Sulpicius Severus, Three Letters (on St Martin)

THE THREE LETTERS OF SULPICIUS SEVERUS.

LETTER I.

To Eusebius the priest.

Against the detractors of the virtues of blessed Martin.

Yesterday, when a good many monks had come to me, amid unbroken storytelling and long conversation mention fell upon my little book which I published on the life of the blessed man Martin, and that it was being read eagerly by many I was most gladly

hearing. Meanwhile it is reported to me that a certain man, stirred up by an evil spirit, had said: why had Martin, who had raised the dead and driven flames back from houses, himself lately been scorched by a fire and been exposed to a perilous suffering? O wretched that man, whoever he is! In his words we recognize the faithlessness and the sayings of the Jews, who reviled the Lord, set upon the cross, with these words: He saved others; himself to save

he cannot (Matt. 27:42). Truly indeed this man, whoever he is, had he been born in those times, could have spoken against the Lord with this voice too, he who in like manner blasphemes the saint of the Lord by the example. What then, whoever you are? Is Martin therefore not powerful, therefore not holy, because he was endangered by fire? O man blessed, and like the apostles in all things, even in these insults! For indeed the gentiles too are related to have said this of Paul, when a viper had bitten him: This man must be a murderer, whom, though saved from the sea, the fates have not allowed to live (Acts 28:4). But he, having shaken the viper off into the fire, suffered no harm. They, however, thought that he would suddenly fall and of a sudden die; but when they saw that no harm befell him, they changed their minds and said that he was a god. Otherwise, by the example of these men at least, O most unhappy of all mortals, you ought yourself to have convicted your own faithlessness; so that, if it had given you offence that Martin seemed to have been touched by the flame of fire, you would in turn ascribe this touching to his merits and virtue, in that, though hemmed in by fires, he did not perish. For recognize, wretch, recognize what you do not know: that almost all the saints were the more distinguished by the virtues shown in their perils. I see indeed Peter, powerful in faith, against the opposition of nature, walk over the sea on his feet and press the unstable waters with a bodily footstep; but the preacher of the gentiles does not on that account seem lesser to me, whom the waves swallowed, and whom, as he came up out of the deep after three days and as many nights, the sea gave back; and I hardly know whether it was almost the greater thing to have lived in the deep or to have passed over the deeps of the sea. But these things, fool, you had not read, I suppose, or, having read them, had not listened to them. For the blessed Evangelist would not have put forward an example of this kind in the sacred writings without divine counsel, unless in order that the human mind might be taught by them that the mishaps of shipwrecks and of serpents, and (as the Apostle relates, who glories in nakedness, hunger and the perils of robbers) all these things are common to holy men and to all men alike to suffer; but that in bearing and overcoming them the virtue of the just has always been pre-eminent, since, patient and ever unconquered through all trials, they conquered the more bravely the more heavily they had endured. Hence this which is called Martin's weakness is full of dignity and glory, since, tried by a most perilous mishap, he came out victorious. Moreover, let no one wonder that this was left out by me in that little book which we wrote about his life, since in that very place I professed that I had not taken in all his deeds: for if I had wished to go through them all, I would have put out an immense volume for readers. Nor are the things he did so slight that they could all be comprehended. Yet this matter about which the question has arisen I will not allow to lie hidden, and I will relate the whole affair as it happened, lest perhaps I should seem to have passed over by design this thing which could be raised in reproach of the blessed man. When, at about midwinter, Martin had come to a certain parish according to the regular custom (as it is the practice of bishops to visit their churches), the clerics prepared him a lodging in the sacristy of the church, and put a great fire beneath a floor already rough and very thin

