The Dialogues

Indeed, said I, you have proved well enough what devoted love can do, since for our sake, having measured out so many seas and so vast a stretch of lands, you have come, so to speak, from the very rising of the sun to its setting. Come then, since we are private and unoccupied, and ought to give ourselves over to your discourse, I would have you unfold to us the whole history of your pilgrimage; how the faith of Christ flourishes in the East; what is the repose of the saints there, what the institutions of the monks; with how many signs and virtues Christ works in his servants: for surely, since in these regions, amid the things we live among, life itself is a weariness to us, we shall gladly hear from you whether it is even permitted to Christians to live in the desert.

To this Postumianus replied: I will do as I see you desire; but I beg first to hear from you whether all those priests whom I had left here are such as we knew them to be before I set out. Then I said: Cease to ask about those things, which either you know as well as I, or, if you do not know them, it were better not to hear. This I cannot conceal: not only have those about whom you ask become no better than you knew them, but that one man, once so fond of us, in whom we used to find relief from the persecutions of the others, has been harsher toward us than he ought to have been. Yet I will say nothing harsher against him, because I both cultivated his friendship and loved him even when he was thought an enemy.

But as I turn these things over in silent thought, this grief pierces me deeply—that we, almost bereft of the friendship of a wise and religious man, should find that he who was once so friendly to us could become so bitter against us. But let us leave these things, which are full of sorrow: let us rather hear you, as you promised a while ago. So be it, said Postumianus; and when he had said this, we all fell silent for a little. Then he drew the haircloth on which he sat nearer to me, and began thus:

Three years ago now, at the time when I bade you farewell, Sulpicius, on departing from here, when we set sail from Narbonne, on the fifth day we entered the port of Africa: so favorable, by God's will, was the voyage. It pleased me to go to Carthage, to visit the places of the saints, and especially to pay reverence at the tomb of Cyprian the martyr. On the fifteenth day, having returned to the port and put out to sea, making for Alexandria, with the south wind against us we were almost driven into the Syrtis: which the sailors, being wary, guarded against by casting anchor and stopping the ship. Now under our eyes there was a mainland, into which, having gone ashore in small boats, when we saw everything empty of human cultivation, I, being more eager to explore the places, went forward some distance.

About three miles from the shore I catch sight of a small hut among the sands, whose roof, as Sallust says, was like the keel of a ship, touching the ground, covered with fairly firm planks—not that any force of rain is feared there (indeed it is said that rain has never even been heard of there), but because such is the force of the winds that, if ever, even under a milder sky, some slight breath of wind should begin to blow, there is a greater shipwreck in those lands than on any sea. No sprouts grow there, no crops thrive, since the ground is unstable, the dry sands yielding to every movement of the winds. But where certain promontories, overturned by the sea, resist the winds, the ground, somewhat more solid, produces a sparse and rough grass. This is quite useful fodder for sheep. The inhabitants live on milk; those who are more resourceful, or, so to speak, wealthier, use barley bread.

That is the only harvest there, which by the speed of its growth, owing to the nature of the soil or air, usually escapes the ravages of the winds: indeed it is said to ripen on the thirtieth day from the sowing of the seed. And the reason men settle there is none other than that all are free from tribute: for it is the furthest edge of the territory of Cyrene, bordering on that desert which lies between Egypt and Africa, through which once Cato, fleeing Caesar, led his army.

So, when I had made my way to that hut which I had seen from afar, I find an old man in a garment of skins turning a mill by hand; having greeted us, he received us kindly. We explain that we had been cast ashore on that coast, and that, since we could not immediately resume our course, we were being detained by the calm of the sea: that, having come out onto land (as is the way of human nature), we had wished to learn the character of the place and the manner of life of its inhabitants: that we were Christians: and that we especially wished to ask whether there were any Christians amid those solitudes. Then indeed he, weeping for joy, threw himself down at our knees; again and again he kissed us and invited us to prayer; then, having spread sheepskins on the ground, he made us recline. He set before us a truly most sumptuous meal—half a barley loaf. We were four, and he made the fifth.

He also brought in a bundle of an herb, whose name escapes me, which, resembling mint and abounding in leaves, had a taste like honey: delighted and satisfied by its exceedingly sweet flavor, we were content. At this, smiling, I said to my friend Gallus: What now, Gallus? Does the meal please you—a bundle of herbs and half a loaf for five men? Then he, being most modest, blushing somewhat as he took in my weariness, said: You are acting, Sulpicius, in your usual manner, who never let an occasion pass, if one is offered you, to weary us about gluttony. But you act unkindly, forcing us Gauls to live by the example of angels (though for my part, out of eagerness to eat, I could believe that even angels eat): for I fear even to touch that half loaf of barley alone.

But let that Cyrenian be content with this, for whom it is either necessity or nature to hunger; or lastly let these men be content, for whom, I believe, the tossing of the sea had produced a distaste for food. We are far from the sea, and, as I have often protested to you, we are Gauls. But let this man rather go on to unfold the history of his Cyrenian.

Indeed, said Postumianus, I shall be careful hereafter of praising anyone's abstinence, lest so arduous an example offend our Gauls deeply. I had intended also to relate the supper of that Cyrenian, or the subsequent banquets (for we were with him seven days): but I must forbear, lest Gallus think himself wearied. However, on the next day, when some of the inhabitants began to gather to see us, we learn that our host was a presbyter—a fact he had concealed from us with the utmost discretion. Then we went with him to the church, which was about two miles distant, hidden from our sight by the interposition of a hill. It was woven of cheap wattles, not much more pretentious than our host's tabernacle, in which no one could stand except bent over. When we inquired about the character of the people, we noted this remarkable thing, that they neither buy nor sell anything.

What fraud or theft is, they do not know; gold and silver, which men consider the chief of things, they neither possess nor desire to possess: for when I had brought ten gold coins to that presbyter, he refused them, declaring with deeper wisdom that a church is not built up by gold, but rather destroyed by it. We gave him some clothing.

When he had kindly accepted this, the sailors calling us back to the sea, we departed, and with a favorable voyage arrived at Alexandria on the seventh day, where foul contentions were being waged between the bishops and the monks, arising from this occasion or cause: that the priests, gathered together frequently in synod, seemed to have decreed that no one should read or possess the books of Origen, who was held to be a most skilled expounder of the sacred scriptures.

But the bishops recalled certain things written rather insanely in his books, which his defenders, not daring to defend them, said had rather been fraudulently inserted by heretics: and that therefore, on account of those things which were rightly called into censure, the rest ought not also to be condemned; since the faith of readers could easily make the distinction, so as not to follow what was falsified, while yet retaining what was disputed in a catholic manner: and that it was no wonder if, in books recent and newly written, heretical fraud had done its work, since it had not feared to intrude even upon Gospel truth in certain places. Against this the bishops, resisting more obstinately, sought by their authority to force the condemnation of everything, right along with the wrong, together with the author himself: since the books which the Church had received were sufficient and more than sufficient: that the reading of him ought to be entirely rejected, as being more likely to harm the foolish than to profit the wise.

As for myself, having inquired somewhat curiously into his books, very many things pleased me greatly: but I found some things in which it is not doubtful that he held wrong views, which his defenders contend to be falsified. I marvel that one and the same man could be so different from himself, that in the part where he is approved, he has no equal after the Apostles; while in that part which is justly reprehended, no one is taught to have erred more shamefully.

For when many excerpts from his books were read out by the bishops, which were manifestly written against the catholic faith, that passage above all was arousing hostility, in which it was read as set forth, that the Lord Jesus, just as he had come in the flesh for the redemption of man, and had endured the cross for man's salvation, and had tasted death for man's eternity; so too, by that same order of suffering, he would redeem the devil also: because this would befit his goodness and mercy, that he who had restored fallen man should also free the fallen angel.

When these and other things of this kind were being brought forward by the bishops, sedition arose from partisan zeal: and since it could not be suppressed by the authority of the priests, by an unfortunate precedent a prefect was appointed to govern the discipline of the Church, by whose terror the brothers were scattered, and monks were driven in flight through diverse regions, so that, edicts having been issued, they were not allowed to remain settled in any place. This moved me greatly, that Jerome, a man most catholic and most learned in the sacred law, was at first thought to have followed Origen, whom now that same man chiefly condemns, indeed condemns all his writings. Nor indeed did I dare to judge rashly concerning anyone; yet it was reported that the most excellent and learned men were at variance in this contest.

But still, whether it be error, as I think, or heresy, as is supposed; not only could it not be suppressed by many censures of the priests; but it could by no means have spread so widely, had it not grown through contention. So when I came to Alexandria amid a disturbance of this kind, it was in turmoil. The bishop of that city indeed received me very kindly, and better than I expected, and tried to keep me with him: but I had no mind to settle there, where the fresh resentment of a brotherly disaster was still seething: for even if perhaps they should have spared the bishops, yet not for this reason ought so great a multitude living under the confession of Christ, especially by bishops, to have been afflicted.

Departing then from there, I sought the town of Bethlehem, which is separated from Jerusalem by six miles, but is sixteen stages distant from Alexandria. The presbyter Jerome governs the church of that place: for it is the parish of the bishop who holds Jerusalem. Jerome, already known to me from that earlier pilgrimage of mine, had readily brought it about that I judged no one more rightly to be sought out: for the man, besides the merit of his faith and the endowment of his virtues, is so instructed not only in Latin and Greek, but even in Hebrew letters, that no one dares compare himself to him in any branch of knowledge. I wonder, indeed, whether he is not also known to you through the many works he has written, since he is read throughout the whole world.

As for us, said Gallus, he is only too, too well known; for five years before this I read a certain little book of his, in which our whole nation of monks is most vehemently harassed and torn by him; whence at times our friend from Belgica is wont to grow quite angry, because he said that we are accustomed to gorge ourselves even to the point of vomiting. But I forgive the man; and I think rather that he was disputing about the monks of the East than of the West: for gluttony among the Greeks is a vice, among the Gauls a nature. Then I said, Gallus, like a good scholar you defend your own people; but tell me, does that book condemn only this vice in the monks? Not at all, he said, he has omitted nothing whatsoever that he did not tear apart, lacerate, expose: he has attacked avarice above all, and no less vanity. He has discoursed much on pride, not a little on superstition.

I will confess truly, he seems to me to have painted the vices of many.

Moreover, concerning the intimacies of virgins and monks, and even clerics, how truly, how forcefully he has argued! Whence by certain persons, whom I do not wish to name, he is said not to be loved: for just as our friend from Belgica grows angry at our being marked with excessive gluttony, so those others are said to fume, when in that little work they read written: The virgin scorns her celibate brother, and seeks a stranger as her "brother." To this I said, You go too far, Gallus: beware lest someone who perhaps recognizes these things should overhear you, and begin to dislike you along with Jerome. For since you are a scholar, I will not unfittingly remind you with that verse of the Comic poet: Compliance begets friends, truth begets hatred. Let your Eastern narrative rather, Postumianus, as you had begun, be resumed. I, said he, as I had begun to relate, was with Jerome for six months: whose continual struggle against the wicked and perpetual contest has stirred up the hatred of the corrupt.

Heretics hate him, because he does not cease to attack them: clerics hate him, because he pursues their life and their crimes. But plainly all good men admire and love him: for those who think him a heretic are out of their minds. I would say truly, the man's catholic knowledge is sound doctrine.

He is always wholly in reading, wholly in books: neither by day nor by night does he rest; either he is always reading something, or writing. Had it not been fixed in my mind and promised, God as my witness, to go to the eremitic wilderness I had proposed, I would not have wished to be parted from so great a man even for the smallest moment of time. To him, then, having entrusted and committed all my belongings, and all my household, which against the wish of my own mind had followed me and kept me entangled, unburdened as it were of a heavy load, wholly free, I returned to Alexandria, and having there visited the brothers, I pressed on from there to the upper Thebaid, that is, to the farthest parts of Egypt. For there the vast solitudes of the open wilderness were reported to hold very many monks. It would be long, were I to wish to relate all that I saw: yet I will touch briefly on a few out of many.

