy multitude, columns in cloaks, either old men who had completed their labors or recruits newly sworn into the oath of Christ. Then the choir of virgins, refraining from weeping for modesty, how they hid with holy joy what they grieved at! For faith forbade them to weep, yet affection wrung a groan from them. For their exultation at his glory was as holy as their sorrow at his death was devout.

You would forgive those who wept, you would rejoice with those who rejoiced, while each one granted himself that he should grieve and Martin that he should rejoice. So this crowd, singing heavenly hymns, escorts the body of the blessed man to the place of burial.

Let there be compared, if you please, that worldly procession, I will not say of a funeral, but of a triumph: what will be reckoned like Martin’s funeral? Let them lead captives with hands bound behind their backs before their chariots: Martin’s body is escorted by those who under his leadership had conquered the world. Let the madness of the peoples honor them with confused applause: Martin is applauded with divine psalms, Martin is honored with heavenly hymns. They, after their triumphs, will be thrust into cruel Tartarus: Martin is received rejoicing into Abraham’s bosom; Martin, poor and lowly, enters heaven rich.