they set, and built up a bed for him with a great deal of straw. Then, when Martin had laid himself down to sleep, he shuddered at the unaccustomed softness of a couch that flattered him to ill purpose; for he had been used to lie on the bare ground with only a hair-cloth spread over it; and so, as though stirred by an injury received, he threw out all the bedding. By chance he heaped part of that straw which he had removed above the little furnace; he himself, as was his custom, rested on the bare ground, the weariness of the journey pressing on him. At about midnight the fire, seething up through the floor, which, as we said above, was broken, caught the dry straw. Martin, roused from sleep and overtaken by an unexpected event, a doubtful danger, and above all, as he used to relate, by the devil lying in wait and pressing upon him, took refuge in the help of prayer more slowly than he ought. For, wishing to break out of doors, after long and hard struggling with the bolt with which he had barred the door, he felt a most fierce blaze about him, so much so that the fire consumed the garment with which he was clothed. At length, coming to himself and knowing that his protection lay not in flight but in the Lord, seizing the shield of faith and of prayer, he lay down in the midst of the flames wholly turned to the Lord. Then indeed, the fire being removed by divine power, he prayed within a ring of flames that did him no harm. But the monks, who were before the doors, hearing the noise of the fire crackling and struggling, broke open the barred doors; and, the fire being moved aside, they carried Martin out of the midst of the flames when he was already thought to have been entirely consumed by so lasting a blaze. Moreover (the Lord is witness to my words) he himself used to relate to me, and confessed not without a groan, that he had been deceived by the devil's art in this, that when shaken out of sleep he had no thought of how to resist the danger by faith and prayer; in short, that the fire had raged about him for as long as, troubled in mind, he tried to break out through the door; but when he had again taken up the help of the cross and the weapons of prayer, the flames in the midst had given way, and he had then felt as bedewing those which he had found, to his harm, burning. Hence let whoever reads this understand that Martin was indeed tried by that danger, but also proved.

LETTER II.

To Aurelius the deacon.

On the death and appearing of blessed Martin.

Sulpicius Severus to Aurelius the deacon, greeting.

After you had left me in the morning, I was sitting alone in my cell, and there had come over me that thought which more often takes hold of me: the hope of things to come and weariness of things present, the fear of judgement, the dread of punishments; and, what followed from it, and the source from which the whole 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 anguish of mind, upon my little bed, sleep crept over me, as commonly happens from sorrow (sleep which, as it is always lighter and less certain in the morning hours, so spreads through the limbs hovering and doubtful, so that, as does not happen in other slumber, you feel yourself almost awake while sleeping); when suddenly I seem to myself to see the holy bishop Martin, clad in a white toga, with a face of fire, eyes like stars, hair of purple; and so to me

he appeared in that bearing and form of body in which I had known him, so that (a thing almost hard for us to put into words) he could not be looked upon, though he could be recognized. And, smiling at me a little, he held out in his right hand the little book which I had written about his life. I, embracing his holy knees, begged his blessing as was my custom; and I felt his hand laid upon my head with a most gentle touch, while among the solemn words of the blessing he repeated that name of the cross so familiar to his lips. Then, as I kept my eyes fixed on him and could not have my fill of his face and his sight, he was suddenly caught up on high and snatched from me; until, having traversed the vastness of this air, while we still followed him with the gaze of our eyes as he was borne up on a swift cloud, he was received into the opened heaven and could be seen no longer. Not long after, I see the holy priest Clarus, his disciple, who had lately departed, climbing the same way as his master. I, shamelessly wishing to follow, while I strive and labour at the lofty steps, wake up; and, roused from sleep, I had begun to rejoice over the vision, when a servant of my household comes in to me, sadder than usual, with the face of one who both speaks and grieves. What is it, I say, that you are so sad and eager to say? And he said: Two monks have just now come from Tours, who bring word that the lord Martin has died. I collapsed, I confess, and, tears welling up, I wept most abundantly. Indeed, even while we write these things to you, brother, the tears flow, and I admit no consolation for a grief that will not be borne. But you, when this was announced to me, I wished to be a sharer in my mourning, who were the companion of my love. Come to me at once, then, that we may mourn together him whom we love together; although I know that that man is not to be mourned, to whom, after the world has been conquered and triumphed over, the crown of righteousness has now at last been given. But nevertheless I cannot command myself not to grieve. I have indeed sent a patron on ahead, but I have lost the comfort of the present life; although, if grief would admit any reasoning, I ought to rejoice. For he is joined to the apostles and prophets, and (as I may say with the leave of all the saints) second to none in that flock of the righteous, as I hope, believe and trust; joined above all to those who have washed their robes in blood, he follows the Lamb as his leader, unstained by any blemish. For although the circumstances of his time could not afford him martyrdom, yet he will not lack the glory of a martyr, since by desire and by virtue he both could have been a martyr and willed to be. For if it had been allowed him in the times of Nero and Decius to fight in that combat which then arose, I call to witness the God of heaven and earth, he would of his own accord have mounted the rack, he would willingly have cast himself into the fire, and, to be made equal to the Hebrew youths, though in the midst of the balls of flame, he would have sung the hymn of the Lord in the furnace. And if that punishment of Isaiah had perhaps pleased the persecutor, never indeed, falling short of the prophet, would he have feared to have his limbs cut asunder with saws and blades; and if impious fury had chosen to drive the blessed man over sheer rocks and steep mountains, I bear witness confident in the truth, he would have fallen of his own accord. But if, assigned to the sword after the example of the teacher of the gentiles, among