Not far from the wilderness, adjoining the Nile, there are many monasteries. In one place there dwell, generally, a hundred men: whose highest law is to live under the command of an abbot, to do nothing by their own judgment, to depend in all things upon his will and power. Of these, if any conceive in their mind a higher virtue, so that, intending to lead a solitary life, they betake themselves to the wilderness, they do not depart except with the abbot's permission. This is their first virtue, to obey another's command. When they have crossed over to the wilderness, bread or whatever other food is supplied by the abbot's arrangement. By chance, during those days in which I had arrived there, to a certain man who had recently withdrawn to the wilderness, and had set up his tent no more than six miles from that monastery, the abbot had sent bread by two boys, of whom the elder was fifteen years of age, the younger twelve.

As these were returning from there, an asp of remarkable size met them, at whose encounter they were not at all frightened; when it came before their feet, as if charmed by incantations, it laid down its dark-blue neck. The younger of the boys, taking hold of it with his hand and wrapping it in his cloak, began to carry it: then, entering the monastery as though a victor, before the eyes of the brothers, with all looking on, he unwrapped the cloak and set down the captive beast, not without a certain swelling of pride.

But while the others were praising the faith and courage of the children, that abbot, with deeper counsel, lest their weak age should grow insolent, restrained both with rods, rebuking them severely for having made known as their own what the Lord had wrought through them: that this was not of their own faith, but of divine power: let them learn rather to serve God in humility, not to glory in signs and miracles: for the awareness of one's own weakness is better than the vanity of miracles.

When that monk heard this, both that the little children had been endangered by the serpent's encounter, and moreover had earned for themselves, upon the serpent's defeat, many stripes; he begged the abbot that after this no bread or any food should be sent to him. And already the eighth day had passed, during which the man of Christ had shut himself within the peril of hunger: his limbs were parched with fasting, but his mind, intent on heaven, could not fail: his body was wasting from lack of food, but his firm faith endured: when meanwhile that abbot, admonished through the Spirit to visit his disciple, desiring in pious concern to learn by what sustenance of life the faithful man was nourished, who had refused to have bread ministered to him by man, himself sets out to seek him. As soon as the man saw the elder coming from afar, he ran to meet him, gives thanks, leads him to his cell.

When both had entered together, they beheld a palm-leaf basket, heaped with warm bread, hanging fixed to the doorpost. And first the scent of warm bread was perceived; indeed by touch it was shown as if it had just been snatched from the hearth-fire a little while before. Yet the shape of the bread was not that of Egyptian bread. Both, astonished, recognized it as a heavenly gift: while the one confessed that this had been granted on account of the abbot's arrival, and the abbot rather ascribed it to that man's faith and virtue; thus both, with great exultation, broke the heavenly bread. When the old man, having returned afterward to the monastery, reported this to the brothers, so great an ardor kindled in the minds of all, that they hastened in rivalry to go to the wilderness and the sacred solitudes, confessing themselves wretched, for having remained too long in the congregation of many, where human intercourse had to be endured.

In this monastery I saw two old men, who were reported to have already spent forty years there, in such a way that they had never departed from it. Their mention does not seem to me to be passed over: since indeed I heard it celebrated concerning their virtues, both by the testimony of the abbot himself and by the report of all the brothers, that the sun had never seen one of them eating, and had never seen the other angry. At this Gallus, looking at me, said: Oh, if that man of yours (I do not wish to say his name) were present now, I would very much like him to hear this example: whom we have often experienced, in the persons of many, to be exceedingly quick to anger: but yet, since, as I hear, he has recently forgiven his enemies, if he should hear this, he would be confirmed more and more by the proposed example, that it is a splendid virtue not to be moved by anger.

Nor indeed will I deny that he had just causes for his anger: but where the battle is harder, there the crown is more glorious: whence I judge a certain person, if you recognize him, to be justly praised, because when an ungrateful freedman deserted him, he pitied rather than pursued the one departing; nor is he angry at the one by whom he seems to have been led astray. And I said: Had not Postumianus related this example of conquering anger, I would be gravely angered at the desertion of the fugitive: but since it is not permitted to be angry, this whole recollection which stings us must be abolished. Let us hear you, I say, Postumianus, you rather. I will do, he said, Sulpicius, as you bid, since I see you so eager to listen; but remember, that I do not deposit this discourse with you without interest: I gladly grant what you ask, provided that a little later you do not refuse what I shall ask.

But we, I said, have nothing with which we could repay you in return, even without interest. But yet whatever you shall think fit, command it, provided that, as you had begun, you satisfy our desires: for your discourse delights us greatly. I will cheat your eagerness in nothing, said Postumianus: and since you have recognized the virtue of one beginning hermit, I will relate to you still a few things out of many.

So when I first entered the desert, about twelve miles from the Nile (I had one of the brothers as a guide, a man skilled in the region), we came to a certain old monk dwelling at the foot of a mountain. There, which is very rare in those parts, was a well. He had one ox, whose whole labor was this, to draw up water by driving a wheeled machine: for the well was said to be nearly a thousand feet deep, or more. There was a garden there, abounding in many vegetables: which indeed is contrary to the nature of the desert, where everything, parched and burnt by the heat of the sun, bears not the least root of any seed. But this was the shared labor of that holy man with his beast, and his own diligence provided it: for the frequent watering gave such richness to the sands that we saw the vegetables of that garden flourish and bear fruit in a wonderful way.

From these, then, together with his master, that ox lived: to us too the holy man gave a supper out of that abundance. There I saw—which perhaps you Gauls will not believe—a pot with vegetables that were being prepared for our supper boiling without fire: such is the power of the sun that it suffices for any cooks, even for the stews of the Gauls. After supper, then, as evening was already declining, he invites us to a palm tree, whose fruits he was accustomed to use from time to time, which was about two miles distant: for these are the only trees found in the desert, though rare, they are nevertheless found. Whether skillful antiquity procured this, or the soil by its own nature produces it, I do not know: unless God, foreseeing that the desert would one day be inhabited by saints, prepared these things for his servants: for the greater part of those who dwell within those solitudes, since no other growth springs up there, are nourished by the fruits of these trees.

So when we came to that tree to which the kindness of our host was leading us, we found a lion there: at the sight of which, I and my guide trembled; but that holy man approached without hesitation: we, though fearful, followed. The beast withdrew a little way, gently (so that you might perceive it was commanded by God) and stood still, while he plucked the fruits from the lower branches nearest to him: and when he offered a hand full of dates, the beast ran up and took them as freely as any domestic animal; and having eaten, it went away. We, watching these things and still trembling, could easily weigh how great was the virtue of faith in him, and how great the weakness in us.

We saw another equally remarkable man, dwelling in a small hut in which only one person could be received. Of him this was reported, that a she-wolf was accustomed to stand by him at supper, nor was the beast ever easily deceived, but would come to him at the lawful hour of refreshment, and would wait before the door until he offered the bread that was left over from his little supper: that she was accustomed to lick his hand, and then, as if her office had been fulfilled and her comfort provided, to depart. But it happened by chance that this holy man, while accompanying a brother who had come to him and was now departing, was away longer than usual, and did not return until night. Meanwhile the beast came at that customary hour of supper. Finding the cell empty, since she perceived that her familiar patron was absent, she entered, exploring curiously where the dweller might be.

By chance there hung nearby a little palm-basket with five loaves; of these she took one and devoured it, then, having committed the crime, departed. The hermit, returning, saw the basket disturbed, and the number of loaves not intact; he understood the loss to his household stores, and near the threshold recognized the fragments of the consumed bread; but there was no uncertain suspicion as to who had committed the theft. So when, on the following days, the beast did not come as was her custom (doubtless conscious of her bold deed, avoiding coming to him whom she had wronged), the hermit was grieved to be deprived of the comfort of his foster-creature. At last, recalled by his prayer, on the seventh day she was present, as before, at his supper. But (so that you might easily perceive the shame of the penitent) she did not dare to come nearer, and with her eyes cast down to the ground in deep shame (which could plainly be understood) she seemed to beg a kind of pardon.

Pitying her confusion, the hermit bids her come nearer, and with a gentle hand strokes her sorrowful head: then, doubling the bread, he refreshes his guilty one. Thus, having obtained pardon, she resumed, her grief laid aside, the custom of her office. Consider, I ask you, the power of Christ even in this matter, to whom everything that is brute has understanding, to whom everything that is fierce is made gentle. The she-wolf performs her office, the she-wolf acknowledges the crime of theft, the she-wolf is confounded with conscious shame: called, she comes, offers her head, and has a sense of the pardon granted to her, just as she bore the shame of her fault. This is your virtue, Christ; these are your miracles, Christ: for whatever your servants work in your name is yours: and in this we groan, that beasts feel your majesty, while men do not fear it.

But lest this perhaps seem incredible to anyone, I will relate greater things. Let the faith of Christ bear witness that I invent nothing, nor relate things published on uncertain authorities: but I will set forth what has been made known to me through trustworthy men. Many dwell in the desert without any tents, whom they call Anchorites: they live on the roots of herbs: they never settle in any fixed place, lest they be frequented by men; wherever night overtakes them, there they have their dwelling. So to a certain man living in this manner and by this rule, two monks from Nitria, though from a far different region, yet because he had formerly been dear and familiar to them in monastery life, having heard of his virtues, made their way; and having sought him long and much, at length in the seventh month they found him, dwelling in that farthest desert which borders on Blemmyes: which solitudes he was said to have inhabited already for twelve years.

Though he avoided the encounters of all men, yet he did not shun those he recognized, and did not deny himself to his dearest friends for three days. On the fourth day, having gone forward a little as he accompanied them on their departure, they saw a lioness of wondrous size coming toward them. The beast, though finding three men, was not uncertain whom she sought, and rolled herself at the anchorite's feet, and, prostrating with a kind of weeping and lamentation, showed at once the feeling of one grieving and beseeching. She moved them all, and especially him who understood himself to be sought. They followed her as she went before them: for going ahead, and now and then stopping, and now and then looking back, she made it easy to understand that she wished the anchorite to follow where she was leading. What more?

They came to the beast's den, where she was nursing, poor creature, five already grown cubs, who, having come forth from their mother's womb with closed eyes, were held in perpetual blindness; each of which the mother brought forth from the rock and set before the anchorite's feet. Then at last the Saint understood what the beast was asking, and, having invoked the name of God, touched with his hand the closed eyes of the cubs; and immediately, blindness being driven away, with eyes opened the light so long denied to the beasts appeared. So those brothers, having visited the anchorite whom they longed for, returned with a reward for their labor that was quite fruitful indeed: for they had been admitted as witnesses of such great virtue, that they might have seen the faith of the Saint and the glory of Christ, which was to be testified through them.

I am about to tell wonders: that the lioness, after five days, returned to the author of so great a benefit, and brought him the skin of that unusual beast as a gift; with which that holy man was often wrapped as with a little cloak, not disdaining to accept the gift through the beast, whose true author he interpreted to be another.

There was also the illustrious name of another anchorite in those regions, who dwelt in that part of the desert which is Syene. There, when he had first betaken himself to the desert, intending to live on herbs and the roots of herbs, which the sand sometimes bears very sweet and of excellent flavor, being ignorant of how to choose the growth, he generally gathered harmful ones. Nor was it easy to discern the power of the roots by taste, since all were equally sweet; but many, by a more hidden nature, contained a deadly poison. When, therefore, as he ate, an inner force tormented him, and all his vital parts were shaken with immense pains, and frequent vomiting with unbearable torments was dissolving the very seat of his soul as his stomach was already failing, fearing utterly all things that might be eaten, he passed a seventh day in fasting, his spirit failing.

Then a beast, whose name is Ibex, came to him; standing near him, it presented a bundle of herbs which he, having gathered them the day before, had not dared to touch: but the beast, discarding with its mouth what was poisonous, chose what it knew to be harmless. Thus the holy man, taught by its example what he ought to eat and what to reject, both escaped the danger of hunger and avoided the poison of the herbs. But it would be long to recount all that we have learned or heard of those who dwell in the desert. I spent a whole year and nearly seven months settled within those solitudes, more an admirer of another's virtue than one who could himself attempt so arduous and difficult a purpose; yet I dwelt more often with that old man who had the well and the ox.

I visited two monasteries of the blessed Anthony, which even today are inhabited by his disciples. I also came to that place in which the most blessed Paul, the first hermit, dwelt. I saw the Red Sea: I climbed the ridge of Mount Sinai, whose highest peak, almost touching heaven, cannot at all be reached. Among its recesses it was said that some anchorite dwelt, whom, though sought long and much, I could not see, who, already almost fifty years removed from human intercourse, with no use of clothing, covered with the bristles of his own body, was unaware of his own nakedness by divine gift. There, as often as religious men wished to approach him, seeking pathless places at a run, he avoided human encounters.

It was reported that he had shown himself to only one man, five years before, who, I believe, by the power of his faith deserved to obtain this; and to him, questioning among many conversations why he so greatly avoided men, he is said to have replied, that he who was frequented by men could not be frequented by angels: whence not undeservedly, by the received opinion of many, rumor had spread abroad that that Saint was visited by angels. But I, having departed from Mount Sinai, returned to the river Nile, whose banks, joined together with frequent monasteries, I surveyed on both sides; I saw for the most part, as I had said before, a hundred men dwelling in one place: but it was also established that two and three thousand lived in the same little villages. And do not think that the virtue of the monks dwelling in that multitude is any less than you know that of those to be, who have removed themselves from human gatherings.

The chief virtue there, as I had already said, and the first, is obedience; nor is a newcomer received by the abbot of the monastery otherwise than one who has first been tested and proven, one who will never refuse, however arduous and difficult and unworthy to be borne, the command of the abbot.

I will relate to you two very great miracles of incredible obedience, though more are at hand for one who recalls them: but for kindling emulation of virtue, for which few examples do not suffice, many will not be superfluous. So when a certain man, having renounced the affairs of the world, entered a monastery of great strictness and asked to be received, the abbot began to set before him many things—that the labors of that discipline were heavy, that his own commands were harsh, which no one's patience could easily fulfill: let him rather seek another monastery, where life was lived under easier rules; let him not attempt to undertake what he could not fulfill. But he was not moved at all by these terrors, but rather promised such complete obedience that, if the abbot commanded him to enter fire, he would not refuse to go in: and when the master received this profession, he did not hesitate to test the one professing it.

By chance an oven nearby was burning, kindled with much fire, prepared for baking bread. The flame overflowed, bursting from the furnaces, and within the hollows of that chimney the fire reigned with full force. The master then bids this newcomer enter it: nor did he delay to obey the command; he entered the midst of the flames without hesitation; which, soon overcome by so bold a faith, gave way before him as they came, just as once before those Hebrew boys. Nature was overcome, the fire fled: and he who was thought about to burn, as if drenched with a cold dew, marveled at himself. But what wonder, O Christ, that the fire did not touch that recruit, so that the abbot should not regret having commanded harsh things, nor the disciple regret having obeyed the command? He who, on the very day he had arrived, while being tested as a weak one, was found perfect—deservedly happy, deservedly glorious: proved by obedience, glorified by his suffering.

Moreover, in the same monastery there occurred that which I am about to relate, which was still told from fresh memory. A certain man had likewise come to be received by the same abbot; when the first rule of obedience was set before him, and he promised perpetual patience toward all things, even extreme ones, the abbot happened to be holding in his hand a storax-wood rod that had long since been dry. This he fixed in the ground, and imposed on that newcomer the task of supplying the little rod with irrigating water for so long, until—which was contrary to all nature—the dry wood should grow green in the dry soil.

The newcomer, subjected to the command of this hard rule, daily carried water on his own shoulders, which was fetched from the river Nile, nearly two miles away; and now, a year's space having passed, the labor of the one working did not cease, and yet there could be no hope of fruit from the labor; still the virtue of obedience endured in the toil. The following year too mocked the labor of the brother now grown weary. At last, in the third year of the succeeding course of time, since that water-carrying laborer ceased neither by night nor by day, the rod flourished. I myself have seen, from that little rod, a small tree, which to this day stands in the courtyard of the monastery with green branches, remaining as a kind of testimony, showing how much obedience has merited, and how much faith can accomplish. But daylight would fail me sooner than I could finish recounting the various miracles which have come to my knowledge concerning the virtues of the Saints.

I shall relate to you two more remarkable things still: one of which will be an outstanding example against the swelling of wretched vanity, the other no small lesson against false righteousness. There was, then, a certain holy man, endowed with an incredible power of driving demons out of possessed bodies, who wrought unheard-of signs day by day. For not only present, and not only by word, but sometimes also while absent, by sending the fringes of his hair-shirt or letters, he cured the bodies of the possessed. This man, then, was frequented in a wonderful manner by peoples coming to him from the whole world. I say nothing of lesser folk: prefects and counts, and judges of various powers, often lay before his doors: even most holy bishops, laying aside their priestly authority, humbly asked to be touched and blessed by him, believing, not without reason, that they were sanctified and illumined by a divine gift as often as they had touched his hand or garment.

It was said that he abstained entirely and perpetually from all drink, and that for food (I will whisper this in your ear, Sulpicius, lest Gallus hear it) he was sustained by only seven dried figs. Meanwhile, to the holy man, as honor came from virtue, so vanity began to creep in from honor. When he first was able to perceive this evil creeping upon him, he strove long and much to shake it off; but he could not, by the perseverance of his very virtue, be entirely freed from it, even in silent conscience of vanity. Everywhere the demons confessed his name; he was unable to keep away from himself the crowds of people flocking to him. Meanwhile a hidden poison was being sown in his breast; and he by whose nod demons were driven out from the bodies of others could not purge himself, by secret thoughts, of vanity.

Therefore, having turned to the Lord with all his prayers, he is said to have asked that power be granted to the devil over him for five months, so that he might become like those whom he himself had cured. Why should I delay with many words? That most powerful man, that man renowned throughout the whole East for signs and virtues, that man at whose threshold peoples had before flocked, at whose doors the highest powers of this age had prostrated themselves, was seized by a demon, and held in chains. Having endured all those things which the possessed are wont to suffer, at last in the fifth month he was purified not only of the demon, but—what was more useful and more desirable to him—of vanity.

But as I turn these things over, our own unhappiness, our own weakness, comes to mind. For which of us is there, whom, if some humble little fellow should greet him, or some woman should praise with foolish and flattering words, would not at once be lifted up with pride, not immediately be puffed up with vanity? So that even if he has no consciousness of holiness, yet, because he is called holy by the flattery of fools or perhaps by their error, he will think himself most holy. Now indeed if frequent gifts are sent to him, he will assert that he is honored by God's munificence, since necessities are furnished to him while he sleeps and lies at ease: and if even in some small way certain signs of power should attend him, he would think himself an angel.

Moreover, though distinguished neither by works nor by virtue, if a man has been made a cleric, he immediately widens his fringes, rejoices in salutations, is puffed up by being met on the road, himself also runs about everywhere: and he who before was accustomed to go on foot or on a little donkey is now borne along proudly on a foaming horse; content before to dwell in a small and mean cell, he now raises high ceilings, builds many chambers, carves doors, paints cupboards, rejects coarser clothing, desires soft garments, and assigns these as tributes to dear widows and to intimate virgins; the one to weave him a stiff cloak of wool, the other a flowing mantle. But let us leave these things to be described more bitingly by the blessed man Jerome; let us return to our subject.

But Gallus, my friend, said: I do not know what you have left for Jerome to discuss; you have summed up all our institutions so briefly, that I think these few words of yours, if they are received with equanimity and weighed patiently, will profit them much, so that hereafter they will not need to be restrained by Jerome's books. But do you rather unfold those things which you had begun, and produce that proof against false righteousness which you had promised to give: for, to confess the truth to you, we suffer from no more pernicious evil within the Gauls. So I shall do, said Postumianus, nor will I keep you longer in suspense.

A certain young man from Asia, very rich in wealth, illustrious by birth, having a wife and a young son, when he was a tribune in Egypt, and had, through frequent expeditions against the Blemmyes, come upon certain parts of the desert, and had seen several dwellings of the Saints, received the word of salvation from the blessed man John. And without delay he scorned useless military service along with that empty honor, and having entered the desert steadfastly, in a short time shone forth perfected in every kind of virtue. Powerful in fasting, conspicuous in humility, firm in faith, he had easily equaled the ancient monks in zeal for virtue; when meanwhile there came upon him a thought, cast in by the devil, that it would be more right for him to return to his homeland, and to save his only son and his whole household along with his wife: which surely would be more acceptable to God than if, content merely to snatch himself from the world, he should neglect, not without impiety, the salvation of his own.

Overcome, then, by this coloring of false righteousness, after about four years he abandoned his cell and his hermit's purpose. But when he came to the nearest monastery, which was inhabited by many brothers, he confessed to those asking the cause and plan of his departure. Though all resisted him, and especially the abbot of that place resisted him, his wrongly fixed resolve could not be torn away: so, rushing forth in unhappy obstinacy, he departed from the brothers to the grief of all. Scarcely had he gone out of sight when he was filled by a demon, and, rolling bloody foam from his mouth, tore at himself with his own teeth. Then, carried back to the same monastery on the shoulders of the brothers, since the unclean spirit could not be restrained in him, he was, under compelling necessity, bound with iron fetters, his feet bound together with his hands: no undeserved punishment for the fugitive, that chains should restrain him whom faith had not restrained.

After two years at last, by the prayer of the Saints, he was freed from the unclean spirit; he soon returned to the desert whence he had departed, both himself corrected, and destined thereafter to be an example to others, that no one should be deceived by the shadow of false righteousness, or be driven by uncertain fickleness, through useless levity, to abandon things once begun. Let this suffice for you to know concerning the powers of the Lord, which He has wrought in His servants either for imitation or for fear. But since I have satisfied your ears, indeed have perhaps even been more verbose than I ought, do you now (he was speaking to me) pay the debt owed, that we may hear you, as you are accustomed, relating more about your Martin, since our desires have long been burning for this.

What? Said I: does not that book of mine suffice for you concerning my Martin, which you yourself know I published concerning his life and virtues? I acknowledge that indeed, said Postumianus, nor does that book ever leave my right hand: for if you recognize it, behold, here it is. This, he said, has been my companion by land and sea, this has been my comrade and consoler through the whole journey. But let me tell you plainly how far this book has penetrated, and how there is scarcely any place in the whole world where the material of so happy a story is not widely known and held. First, a man most devoted to you, Paulinus, brought it into the city of Rome: then, when it was being eagerly seized throughout the whole City, I saw the booksellers rejoicing, because nothing was held more profitable by them: since nothing was sold more readily, nothing more dearly.

This book, having gone far ahead of the course of my own voyage, when I came to Africa, was already being read throughout the whole of Carthage (only that Cyrenian presbyter did not have it, but at my generosity he had it copied): for why should I speak of Alexandria? Where it is known to almost everyone more than to yourself. There it has passed through Egypt, Nitria, the Thebaid, and all the Memphite realms. I have seen this book read by a certain old man in the desert; and when I told him that I was a familiar friend of yours, both he and many of the brothers laid this charge upon me, that, if ever I should reach these lands while you were still alive, I should compel you to supply those things which in that book of yours concerning the virtues of the blessed man you have confessed to have passed over.

Come then, since I do not wish to hear by that art things which written accounts suffice for, let those things which then, I believe, on account of readers' fastidiousness, you passed over, be unfolded, at the request of many joining me in asking this of you.

Indeed, Postumianus, said I, while I was listening intently to you for a long time now concerning the virtues of the Saints, I kept returning in silent thoughts to my own Martin, perceiving rightly that all those various things which individuals had done were easily accomplished in this one man. For when you have related lofty deeds (may it be permitted me to say this, with the Saints' peace), I have heard nothing at all from you in which Martin was inferior. But just as I profess that no one's virtue is ever to be compared to the merits of that man, so too it ought to be observed that he is compared on an unequal footing with hermits or even with anchorites.

For they, free from every hindrance, with heaven alone and the angels as witnesses, are taught to have performed things plainly admirable: but he, in the midst of the throng and conversation of peoples, among dissenting clergy, among raging bishops, though pressed by almost daily scandals from this side and that, nevertheless stood founded upon an unconquerable virtue against all things, and wrought such things as not even those whom we have heard from you to be, or to have been, in the desert, accomplished. And if they had done equal deeds, what judge would be so unjust as not to judge this man the more worthy in merit? For imagine that he was a soldier who fought in an unequal position, and yet came out victorious; but compare those others equally as soldiers, but who fought from an equal position or even from a higher one: what then? Even if the victory of all is one, the glory of all cannot be equal.