the other victims, as often happens, he had been led out, he would have been the first of all to seize the palm of blood, urging on the executioner. And against all the punishments and tortures to which human weakness has mostly given way, he would have stood so immovable, not withdrawing from the confession of the Lord, 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 even without blood: for what sufferings of human pains did he not bear for the hope of eternity: hunger, vigils, nakedness, fasts, 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 did not grieve? Who was made to stumble and he did not burn? Who perished and he did not groan? Besides those daily and various combats of his against human and spiritual wickedness, while in him, assailed by various temptations, the strength to conquer, the patience to wait, and the equanimity to endure always prevailed. O man truly beyond words, in goodness, in mercy, in charity, which, though it grows cold daily even in holy men as the world grows cold, yet in him persevered to the end, increased from day to day! And I enjoyed this good of his even in a special way, since he loved me singularly, unworthy and undeserving as I was. Behold, again the tears flow, and a groan bursts from the depths of my breast. In what man shall I hereafter have a like rest, in whose charity shall I have comfort? Wretched me, unhappy me! Shall I ever be able, if I live longer, not to grieve that I have outlived Martin? Will life hereafter be pleasant to me, will there be a day or an hour without tears? Or shall I be able, dearest brother, to make mention of him with you without weeping? Or shall I ever be able, speaking with you, to speak of anything other than of him? But why do I move you to tears and weeping? See, now I wish you to be comforted, I who cannot comfort myself. He will not be lacking to us, believe me, he will not be lacking: he will be among us as we talk of him, he will stand by us as we pray; and, as he has already today deigned to grant, he will often offer himself to be seen in his glory, and will protect us with constant blessing, as he did a little while ago. Then, according to the order of the vision, he showed that heaven lies open to those who follow him, and taught us where he was to be followed; he instructed us whither our hope is to be stretched, whither our mind is to be directed. Yet what will become of me, brother? For I am myself aware that I shall not be able to climb that steep road and pass through it: so heavily does the troublesome burden weigh me down, and, pressed down by the mass of sin, the ascent to the stars denied me, it cruelly drags me in my misery to Tartarus. Yet hope remains, that alone, that last: that what we cannot obtain by ourselves, we may at least merit through Martin praying for us. But why, brother, do I occupy you longer with so talkative a letter, and delay you when you are about to come? Besides, the page, now filled, holds no more. Yet this was my reason for drawing out this discourse at greater length: that since the letter was carrying news of grief, the same paper might afford you comfort by a sort of conversation with us.