And yet, though you have related splendid things, you have related no one by whom a dead man was raised: by this one thing alone you must certainly confess that no one is to be compared to Martin.

For if it is a thing to be admired that flame did not touch that Egyptian, this man too very often gave commands to fires. If you recall how the ferocity of beasts, being overcome, submitted to the anchorites, this man too, with familiar ease, restrained the rage of beasts and the poisons of serpents. But if you compare him to that one who cured those possessed by unclean spirits by the command of a word and even by the power of the fringes of his garment, there are many proofs that Martin was not inferior even in this respect. If you also have recourse to that one who, covered with bristles instead of clothing, was thought to be visited by angels, with this man angels spoke daily. Moreover, against vanity and boastfulness he bore so unconquered a spirit that no one has more strongly despised those vices; since indeed, being absent, he very often cured those afflicted by unclean spirits, and gave commands not only to companions or prefects, but even to kings themselves.

This indeed is a small thing among his virtues; but I would have you believe that no one has more strongly resisted not only vanity itself, but even the causes and occasions of vanity. I am about to relate small matters, but ones not to be passed over; because he too is to be praised who, endowed with the highest power, showed so religious a will of reverence toward the blessed man. I remember that Vincentius the prefect, an outstanding man, than whom none within the Gauls is more distinguished in every kind of virtue, while passing through Tours, repeatedly begged of Martin that he would give him a banquet in his monastery (in which indeed he set forth the example of the blessed bishop Ambrose, who at that time was said repeatedly to feast consuls and prefects); but the man of loftier mind, lest from this any vanity or inflation should creep in, refused.

Therefore you must needs confess that in Martin there were the virtues of all those whom you have enumerated; but that Martin's virtues were not in all of them.

Why do you speak thus with me, said Postumianus? As though I did not feel the same as you, and had not always felt so. Indeed, as long as I live and have my wits, I will always preach the monks of Egypt, praise the anchorites, marvel at the hermits; but Martin I will always except: I will not dare to compare any of the monks to him, certainly none of the bishops. This Egypt confesses, this Syria confesses, this the Ethiopian has learned, this the Indian has heard, this the Parthian and the Persian know, nor is Armenia ignorant of it; the Bosphorus, though shut off, has learned it, and finally, if anyone frequents either the Fortunate Isles or the icy ocean—so much the more wretched is this region of ours, which, though it had so great a man close at hand, did not deserve to know him. Yet I will not mingle the common people in this charge: only the clergy, only the priests do not know him.

Nor undeservedly have the envious refused to know him; for if they knew his virtues, they would recognize their own vices. I shudder to say what I lately heard, that some wretched fellow said that you, in that book of yours, had lied about many things. That is not the voice of a man, but of the devil; nor is anything thereby detracted from Martin, but faith is derogated from the Gospels: for since the Lord Himself has testified that works of this kind, such as Martin fulfilled, are to be done by all the faithful, whoever does not believe that Martin did these things, does not believe that Christ said these things. But wretched, degenerate, sleepy men blush at deeds which they cannot themselves perform, and prefer to deny his virtues rather than confess their own sluggishness. But let all memory of these men be left behind, as we hasten to other things: rather do you, as I have long desired, weave together the remaining deeds of Martin.

But I said, I think it more fitting that this be asked of Gallus, since he knows more (for a disciple could not be ignorant of his master's deeds), and since he rightly owes this turn not only to Martin, but also to us; so that, since I have already published a book, and you have thus far recounted the deeds of the Orientals, Gallus may at last unfold this history in the necessary discourse: because, as I have said, he owes us a turn of speaking, and will, I believe, render it to his own Martin, so as not reluctantly to commemorate his deeds. For my part, said Gallus, although I am unequal to so great a burden, yet I am compelled by the examples of obedience related above by Postumianus, not to refuse the task which you impose on me: but while I consider that I, a Gaul, am about to speak among Aquitanians, I fear lest my rather rustic speech offend your ears, too refined by urbanity.

Yet you shall hear me as a man of Gourdon, speaking nothing with paint or buskin: for if you grant that I am a disciple of Martin, grant me also this, that after his example I may be allowed to despise the empty trappings of speeches and ornaments of words. But you, said Postumianus, speak even in Celtic, or if you prefer, in Gallic, provided only that you now speak of Martin. And I declare that, even if you were mute, words would not be wanting to you by which to speak of Martin, however eloquent the mouth required; just as Zachariah's tongue was loosed at the name of John. But since you are a man of learning, you cleverly contrive to excuse your inexperience, because you overflow with eloquence; but it befits neither a monk to be so cunning, nor a Gaul to be so crafty.

Rather approach the task, and unfold what awaits you: for we have spent too much time already occupied with other matters; and now the lengthening shadow of the setting sun warns us that not much of the day remains before the approaching night. Then, when we had all fallen silent a little while, Gallus began thus: I think I must be especially careful not to repeat those things about Martin's virtues which Sulpicius here has recorded in his book. Hence I pass over his first deeds during his military service, nor will I touch upon what he did as a layman and as a monk; nor indeed shall I tell things heard from others rather than what I myself have seen.

At the time, then, when, having left the schools, I first joined myself to the blessed man, a few days later we were following him as he went to the church. Meanwhile a poor man, half-naked in the winter months, met him, begging that a garment be given him. Then he, summoning the archdeacon, ordered that the shivering man be clothed without delay; then, entering the sacristy, when he was seated alone, as was his custom, for he maintained this solitude for himself even in the church, by a liberty allowed to the clergy; while indeed in another sacristy the presbyters sat, either free for greetings or occupied in hearing business matters: but Martin, until that hour at which custom demanded that the solemn rites be performed for the people, was kept apart by his own solitude.

I will not omit this, that sitting in the sacristy he never used a chair: for no one ever saw him sit in the church; just as, I call the Lord to witness, I lately saw a certain man, not without shame on my part, sitting on a lofty throne and as it were on a royal tribunal, in a raised seat. But Martin used to sit in a rustic little cell, such as are used by servants, which we rustic Gauls call "tripetiae," you scholars, or at least you who come from Greece, call them "tripods." This secret retreat of the blessed man, then, having been sought out by that poor man, when the archdeacon had delayed to give him the tunic, he broke in, complaining that he had been overlooked by the cleric, and lamenting the cold. Without delay: the saint, the poor man not seeing, secretly drew out from within his cloak a tunic for himself, and bade the poor man, now covered, depart.

Then a little later the archdeacon entered and reminded him, according to custom, that the people were waiting in the church: that he ought to proceed to perform the solemn rites. To whom he, answering, said that the poor man (but he was speaking of himself) ought first to be clothed: that he could not proceed to the church unless the poor man received a garment. But the deacon, understanding nothing, because, clothed outwardly in his cloak, he did not see him bare of clothing within, at last pleaded that the poor man was not to be found. Let the garment, said Martin, which has been prepared, be brought to me: the poor man to be clothed will not be lacking. Then at last the cleric, driven by dire necessity, and now with bile stirred, snatched from nearby shops a Bigerran garment, short and rough, purchased for five pieces of silver, and angrily set it down before Martin's feet. Here, he said, is the garment: but this poor man is not here.

He, quite unmoved, bade him stand a little before the doors, taking care above all for secrecy while he put the garment on himself, naked as he was; striving with all his strength that what he had done might remain hidden. But when do such things stay hidden in holy men? To those who seek, all things are revealed, whether they will it or not.

So, with this garment, he proceeds to offer sacrifice to God. On that very day indeed (I am about to tell a marvel) when he was blessing the altar, as is customary, we saw a ball of fire flash out from his head, so that, rising aloft, the flame drew out a very long tress of hair. Although this happened on a most crowded day, in a great multitude of the people, only one of the virgins, and one of the presbyters, only three of the monks saw it: why the rest did not see it is not for us to judge. About the same time, when Evanthius, my uncle, a man occupied indeed with the affairs of the world, yet very much a Christian, had begun to be pressed by a most grievous illness, in extreme danger of death, he summoned Martin.

Nor did he delay, but hastened; yet before the blessed man had traversed half the distance of the way, the sick man felt the power of him who was coming: and having immediately recovered health, he himself came forth to meet us as we approached. The next day, wishing to return, Martin was detained by great entreaty; when meanwhile a serpent struck one of the household boys with a deadly bite: whom, already lifeless from the force of the poison, Evanthius himself, carrying him on his own shoulders, laid before the feet of the holy man, trusting that nothing was impossible to him. And now the evil had spread through all the boy's limbs. One could see the skin swollen in every vein, and the vital parts stretched tight like a wineskin. Martin, stretching out his hand, and handling all the boy's limbs, fixed his finger close to the very wound by which the creature had infused its venom.

Then indeed (I am about to tell a marvel) we saw the poison, drawn back from every part, run together to Martin's finger: then through that small opening of the wound the venom so poured out mixed with blood, as when, from the udders of goats or sheep pressed by the shepherd's hand, a long stream of abundant milk is wont to flow. The boy rose up unharmed. We, struck dumb by the marvel of so great a deed, confessed, as the very truth compelled us, that there was no one under heaven who could imitate Martin.

At a following time likewise, we were making a journey with him while he was visiting his dioceses. As we were delaying for some reason, he had gone on a little ahead. Meanwhile, along the public highway, a state-owned wagon full of soldiers was coming: but when they saw Martin, clad in rough garments, wrapped in a black and hanging cloak, with the pack-animals close beside him on the way, they gave way a little, startled, to the other side: then, the ropes becoming entangled, they mixed up the harness by which, as you have often seen, those wretched animals are yoked together; and while they were extricating themselves with difficulty, they caused a delay to men who were in a hurry.

Provoked by this injury, the soldiers leapt down to the ground and gave themselves over to violence; then they began to press upon Martin with whips and clubs; and he, mute, and offering his back to those beating him with incredible patience, only stirred up greater madness in the wretched men, who raged the more because he, as if not feeling it, seemed to despise the blows given him. We, having caught up at once, found him foully bloodied and torn in every part of his body, having fallen lifeless to the ground: and we immediately set him upon his little donkey, and, cursing the place of that beating, hastened to depart in haste. Meanwhile those men, having returned to their wagon, their fury now sated, ordered the animals to go where they had begun to go. But these, having become fixed to the ground, as if they were bronze statues, stood rigid; though the drivers raised their voices ever louder, and the whips resounded on every side, the animals did not move at all.

Then they all set to beating the animals. The Gallic whips were worn out on the punishment of the mules. The whole neighboring wood was ransacked: the animals were struck with beams; but their ill-omened hands accomplished nothing at all: the statue-like animals stood fixed in one and the same place. The wretched men did not know what to do; nor could they any longer dissemble, however brutish their hearts, that they were held by a divine power. At last, then, coming to themselves, they began to ask who that man was whom they had beaten a little while before in that same place; when, inquiring of travelers, they learned that it was Martin whom they had so cruelly beaten. Then indeed the cause became manifest to all; nor could they any longer be ignorant that they were held fast because of the injury done to that man.

So they all pursued us with hurried steps: conscious of their bold deed and rightly confounded with shame, weeping, and having sprinkled their heads and faces with the dust with which they had befouled themselves, they threw themselves down at Martin's knees, begging pardon, and asking that he allow them to depart: that they had suffered punishment enough merely by their own conscience, and had understood well enough how the earth itself might have swallowed them alive, or how they themselves, rather, having lost their senses, ought to have hardened into the immovable nature of stones, just as they had seen the animals fixed in the places where they had stood: they begged and besought that he would grant pardon for their crime, and afford them the means of departing. The blessed man had also perceived, before they came running, that they were held fast, and had already told us so; yet he mercifully granted pardon, and allowed them to depart, their animals being restored to them.

Now this I have often observed, Sulpicius, that Martin was accustomed to say to you that by no means did that grace of virtues suffice for him in the episcopate which he remembered himself to have had before; and if this is true—nay, since it is true—we may conjecture how great those things were which he wrought as a monk, and which, with no witness, he performed alone, since we have seen him work such great signs in the episcopate under the eyes of all. Many indeed of his earlier deeds became known to the world, and could not be hidden; but countless things are said to be those which, while avoiding boastfulness, he concealed, nor did he allow to come to men's knowledge; inasmuch as, having surpassed human nature, trampling upon the world's glory through the consciousness of his own virtue, he enjoyed heaven alone as witness.

That this is true we may estimate even from those things which have come to our knowledge and could not remain hidden; since before his episcopate he restored two dead men to life, a thing which your book has related more fully; but in his episcopate—a thing at which I marvel that you passed it over—he raised only one. Of this matter I am a witness, if indeed you have no doubts about a witness of less worth. But I will explain to you how the thing was done. There was some cause or other for which we were making for the town of Chartres. Meanwhile, as we were passing by a certain village very crowded with inhabitants, an immense throng came to meet us, wholly of pagans: for no one in that village knew a Christian, but at the fame of so great a man a multitude gathering from all the widely open fields had covered them.

Martin perceived that there was work to be done, and, the Spirit announcing it to him, he was wholly stirred within; and, uttering no mortal sound, he preached the word of God to the pagans, groaning very often that so great a multitude did not know the Lord the Savior. Meanwhile (as an incredible multitude had surrounded us) a certain woman, whose son had died a little before, began to offer the lifeless body to the blessed man with outstretched hands, saying: We know that you are a friend of God: restore to me my son, for he is my only one. The rest of the multitude joined her, and echoed the mother's prayers. Then Martin, seeing—as he himself told us afterward—that for the salvation of those who were waiting he could obtain the power, took the body of the dead boy in his own hands; and when he had bent his knees in the sight of all, upon rising when the prayer was finished he restored the child, brought back to life, to his mother.

Then indeed the whole multitude, with a shout raised to heaven, confessed Christ as God: at last all began to rush in crowds to the knees of the blessed man, faithfully begging that he would make them Christians; and without delay, in the midst of the field as they were, laying his hand upon all of them, he made them all catechumens, saying to us as he turned, that it was not without reason that catechumens were being made in a field, where martyrs were wont to be consecrated.

You have conquered, said Postumianus, Gallus, you have conquered; not indeed me, who am rather Martin's advocate, who have always both known and believed all these things about that man; but you have conquered all the hermits and anchorites: for none of them, as this Martin of yours—nay, of ours—has commanded death itself; and deservedly does this Sulpicius compare him to the apostles and prophets, since the power of his faith and the works of his virtues bear witness that he is in all respects like them. But go on, I beg, though we can hear nothing more magnificent, go on nevertheless, Gallus, to unfold what still remains of your discourse about Martin: for our mind hastens to know even his smallest and daily deeds; because no one doubts that his smallest deeds are greater than the greatest of others. So I shall do, said Gallus.

But that which I am about to tell, I did not myself see: for the deed was done before I was joined to that man; but the fact is celebrated, spread abroad by the account of the faithful brethren who were present. About the time when he was first made bishop, there was a necessity for him to go to the Court. Valentinian the elder was then in power. When he learned that Martin sought things which he was unwilling to grant, he ordered him to be kept from the doors of the palace: for indeed his wife, an Arian, had approached that harsh and proud mind, and had turned him wholly away from the holy man, so that he would not show him the reverence due. And so Martin, when once and again he tried in vain to approach the proud prince, had recourse to his familiar defenses: he wraps himself in sackcloth, sprinkles himself with ashes, abstains from food and drink, continues prayer day and night.

But on the seventh day an angel stood by him: he bids him go to the palace without fear: the royal doors, however closed, would of their own accord be opened; the emperor's proud spirit would be softened. Therefore, strengthened by such an address of the angel present with him, and relying on his aid, he sought the palace. The thresholds lie open, no one resists, and at last he came, none preventing him, even to the king. When the king saw him coming from afar, gnashing his teeth that he had been admitted, he did not deign to rise for him as he stood there, until fire covered the royal seat, and the fire itself scorched that part of the king's body on which he sat.

Thus the proud man is shaken from his throne, and rises to Martin against his will; and, having embraced at length him whom before he had resolved to spurn, he confessed, now amended, that he had felt the divine power; and, without waiting for Martin's petitions, he granted everything before he was asked. He often invited him to conversation and to banquet: at last, when he was departing, he offered him many gifts, all of which the blessed man, ever the guardian of his poverty, rejected.

And since we have once entered the palace, I shall connect things done at different times in the palace, though not in the same order: for it seems by no means to be omitted, concerning the admiration of Martin, the example of a faithful queen. The emperor Maximus was governing the state, a man worthy of praise for his whole life, if only it had been permitted him either to refuse the diadem placed upon him unlawfully by a tumultuous soldiery, or to abstain from civil arms: but so great an empire could neither be refused without danger, nor held without arms. This man, having summoned Martin many times and received him within the palace, honored him with reverence; his whole conversation with him was about things present, things to come, the glory of the faithful, the eternity of the saints; while meanwhile, day and night, the queen hung upon Martin's lips, and, not inferior to that Gospel example, watered the Saint's feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair.

Martin, whom no woman had ever touched, could not escape her assiduous attention—nay, rather her servitude. She thought nothing of the wealth of the kingdom, nothing of the dignity of empire, nothing of the diadem, nothing of the purple: she could not be torn from Martin's feet, lying prostrate on the ground. At last she asked it of her husband, and then both together urged Martin to allow her, with all the attendants removed, to serve him alone at a banquet: nor could the blessed man resist more stubbornly. A chaste preparation is arranged by the queen's own hands: she herself spreads the little seat, moves up the table, pours water on his hands: she sets before him the food which she herself had cooked; she herself, while he sat, stood apart, motionless, fixed to the ground, after the manner of servants, showing in everything the modesty and humility of one who serves: she herself mixed his drink, and she herself handed it to him.

When the little meal was finished, she gathered the fragments of the bread that had been consumed and the crumbs, faithfully preferring those remains to imperial feasts. Blessed woman! Rightly to be compared to her who came from the ends of the earth to hear Solomon, since we follow the simple history; but if the faith of these queens is to be compared (which may I be permitted to say, apart from the majesty of the mystery), that one sought to hear a wise man; this one, not content only to have heard, also merited to serve the Wise One.

Postumianus said: For a good while now, Gallus, as I have been listening to you speak, I have been vehemently admiring the queen's faith: but where is that which was said, that no woman was ever reported to have stood nearer to Martin? Behold, this queen not only stood by him, but even served him: and I fear lest those who gladly involve themselves with women should somewhat defend themselves by this example. Then Gallus said: Do you not see what the grammarians are accustomed to teach, place, time, person? For set before your eyes a man taken up, in the palace, besieged by the emperor's entreaties, compelled by the queen's faith, constrained by the necessity of the time, that he might free those shut up in prison, restore those sent into exile, give back goods that had been taken away: how much do you think it ought to have cost the bishop, that for the sake of all these things he should relax somewhat from the rigor of his purpose?

Yet, because you think that some will misuse the occasion of this example, they indeed will be fortunate if they do not depart from the discipline of this example. For let them see, that to Martin only once in his life, now a man of seventy years, did the queen serve and minister—not a free widow, not a wanton virgin, but one living under a husband, with the husband himself likewise entreating. She stood by him as he ate, she did not recline with him as he feasted; nor did she dare to share the banquet, but she rendered service. Learn, therefore, the discipline: let a matron serve you, not command; and let her serve, not recline; just as that Martha ministered to the Lord, and yet was not admitted to the banquet; nay, she who rather listened to the word was preferred to the one who was serving. But in Martin's case this queen fulfilled both: she both served like Martha, and listened like Mary.

But if anyone wishes to use this example, let him keep the example in every respect: let such be the cause and such the person, such the service, such the banquet, and only once in an entire life.

Excellently, said Postumianus, does your discourse constrain those people of ours not to depart from Martin's example: but I confess to you that these things will be heard by deaf ears: for if we were to follow Martin's ways, we would never speak of scandals over a kiss, and we would be free from all reproaches of ill repute. But as you yourself are wont to say, when you are accused of gluttony, we are Gauls; so in this matter we confess that we shall never be corrected either by Martin's example or by your arguments. But while we have long been busy with these matters, why are you so obstinately silent, Sulpicius?

I said, I not only am silent now, but I resolved long ago to be silent about such things: for because I once rebuked a certain wandering widow, spruce and extravagant, who was visiting too wantonly; and likewise a virgin who clung too indecently to a certain young man dear to me, though I had often heard the same woman rebuking others who did such things; I stirred up against myself such hatred from all the women and all the monks, that both legions have taken sworn war against me. Wherefore I beg you to be silent, lest even this which you are saying be turned to my discredit. Let all mention of such people be left aside: let us rather return to Martin. You, Gallus, as you have begun, unfold the work you have undertaken.

Then he said: Already indeed I have related so much to you, that my discourse ought to have satisfied your eagerness: but since I am not permitted to disobey your wish, I will speak for as much of the day as still remains: for indeed, as I look at that straw which is being prepared for our beds, it comes to my memory that a miracle was also wrought concerning the straw on which Martin had lain. The matter happened thus: Claudiomagus is a village on the border of the Bituriges and the Turones. There is a church there celebrated for the piety of the saints, and no less glorious for the multitude of sacred virgins. As Martin was passing through, then, he had his lodging in the sacristy of the church. After his departure, all the virgins rushed into that sacristy: they licked each place where the blessed man had either sat or stood: they even divided among themselves the straw on which he had rested.

One of them, a few days later, hung around the neck of a demoniac, whom the spirit of error was troubling, a part of the straw which she had gathered for herself as a blessing; and without delay, quicker than the telling, the demon was cast out, and the person was purified.

About the same time, as Martin was returning from Trier, a cow came to meet him, which a demon was driving; and, having left its herd, it was rushing at people, and already, savage and wanton, it had gored many. But when it began to draw near to us, those who were following it from a distance began to shout loudly that we should beware. But after it approached nearer to us, raging with fierce eyes, Martin, raising his hand against it, bade the beast stand still: and it presently, at his word, began to stand motionless. Meanwhile Martin sees the demon sitting upon its back, and rebuking it, he says, Depart, deadly one, from the beast, and cease to trouble the harmless animal. The wicked spirit obeyed, and withdrew.

Nor was the young cow lacking in the sense to understand that it had been freed: having regained its calm, it lay prostrate before the feet of the saint, then, at Martin's bidding, sought its own herd again, and mingled itself, gentler than a sheep, with the ranks of the others. This was that time when, placed amid the midst of flames, he did not feel the fire: which I do not think needs to be recounted by me; because this Sulpicius has related it more fully, although it was passed over in his book, in a letter which he afterward wrote to Eusebius, then a priest, now a bishop: which you have ready at hand, whenever you please, from that cabinet: we relate what he omitted. On a certain occasion, moreover, while he was going about the dioceses, we came upon a band of hunters.

The dogs were pursuing a hare: and now, the little creature exhausted by much running, since there was no escape anywhere in the widely open fields, was putting off, by frequent turnings, the death that was ever imminent, ever about to seize it. The blessed man, pitying its peril with a compassionate mind, ordered the dogs to cease pursuing, and to allow the fleeing creature to depart: and they, at the very first word of his command, stood still. You would have believed them bound, or rather fixed, to their tracks.

Thus the little hare, with its pursuers bound, escaped unharmed. It is worth the effort, however, to record also his familiar sayings, seasoned with spiritual salt.

He had chanced to catch sight of a sheep recently shorn. “This one,” he said, “has fulfilled the Gospel precept: she had two tunics; one of them she has given to one who had none: so ought you also to do.” Likewise, when he had seen a swineherd shivering and almost naked in a garment of skins, “Behold,” he said, “Adam, cast out of paradise, feeds swine in a garment of skins: but let us rather, having put off that old man who still remains in this one, put on the new Adam.” Oxen had grazed away part of a meadow, and pigs too had rooted up some of it; the remaining part, which stayed unharmed, bloomed as if painted with various flowers. “That part,” he said, “bears the likeness of marriage: grazed by cattle, though it has not entirely lost the grace of its grasses, yet it retains no dignity of flowers: but that part which the unclean swine have rooted up presents the foul image of fornication: while that portion which has felt no injury shows forth the glory of virginity, luxuriating rich in grasses, abounding in the fruit of hay, and, adorned beyond all comparison with flowers as if gleaming with jewels, it shines forth.

Blessed and God-worthy is that appearance! For nothing is to be compared to virginity: so too those who compare marriage to fornication err grievously; and those who reckon marriage to be equal to virginity are utterly wretched and foolish. But this distinction must be held by the wise: that marriage belongs to pardon, virginity looks to glory, fornication is assigned to punishment, unless it be purged by satisfaction.”

A certain soldier, having professed himself a monk, had cast off his military belt: he had built himself a cell far off in a remote place, meaning to live as it were a hermit. Meanwhile the crafty enemy stirred his dull heart with various thoughts, that his wife—whom Martin had ordered to be in a monastery of maidens—having changed her mind, might rather wish to dwell with him. So the valiant hermit went to Martin and confessed what was in his mind. But Martin strongly refused: that it was unfitting reasoning for a woman to be joined again to a man now a monk, not a husband.

At last, when the soldier persisted, affirming that this would in no way harm his resolve—that he wished only to enjoy the comfort of his wife—and that there was no fear of their falling back again into their former vices, since he was a soldier of Christ, and she too had sworn the same sacraments of that same warfare—he begged that the bishop would allow holy persons, whose sex, by the merit of their faith, went unregarded, to serve equally as soldiers together. Then Martin (I shall relate his very words to you) said: “Tell me, have you ever been in war?

Have you ever stood in the battle line?” And he answered, “Often have I stood in the line, and often taken part in war.” To this Martin said: “Tell me then, in that line which was drawn up armed for battle, or when already, foot to foot with the enemy’s army, fighting hand to hand with drawn sword—did you ever see any woman standing or fighting there?” Then at last the soldier, confounded, blushed, giving thanks that he had not been allowed to fall into his error, and that he had been corrected not by harsh reproof of words, but by a true and reasonable comparison suited to a soldier’s character. Then Martin, turning to us (for a great crowd of brethren had, as usual, surrounded him), said: “Let woman not approach the camp of men; let the ranks of soldiers stand apart; let the woman remain far off, dwelling in her own tent: for an army is rendered contemptible if a crowd of women is mixed among the companies of men.

Let the soldier, the soldier fight in the field: let the woman keep herself within the defenses of the walls. She too has her own glory, if she has kept her chastity while her husband is absent: whose first virtue and consummate victory is, not to be seen.”

But this, Sulpicius, I believe you remember—with what feeling he told us, when you too were present, of that virgin who had so utterly withdrawn herself from the sight of all men, that she did not even admit Martin himself to her presence, when he wished to visit her out of duty: for as he was passing by her little field, in which she had already for many years kept herself in chastity, having heard of her faith and virtue, he turned aside, that a bishop might honor with a religious visit a maiden of such distinguished merit.

We who followed him thought that virgin would rejoice; since indeed she would have this as testimony to her virtue, that a priest of so great a name had come to her, laying aside the rigor of his resolve: but she did not relax the bonds of her most steadfast purpose even out of regard for Martin: thus the blessed man, having received through another woman a commendable excuse, departed joyfully from the doors of her who had not allowed herself to be seen or greeted. O glorious virgin, who did not suffer herself to be seen even by Martin! O blessed Martin, who did not take that refusal as an insult to himself, but, magnifying her virtue with exultation, rejoiced in an example unusual, at least, in these regions!

So when nightfall compelled us to lodge not far from that little estate, that same virgin sent a gift to the blessed man: and Martin did what he had not done before (for he had never accepted a gift or present from anyone); he refused nothing of what the venerable virgin had sent, saying that her blessing was by no means to be spurned by a priest, since she was to be preferred to many priests. Let virgins, I beg, hear this example, that they may close their doors, if they wish to resist evils, even against good men; and, lest access be open to the wicked, let them not be afraid to exclude even priests. Let this whole world hear it: a virgin did not allow herself to be seen by Martin. She did not, indeed, repel any priest whatsoever from herself; but the maiden did not come into the sight of that man whose sight was the salvation of those who saw him.

But what other priest besides Martin would not have taken this as an injury to himself? What indignation and how great wrath he would have conceived in his mind against the holy virgin! He would have judged her a heretic, and decreed that she should be anathematized. But how far he preferred that blessed soul to those virgins who everywhere make themselves available to meet the priest at every turn, who arrange sumptuous banquets, who recline at table together with him! But whither does my speech lead me? This somewhat freer discourse must be restrained a little, lest perhaps it give offense to some: for to the unfaithful, words of reproof will profit nothing, but to the faithful, the example will suffice. Yet I shall so praise the virtue of this virgin, that I think nothing should be detracted from those who have often come from distant regions to see Martin; since indeed even angels frequently visited that blessed man with the same affection.

Moreover, what I am about to say, Postumianus, I rightly assert with you as witness (for he was looking at me). One day I and this Sulpicius, keeping watch before his doors, had already for some hours been sitting in silence, with great awe and trembling, as if we were keeping an appointed watch before the tabernacle of an angel, while he, with the door of his cell shut, did not know we were there. Meanwhile we hear the murmur of persons conversing, and presently we are surrounded by a certain awe and stupor; nor could we fail to perceive that something divine was taking place. After about two hours Martin came out to us: and then this Sulpicius (as no one spoke with him more familiarly) began to beg him to reveal, to those asking with pious intent, what that divine awe had been which we both confessed we had felt, or with whom he had been conversing in his cell: for we had heard, though faintly and scarcely intelligibly, the sound of persons speaking before the doors.

Then he, hesitating long and much (but there was nothing that Sulpicius could not wring from him against his will—I am perhaps about to say something scarcely credible, but with Christ as witness I do not lie: unless anyone is so sacrilegious as to think Martin had lied), said: “I will tell you; but I beg you, tell no one.” “Agnes, Thecla, and Mary have been with me.” And he described to us their countenance and singular bearing. Nor indeed was it only on that day, but he confessed that he was frequently visited by them: he did not deny that Peter and Paul the apostles too had often been seen by him. As for the demons, according to whichever one came to him, he would rebuke them each by name. Mercury he found especially troublesome; Jupiter, he said, was brutish and dull.

These things seemed incredible to very many, even to those established in the same monastery; much less would I be confident that all who hear them will believe: for unless Martin had led a life and virtue beyond estimation, he would by no means be held among us in such great glory; although it is not at all strange if human weakness has doubted concerning Martin’s works, since we see that many today have not believed even the Gospels. But from Martin himself we have often, familiarly, both perceived and experienced that angels were seen by him. I shall relate a very small matter, but I shall relate it nonetheless. At Nemausus a synod of bishops was being held, to which indeed he had not wished to go, but he desired to know what had been done there. By chance this Sulpicius was sailing with him; but, as always, he sat apart from the others, alone, in a remote part of the ship. There an angel announced to him what had been done in the synod.

We afterward, carefully inquiring into the time the council had been held, found it sufficiently established that it was on that very day of the assembly, and that the decrees made there by the bishops were those which the angel had announced to Martin.

Moreover, when we asked him about the end of the world, he told us that Nero and Antichrist would come first: that Nero would rule over ten kings subdued in the Western region, and would carry on persecution to such a degree that he would compel the worship of the idols of the nations: but that the empire of the East was first to be seized by Antichrist, who indeed would have Jerusalem as the seat and head of his kingdom: that by him the city and the temple were to be rebuilt: that his persecution would be such as to compel the denial of Christ as God, he himself asserting rather that he was Christ; and that he would command all to be circumcised according to the law: that finally Nero himself would be slain by Antichrist, and thus the whole world and all nations would be brought under his power, until, at the coming of Christ, the wicked one should be overwhelmed: and that there was no doubt that Antichrist, conceived by an evil spirit, was already born, and established in his boyhood years, destined to assume power when he reached the lawful age.

Now it is the eighth year since we heard these things from him. Judge for yourselves how near to the brink already stand those things which are feared as future. While Gallus was speaking these things most earnestly, not yet having finished relating what he had determined to tell, a household servant entered, announcing that the presbyter Refrigerius was standing before the doors. We began to hesitate, whether it were better still to listen to Gallus, or to go meet the most longed-for man who was coming to us out of duty. Then Gallus said: “Even if this discourse did not have to be broken off on account of the arrival of the most holy priest, the night itself would compel us to end the speech, already so prolonged. But since not everything concerning Martin’s virtues could possibly be set forth, let it suffice that you have heard these things today: tomorrow we shall tell the rest.” Thus, having accepted this promise of Gallus, we rose together.

It is growing light, Gallus: we must rise: for, as you see, Postumianus is pressing us; and this priest here, who lost his audience yesterday, is waiting for you, as debtor of your promise, to unfold what you had put off concerning our Martin, to be explained until this day. Not that he is ignorant of all the things that ought to be remembered: but the recognition of things known is sweet and pleasant even to one who reads them over again; since it is so ordered by nature that one rejoices to know with a better conscience the things which he learns, by the testimony of many, not to be uncertain. For he too, having followed Martin from his earliest youth, indeed knows all things, but gladly goes over again what he already knows.

For I will confess to you, Gallus, that Martin's virtues have been heard by me quite often; indeed I who have also committed many things about him to writing: but through admiration of his deeds, those things are always new to me which are told over about him, though heard quite often. Accordingly we congratulate ourselves the more heartily that Refrigerius has been added to us as a listener, in that this Postumianus here, who is hastening to carry these things to the East, will receive the truth from you sealed, as it were, under witnesses, all the more readily. While I was saying this, and Gallus was already prepared to begin his narration, a crowd of monks burst in: Evagrius the priest, Aper, Sebastianus, Agricola: and after a little while our priest Etherius entered with Calupio the deacon, and Amator the subdeacon: last of all my very dear Aurelius the priest, coming by a longer road, ran up out of breath.

"Why," I said, "have you all come running so suddenly and so unexpectedly, from such different places, so early in the morning?" "We," they said, "learned yesterday that this Gallus had spent the whole day telling of Martin's virtues, and had put off the rest until today, because night had overtaken us: therefore we hastened to make a large audience for one about to speak on so great a subject." Meanwhile it is announced that many of the laity are standing before the doors, not daring to enter, but praying to be admitted. Then Aper said, "It is by no means fitting that these be mixed in with us: because they have come to listen out of curiosity rather than religion." I was embarrassed on behalf of those whom he judged should not be admitted. At last I with difficulty obtained that they should admit Eucherius, one of the vicars, and Celsus the consular: the rest were turned away.

Then we set Gallus in the middle seat: who, when he had for a long time kept silence out of his noble modesty, at last began thus:

"You have come together," he said, "to hear me, both holy and eloquent men; but you have brought, I think, ears more devout than learned, about to hear me speaking as a witness of faith, not with the abundance of an orator. As for what was said yesterday, I will not go over it again: those who did not hear it will learn it again from the writings. Postumianus awaits new things, to report to the East, lest he prefer the East to the West in comparison with Martin. And first my mind is eager to relate that which the presence here of Refrigerius suggests. The thing was done in the city of Chartres. A father began to offer to Martin a twelve-year-old girl, dumb from birth, asking that the holy man, by his merits, might loose her bound tongue. He, deferring to the bishops who happened then to be at his side, Valentinus and Victricius, confessed that he was unequal to so great a task; but they declared that nothing was impossible to such holy authority.

And they, joining pious prayers with the suppliant father's voice, begged Martin to grant what was hoped for. And without further delay (both things admirable, both the showing of humility and the not delaying of piety), he orders the surrounding multitude of people to be removed: with only the bishops and the girl's father standing by, he prostrates himself in prayer according to his custom: then he blesses a little oil with the utterance of an exorcism; and thus, holding the girl's tongue with his fingers, he poured the sanctified liquid into her mouth. Nor did the outcome of his power fail the Saint. He asks the father's name: presently she answered. The father cried out, embracing Martin's knees with joy and tears together, and confessed, to the astonishment of all, that this was the first time he had heard his daughter's voice. And lest this seem incredible to anyone, let Evagrius, here present, bear you testimony of the truth, for the thing was done while he himself was present."

"Small is that thing which I lately learned from the account of the priest Harpagus: but it does not seem to be passed over. The wife of Count Avitianus sent Martin oil, which he should bless (as is the custom) for use against various causes of illness: the glass flask was of such a kind that it grew round in the belly, with a narrow mouth extended; but the hollow of the projecting mouth was not filled, because it is the custom to fill those vessels in such a way that the topmost part is left free for stopping with the plugs.

The priest testified that he saw the oil grow under Martin's blessing, until with overflowing abundance it flowed out over the top: and that the same oil, while the little vessel was being carried back to the matron, boiled with power: for between the hands of the boy carrying it, the oil so overflowed continually that it covered his whole garment with the abundance of the poured-out liquid: and the matron received the vessel filled right up to the very brim; so that the priest confesses even today that there was no room in that glass for inserting the stopper, with which such things are usually kept more carefully closed. That other thing is also wondrous, which I remember happened to this man here (he was looking at me). He set a glass vessel of oil, which Martin had blessed, on a somewhat higher windowsill: an incautious young servant, not knowing the flask was there, pulled at a cloth laid over it.

The vessel fell onto the marble pavement below: while everyone was terrified with fear lest the blessing be lost, the flask was found just as unharmed as if it had fallen upon the softest feathers; which thing is to be attributed not so much to chance as to Martin's power, whose blessing could not perish. What of that other thing, which was done by a certain man whose name, because he is present and has forbidden his identity to be disclosed, shall be suppressed? At which time Saturninus here also was present. A dog was barking at us rather insolently: 'In the name of Martin,' he said, 'I command you to be silent.' The barking stuck in the dog's throat: its tongue (you would think it cut off) fell silent. So little is it that Martin himself worked wonders: believe me, for others too have done many things in his name."

"You knew formerly the too barbarous, and beyond all measure bloody, ferocity of Count Avitianus. This man, entering the city of Tours with a raging spirit, with pitiable ranks of chained men following him, orders various kinds of punishments to be prepared for putting them to death, arranging to proceed to so grim a task the next day, while the city trembled with dread. When this became known to Martin, alone, a little before midnight, he made his way to the headquarters of that beast: but since, in the silence of deep night, with everyone at rest, no entrance lay open, the doors being watched, he threw himself down before the blood-stained threshold.

Meanwhile Avitianus, buried in heavy sleep, is struck by the onset of an angel: 'The servant of God,' it said, 'lies at your threshold, and do you rest?' Having heard this voice, he was shaken out of his bed in agitation; and, having summoned his servants in trembling, he cried out that Martin was before the doors: they should go at once, unbar the gates, lest the servant of God suffer any injury; but they, as is the nature of all servants, having scarcely gone out to the first threshold, mocking their master for having been deceived by a dream, declare that there is no one before the doors, judging from their own disposition that no one could keep watch at night, much less believing that at that horror of the night a priest lay before another's threshold: and this was easily believed by Avitianus. Again he sinks into sleep; but presently, shaken with greater force, he cries out that Martin is standing before the doors: that on this account no rest of mind or body is allowed him.

While the servants delay, he himself advances all the way to the outer threshold: there he finds Martin, just as he had perceived. Struck, the wretched man, by the manifestation of such great power, said, 'Lord, what have you done to me? There is no need for you to speak: I know what you desire, I see what you require: depart as quickly as possible, lest the wrath of heaven consume me on account of the wrong done to you: I have already paid enough of punishments up to now. Believe me, that it was no light matter within me that I myself should come out.' And after the Saint's departure he summons his officials; he orders all the prisoners to be released; and presently he himself sets out. Thus, with Avitianus put to flight, the city rejoiced at being set free."

"These things, learned from Avitianus's own report to many, then lately the priest Refrigerius, whom you see present here, heard from Evagrius, a faithful man, of the tribunes, under invocation of the divine majesty, who swore to him that this had been told him by Avitianus himself. For the rest, I do not want you to be surprised that I do today what I did not do yesterday, namely, that to each and every wonder I append the names and persons of witnesses, to whom, if anyone is doubtful, since they are still in the body, he may resort. The unbelief of very many demands this, who are said to waver about certain things that were recounted yesterday. Let them then receive witnesses still safe and living, whom, since they doubt our faith, they may believe the more. But if they are so unbelieving, I declare that they will not believe even them.

I marvel, however, that anyone who has even a slight sense of religion should wish to commit so great a sin, as to think that anyone could lie about Martin. Let such a suspicion be far from anyone who lives under God: for Martin does not need to be asserted by lies. But nevertheless we set forth before you, O Christ, the good faith of this whole discourse, that we have said and will say nothing other than what we ourselves either have seen, or have learned from manifest authorities, or very often from his own report. For the rest, even though we have adopted the appearance of a dialogue, so that the reading might be varied to relieve weariness, we profess that we render, in devotion, the truth of history. The unbelief of certain persons has compelled me, not without pain on my part, to insert these things from outside.

But let the discourse return to our assembly: in which, since I see myself heard with such eagerness, I must confess that Aper acted rightly in turning away the unbelievers, judging that only those ought to listen who believe."

"For I am carried away (believe me) in spirit, and I am utterly beside myself for grief: Christians do not believe Martin's virtues, which the demons themselves confessed! The blessed man's monastery was separated from the city by two miles: but if, as often as he was about to come to the church, he set foot outside the threshold of his cell, you would see, throughout the whole church, the possessed roaring, and, as if a judge were approaching, bands doomed to condemnation trembling, so that the groaning of demons announced the bishop's arrival to clerics who did not know he was coming. I saw a certain man, as Martin approached, snatched up into the air, hanging aloft with hands outstretched, so that he did not touch the ground at all with his feet.

But whenever Martin undertook the exorcising of demons, he never touched anyone with his hands, he never rebuked anyone with words, as commonly a whirlwind of words is spun out by clerics; but, having brought the possessed forward, he ordered the rest to withdraw, and with the doors shut, in the middle of the church, wrapped in a hairshirt, sprinkled with ashes, prostrate on the ground, he prayed. Then indeed you might see the wretched ones driven to different outcomes: some, with feet lifted up on high, hanging as if from a cloud, and yet their garments did not fall down over their faces, lest the exposed part of the body cause shame: while on the other side you would see others tormented without any questioning, confessing their own crimes. They even gave their names when no one asked: this one confessed himself to be Jupiter, that one Mercury.

In short, you would see all the devil's ministers tormented along with their very author; so that we may now confess fulfilled in Martin what is written: 'Because the saints shall judge angels.'"

"A certain district in the Senonais was ravaged every year by hail. Driven by extreme calamities, the inhabitants sought help from Martin, sending a delegation through Auspicius, a man of prefectorial rank, quite trustworthy, whose fields especially the harsher storm than the others' was accustomed to devastate. But prayer having been offered there, Martin so thoroughly freed the whole region from the encroaching plague, that for twenty years, during which he afterwards remained in the body, no one in those places endured hail. And lest this be thought a chance thing and not rather granted by Martin, in that year in which he died the revived storm again fell upon it: so much did even the world feel the passing of the faithful man, that the same world which rightly rejoiced in his life, mourned also his death. For the rest, if a weaker listener should demand witnesses to prove what we have said, I would produce not one man, but many thousands, and I would summon the whole region of Sens as witness to the power it has experienced.

And yet you, priest Refrigerius, I believe, remember that lately we had a conversation on this matter with Romulus, the son of that Auspicius, an honored and religious man; who related these things to us as though they were unknown to us, and, when he trembled at the prospects of the harvests through constant losses, as you yourself saw, mourned with great grief within himself, that Martin was not reserved for these times."

But to return to Avitianus (who, though in all places and in every city he put forth unspeakable monuments of his cruelty, was innocent only at Tours: and that beast which was nourished on human blood and the deaths of the unfortunate showed himself gentle and calm in the presence of the blessed man), I recall that on a certain day Martin came to him: and when he had entered his secretarium, he saw behind his back a demon of wondrous size sitting there.

Whom, breathing out upon from a distance (to use a word, since it is necessary, though not very Latin), Avitianus, thinking that he himself was being breathed upon, said, "Why do you receive me thus, Holy One?" Then Martin said, "Not you, but him who foully sits upon your neck." The devil withdrew, and left the seat he had been wont to occupy: and it is well enough established that from that day Avitianus was gentler, either because he understood that he had always been acting according to the will of the devil sitting beside him, or because the unclean spirit, driven from his company by Martin, was deprived of the power of raging, since the minister was ashamed before his master, and the master no longer urged on his minister. Now in the village of Ambatia, that is, in that old fortified place which is now inhabited by a crowd of brothers, you knew there was an idol-temple built with great effort.

A towering mass had risen up of the most polished stones, which, rising to a lofty cone, preserved the superstition of the place by the dignity of the work. The blessed man had often ordered its destruction to Marcellus, the priest residing there. After some time, returning, he rebuked the priest for the fact that the structure of the idol-temple still stood. The priest excused himself, saying that scarcely could so great a mass be overthrown by a military force and the might of a public multitude, much less did he think it could easily be accomplished by weak clerics or feeble monks. Then Martin, having recourse to his accustomed aid, spent the whole night in prayer: in the morning a storm arose and cast down the temple of the idol even to its foundation. But let these things be said on the testimony of Marcellus.

I relate another power of his, not unlike this one, performed in a similar work, with Refrigerius as witness. He was preparing to overthrow a column of immense mass, upon which an idol stood: but there was no means by which this could be brought to effect; then, as was his custom, he turned to prayer. It is certain that a column of like size in a certain manner was seen to fall from the sky, which, striking the idol, dissolved that whole impregnable mass into dust: for it would have counted for little had he used the powers of heaven invisibly, unless those very powers were seen visibly to serve Martin even by human eyes. This same Refrigerius is my witness that a woman suffering from a flow of blood, when she had touched Martin's garment after the example of that woman in the Gospel, was healed in a moment of time.

A serpent was cutting across a river, and swimming toward the bank on which we stood: "In the name of the Lord," he said, "I command you to return." At once the wicked beast turned itself around at the word of the Saint, and crossed over to the further bank as we watched. When we all beheld this, not without wonder, he, sighing more deeply, said, "Serpents hear me, and men do not hear me."

Being accustomed to eat fish on the days of Easter, a little before the hour of refreshment he asked whether any was at hand. Then Cato the deacon, to whom the administration of the monastery belonged, himself skilled in fishing, said that he had had no catch at all throughout the whole day; nor could the other fishermen, who were accustomed to sell fish, accomplish anything either. "Go," he said, "cast your line: a catch will come." We had dwellings adjoining the river, as this Sulpicius has described: we all went out, as it was a holiday, to watch him fishing, everyone's hopes intent that the attempts would not be in vain, by which fish, at Martin's instance, would be sought for Martin's use. At the first cast the deacon drew up in a very small net an enormous pike, and running back joyfully to the monastery, indeed, as some poet I know not who has said (for we use a scholastic verse, since we are conversing among scholars):

And brought in the captive boar to the wondering Argives.

Truly, this disciple of Christ, an emulator of the mighty works performed by the Savior, which He set forth as an example to His saints, showed Christ working in himself, who, glorifying His saint in every way, conferred the gifts of various graces upon one man. Arborius, a former prefect, testifies that he saw Martin's hand, as he offered the sacrifice, clothed as it were with the noblest gems, gleaming with a purple light, and that at the movement of his right hand he heard the clashing sound of the gems striking one another.

I shall come now to that which, on account of the nearness of the times, he always kept hidden; but it could not be hidden from us: in which there is this miracle, that an angel spoke with him face to face. The emperor Maximus, otherwise indeed a good man, corrupted by the counsels of the priests, after the death of Priscillian, was protecting by royal force Ithacius, the bishop who had accused Priscillian, and the rest of his associates, whom it is not necessary to name, lest anyone should charge it as a crime against him that by their doing a man of whatever sort had been condemned. Meanwhile Martin, compelled by many and weighty causes of those in distress to go to the court, ran straight into the very storm of the whole tempest. The bishops gathered at Trier were held there, who, by daily communicating with Ithacius, had made his cause their own. When it was announced to them, unexpectedly, that Martin was present, utterly shaken in their minds, they began to murmur and tremble.

And already the day before, the emperor, at their instigation, had decreed that tribunes armed with supreme power should be sent to Spain, to search out heretics; and, once they were apprehended, to take away their life and goods. Nor was there any doubt that this storm would have laid waste even the greatest multitude of the saints, with little distinction between kinds of men; for at that time judgment was made by the eyes alone, when a man was reckoned a heretic rather by his pallor or his dress than by his faith. The bishops perceived that all this would by no means please Martin: but to men of guilty conscience this was a most troublesome care, lest, upon his arrival, he should hold himself apart from their communion, since there would not be lacking those who, following the authority set before them, would imitate the steadfastness of so great a man.

They took counsel with the emperor, that officers of the Master of Offices should be sent to meet him, forbidding him to approach nearer to the city, unless he should declare that he would come in peace with the bishops residing there. He, cunningly deceiving them, declared that he would come in the peace of Christ. At last, entering by night, he went to the church only for the sake of prayer: the next day he sought the palace. Among many petitions, which it would take long to unfold, he had these principal ones: for Narses the count, and Leucadius the governor, both of whom had been of Gratian's party, the wrath of the victor, now retired, being provoked by their more obstinate zeal, which it is not for this occasion to explain.

This was his chief concern, that tribunes with the power of the sword should not be sent to Spain: for it was Martin's pious anxiety, that he might free not only the Christians who were liable to be harassed on that pretext, but even the heretics themselves. But for the first day and the second the crafty emperor kept the man in suspense, whether to give weight to the matter, or because he was too implacable toward him, or because, as many then thought, avarice resisted—since indeed he had set his eye greedily upon their goods. For it is said that this man, endowed with many good deeds, took too little care against avarice: unless perhaps he may be excused by the necessity of his rule, since, the treasury of the state having been exhausted by previous emperors, and he being almost always engaged in expedition and the array of civil wars, he sought by whatever occasions to provide resources for the empire.

Meanwhile the bishops, with whose communion Martin would not enter, ran in alarm to the king, complaining that they were already condemned in advance: that the standing of them all was at stake, if Martin's authority should arm the obstinacy of Theognistus, who alone had openly condemned them by pronounced sentence: that it was not fitting the man be received within the walls, that he was now not a defender of heretics, but an avenger: that nothing had been accomplished by the death of Priscillian, if Martin should carry out vengeance for him. At last, prostrating themselves with weeping and lamentation, they implored the royal power to use its force against one man. And it lacked but little that the emperor should have been compelled to mingle Martin with the lot of the heretics.

But he, though he was under great obligation to the bishops through excessive favor, was not unaware that Martin surpassed all mortals in faith, holiness, and virtue: he prepared to overcome the saint by a far different way: and first, having summoned him privately, he addressed him kindly: that the heretics had been condemned justly, according to the manner of public trials rather than through the persecutions of priests; that there was no reason why he should think the communion of Ithacius and the rest of his party should be condemned; that Theognistus had made the schism out of hatred rather than out of just cause; and yet that he alone had separated himself for the time from communion, while nothing had been altered as regards the rest; nay, that a synod held a few days before had pronounced that Ithacius was not held guilty of any fault.

When Martin was little moved by these things, the king was inflamed with anger, and tore himself away from his presence: and presently the executioners were sent against those for whom Martin had interceded.

When this became known to Martin, it being now nighttime, he burst into the palace; he promised, if they were spared, that he would enter into communion, provided that the tribunes already sent to Spain to the destruction of the churches should also be recalled. Without delay, Maximus grants everything. The next day the ordination of Bishop Felix was being prepared, indeed a most holy man, and plainly worthy to have been made a priest in better times. Martin entered into the communion of that day, judging it better to yield for the moment, than not to take thought for those over whose necks the sword was hanging; nevertheless, though the bishops strove with all their might that he should confirm that communion by his signature, they could not extort it from him.

The next day, tearing himself away from there, as he was returning on the road and sighing sorrowfully that he had even for a moment been mingled with a harmful communion; not far from the village called Andethanna, where the secret places of vast forest solitudes lie, his companions having gone on a little ahead, he stopped, turning over in his mind, one thought accusing and another defending, the cause of his grief and of what he had done. An angel suddenly stood by him: "Rightly, Martin," he said, "are you stung with remorse; but you could not have come out otherwise; recover your strength, resume your steadfastness, lest you incur now not danger to your glory, but to your salvation." And so from that time he took sufficient care to avoid mingling with that communion of the Ithacian party.

Moreover, when he cured certain of those possessed by demons more slowly than he was wont, and with lesser grace, he confessed to us at times with tears, that on account of the evil of that communion, in which he had been mingled, if only for a moment, by necessity, not by the spirit, he felt a diminishment of virtue. He lived sixteen years after this: he attended no synod, and withdrew himself from all assemblies of bishops.

But plainly, as we have experienced, he repaired by manifold recompense the grace diminished for a time. I saw afterward a man possessed by a demon brought to the outer court of his monastery, and before he touched the threshold, he was cured. I lately heard someone testifying, that when he was sailing on that course by which one makes for Rome across the Tyrrhenian Sea, storms suddenly arising, there was the utmost peril of life for all: in which, when a certain Egyptian merchant, not yet a Christian, cried out with a loud voice, "God of Martin, deliver us," presently the tempest was calmed, and they held the desired course amid the utmost calm of a peaceful sea. Lycontius, a former vicar, a faithful man, when a deadly plague was afflicting his household, and, by an example of unheard-of calamity, sick bodies were falling throughout the whole house, implored Martin's help by letter.

At that time the blessed man promised that the thing would be difficult to obtain: for he perceived in spirit that that house was being scourged by divine will: nevertheless he did not cease, continuing for seven whole days and as many nights in prayer and fasting, until he obtained what he had undertaken to entreat for. Presently Lycontius, having experienced this divine benefit, flew to him, both announcing and giving thanks, that his house had been freed from all danger.

He also offered a hundred pounds of silver, which the blessed man neither rejected nor accepted, but before that weight touched the threshold of the monastery, he at once assigned it to the ransoming of captives; and when it was suggested to him by the brothers that he should reserve something of it for the expense of the monastery, since food was scarce for all, and many lacked clothing, he said, "Let the Church feed and clothe us, provided we do not seem to have sought anything for our own uses." Here come to mind the great miracles of that man, which we can more easily admire than relate. You surely recognize what I speak of: there are many things of his which cannot be explained: as is this case, which I do not know whether it can be set forth by me exactly as it happened.

A certain one of the brothers (you are not ignorant of his name; but the person must be concealed, lest we cause the holy man embarrassment)—a certain one, then, having found an abundance of coals at his little furnace, and, with a little stool drawn up, sitting with legs apart over that fire with his groin uncovered; at once Martin perceived that an injury had been done to his sacred covering, crying out in a loud voice: "Who," he said, "with uncovered groin defiles our dwelling?" When that brother heard this, and recognized from his conscience that it was he who was being rebuked, he ran at once to us breathless, confessing his shame, not without acknowledging Martin's power.

Likewise on a certain day, while he had sat down in the courtyard which surrounded, in a very small space, his cell, on that wooden seat of his which you all know, he saw two demons standing on that high rock which overhangs the monastery, and from there, cheerful and joyful, uttering a cry of encouragement of this sort: Up now, Brictius; up now, Brictius. I believe they were watching the wretched man approaching from a distance, being aware how great a rage they had stirred up in him. Without delay, Brictius rushed in in a fury, and there, full of madness, vomited forth a thousand insults against Martin. For he had been reproved by him the day before, because he, who before entering the clergy had never possessed anything, was now keeping horses and buying slaves: for already at that time he was accused by many of having bought not only barbarian boys but also girls of comely countenance.

Roused by these things with an insane bitterness, that most unhappy man, and, as I believe, especially driven on by the instigation of those demons, attacked Martin in such a way that he scarcely restrained his hands; while the Saint, with a calm countenance and tranquil mind, checked the madman's frenzy with gentle words. But so much did that wicked spirit overflow in him, that not even his own mind, however empty it was, remained under him: with trembling lips and a discolored, unsteady face from fury he rolled out words of sin, asserting himself to be holier; since from his earliest years he had grown up in the monastery among the sacred discipline of the Church under Martin's own tutelage: whereas Martin, from the very beginning—something he himself could not deny—had been sullied by the deeds of military service, and now had grown old amid vain superstitions and the ridiculous phantasms of visions, among sheer ravings.

When he had vomited forth these things and many others, even more bitter, which it is better to pass over in silence, at last, his fury sated, as though he had thoroughly avenged himself, he went off, rushing back swiftly the way he had come: when meanwhile, I believe through Martin's prayers, the demons having been put to flight from his heart, he was brought back to penitence, and soon returned, and threw himself at Martin's knees: begging pardon, he confessed his error, and admitted that he had not been without a demon, now that he was at last sane again. It was no difficult labor for Martin to forgive one who begged pardon. Then the Saint explained to him and to all of us how he had seen him being agitated by demons, and that he himself was not moved by the insults, which rather harmed the one from whom they had poured forth.

From then on, although the same Brictius was often burdened before him with many and great accusations, he could not be compelled to remove him from the priesthood, lest he seem to be avenging his own injury; often repeating this saying: If Christ endured Judas, why should I not endure Brictius?

To this Postumianus said: Let that man of ours nearby hear this example, who, though he is wise, forgetful of the present, forgetful of the future, if he has been offended, goes mad, not having himself in his own power: he rages against clerics, he assails laymen, and stirs up the whole world for his own vengeance: persisting in this struggle continually for three years, he is calmed neither by time nor by reason: a lamentable and pitiable condition for a man, even if he were burdened by this single incurable pestilence of evil. But you, Gallus, ought rather to have related more often such examples of patience and tranquility, so that he might not know how to be angry, but know how to forgive.

If he should happen to learn that this brief remark of mine has been made concerning him, let him know that I have spoken not more with the mouth of an enemy than with the heart of a friend: because, if it were possible, I would wish that he be said to resemble Martin the bishop rather than Phalaris the tyrant. But let us pass over this man, whose mention gives little pleasure, and let us return, Gallus, to our Martin.

Then I, when I already perceived that evening was at hand as the sun was setting, said: The day has gone, Postumianus: we must rise: and besides, supper is owed to such eager listeners. But concerning Martin, you must not expect that there should be any limit to the telling: he spreads more widely than could be contained in any discourse. Meanwhile you shall carry these things about him to the East, and as you hasten back, passing by various regions, places, ports, islands and cities, scatter the name and glory of Martin among the peoples.

Above all, remember not to pass by Carthage: even though it is quite out of your way, let no expense of even great delays matter so much to you that you should not go there to visit that illustrious man, praised throughout the whole world, Paulinus: to him, I beg you, unroll first the volume of our discourse, whether we finished it yesterday or spoke it today: to him relate everything, to him recite it all, so that soon through him Rome may learn of the sacred praises of the man; just as he spread abroad our earlier little book not only through Italy, but also through the whole of Illyricum. He, not envious of Martin's glories, and a most devoted admirer of holy virtues in Christ, will not refuse to compare our bishop with his own Felix.

Then, if perchance you shall cross over to Africa, you will relate what you have heard at Carthage: although, as you yourself have said, it has long known the man, yet let it now especially learn more about him, lest it admire there only its own martyr Cyprian, however consecrated by his holy blood. Now if you turn a little to the left and enter the gulf of Achaia, let Corinth know, let Athens know, that Plato was not wiser in the Academy, nor Socrates braver in prison: happy indeed is Greece, which merited to hear the Apostle preaching: but by no means have the Gauls been abandoned by Christ, to whom he granted the possession of Martin. And when you shall have come even as far as Egypt, although that land is proud of the number and virtues of its own saints, yet let it not disdain to hear that Europe has not yielded even to all of Asia, in Martin alone.

Moreover, when from there you shall have committed your sails again to the winds to seek Jerusalem, I lay upon you a task of our grief: that, if ever you come to the shore of that famous Ptolemais, you inquire anxiously where our friend Pomponius lies buried, and do not disdain to visit foreign bones. Pour out there many tears, both from your own affection and from my inmost heart: and, though you cannot embrace the grave itself, scatter over it purple flowers and sweetly fragrant grasses. Yet speak to him—but not harshly, not bitterly, in the tone of one who sympathizes, not of one who reproaches: that if he had ever wished to listen to you, or always to me, and had imitated Martin rather than him whom I do not wish to name, he would never, so cruelly separated from me, be covered by the sands of an unknown shore, having suffered, by the lot of a shipwrecked man plundered by pirates, death in the midst of the sea, and scarcely obtained burial on the farthest shore.

Let those who wished to harm me by his departure see this, their own work: let them see their glory, and now at last, having had their revenge, let them cease to assail one who is turned away from them. While we were lamenting these things with a most tearful voice, and the tears of all were stirred by our mourning, we parted with great admiration for Martin, but no less sorrow at our own weeping.