The Letters of Sulpicius Severus

Sulpicius severus to Aurelius the deacon, greeting.

After you had departed from me in the morning, I was sitting alone in my cell, and that thought which so often occupies me had crept upon me—the hope of things to come, and weariness of things present, the fear of judgment, the dread of punishments; and, as a consequence, and from which the whole train of thought had descended, the remembrance of my sins had made me sad and worn out.

Then, when I had laid my limbs, wearied with anguish of soul, upon my little bed, sleep stole over me, as usually happens from sadness (which, as is always the case in the early morning hours, is lighter and uncertain, and is diffused through the limbs in a suspended and doubtful manner; so that, which does not happen in other sleep, you feel yourself almost sleeping while awake); when suddenly I seemed to see the holy bishop Martin, clad in a white toga, with a fiery countenance, starry eyes, and hair of purple hue; and he appeared to me in that same bodily condition and form in which I had known him, so that—which is almost difficult for me to express—he could not be looked at, though he could be recognized. And smiling a little upon me, he held out in his right hand the little book which I had written on his life.

I, embracing his holy knees, according to custom begged for a blessing; and I felt his hand laid upon my head with a most gentle touch, while amid the solemn words of blessing he repeated that familiar name of the cross which was ever on his lips. Soon, as I fixed my eyes upon him, unable to be satisfied with gazing on his countenance and presence, suddenly he was caught up on high and snatched from me; until, the vast expanse of that air having been traversed, though we followed with the gaze of our eyes him who was borne up on a swift cloud, once received into the open heaven he could no longer be seen. Not long after, I see the holy presbyter Clarus, his disciple, who had lately departed this life, climbing the same path as his master.

I, shamelessly desiring to follow, while I strain and struggle to take lofty steps, awake; and roused from sleep, I had begun to congratulate myself on the vision, when a familiar boy comes in to me, sadder than usual, with a face both speaking and grieving at once. What, said I, makes you so eager to speak, yet so sad? But he said: Two monks have just arrived from Tours, who announce that our lord Martin has passed away. I collapsed, I confess, and, tears bursting forth, I wept most abundantly. Indeed, even now, brother, as I write this to you, tears flow, nor do I admit any consolation for my most impatient grief. But you, as soon as this was announced to me, I wished to make a partner in my mourning, you who were a partner in my love.

Come to me at once, then, that we may mourn together him whom together we love; although I know that that man is not to be mourned, for whom, after the world had been overcome and triumphed over, the crown of righteousness has now at last been rendered. But still I cannot command myself not to grieve. I have indeed sent on ahead a patron, but I have lost the solace of my present life; although, if grief admitted any reasoning, I ought to rejoice. For he is joined together with apostles and prophets, and—may I say this with the peace of all the saints—in that band of the just, second to none, as I hope, believe, and trust, joined above all to those who have washed their robes in blood, he follows, wholly unspotted by any stain, the Lamb as leader.

For although the circumstance of the times could not afford him martyrdom, yet he will not lack the glory of a martyr, because by will and by virtue he both could have been, and wished to be, a martyr. But if it had been granted him, in the times of Nero or of Decius, to strive in that contest which then existed, I call to witness the God of heaven and earth, he would of his own accord have mounted the rack, would have thrown himself of his own will into the flames, and, made equal to the Hebrew children, amid the very balls of flame, would have sung the hymn of the Lord in the furnace.

And if perchance that punishment of Isaiah had pleased the persecutor, never indeed, unequal to the prophet, would he have feared to have his limbs cut asunder with saws and plates of iron; but if impious fury had preferred to make him die happily upon cliffs hewn away and mountains broken off, I declare, trusting in the testimony of truth, that he would have thrown himself down of his own accord. But if, after the example of the teacher of the Gentiles, condemned to the sword, he had been led among other victims, as often happens, he would have been the very first of all, compelling the executioner, to seize the palm of blood. Nay, against all pains and tortures, to which human weakness for the most part has yielded, he would have stood so unmoved, not departing from confession of the Lord, that, rejoicing in wounds and delighting in torments, he would have laughed amid whatever tortures.

But although he did not endure these things, yet he fulfilled martyrdom even without bloodshed; for what sufferings of human pain did he not endure, for hope of eternity—hunger, watchings, nakedness, fastings, the reproaches of the envious, the persecutions of the wicked, care for the sick, anxiety for those in peril? For whose suffering did he not suffer? By whose scandal was he not burned? At whose perishing did he not groan?—apart from those daily struggles of his against the various assaults of human and spiritual wickedness, while, though beset by manifold temptations, there always prevailed in him the strength to conquer, the patience to await, and the equanimity to endure. O truly ineffable man, in piety, in mercy, in charity, which—though it grows cold daily even in holy men as the world itself grows cold—in him nevertheless persevered, increasing day by day, even to the end! Of which good I myself have had a special enjoyment, since he loved me uniquely, unworthy and undeserving as I was.

Behold, again tears flow, and a groan bursts forth from the depth of my breast. In what man hereafter shall I find rest like his, in whose charity shall there be solace for me? Wretched, unhappy that I am! Shall I ever be able, if I live longer, not to grieve that I have survived Martin? Will life hereafter be pleasant to me, will there be a day or an hour without tears? Or shall I ever, dearest brother, be able to make mention of him to you without weeping? Or shall I ever, speaking with you, be able to speak of anything but him? But why do I move you to tears and weeping? Behold, I now desire that you be consoled, I who cannot console myself.

He will not fail us, believe me, he will not fail us: he will be present with those speaking of him, he will stand by those who pray; and, that which he has already deigned to grant this very day, he will often show himself to be seen in his glory, and will protect us with constant blessing, as he did but a little while ago. Thence, following the order of the vision, he showed that heaven lies open to those who follow him, and taught by what path he must be followed; he instructed us whither our hope should be directed, whither our mind should be turned. Yet what will become of me, brother?—for I am myself conscious that I shall not be able to climb that arduous path, and to enter in; so heavily does a troublesome burden weigh me down, and, pressed down by the mass of sin, consent to the stars being denied me, cruel fate leads me, pitiable as I am, down to the shades below.

Yet hope still remains—that alone, that last hope—that what we cannot obtain by ourselves, we may at least deserve to obtain through Martin's prayer for us. But why do I detain you longer, brother, with so talkative a letter, and delay your coming? Besides, the page is now full and will hold no more. Yet this was my reason for prolonging this discourse so far: that, since the letter was bearing to you the news of my grief, the same paper might afford you, out of a certain conversation of ours, some consolation.

Sulpicius severus to Bassula, his venerable parent, greeting.

If it were permitted to summon parents into court, we would drag you before the praetor's tribunal, guilty as you plainly are of pillage and theft, with just indignation. For what wrong do I not have cause to complain of, that I suffer from you? You have left me at home not a single little paper, not a booklet, not a letter: so utterly do you pilfer everything, so entirely do you publish it abroad. If I have written anything privately to a friend; if I have dictated anything by chance, while at leisure, which I nevertheless wished to remain hidden, all of it reaches you almost before it has been written or dictated.

Doubtless you have bribed my secretaries, through whom my trifles are made public to you; and yet I cannot take action against them, if they obey you, since they came under my authority chiefly through your own generosity, and still remember that they belong to you rather than to me: you alone are guilty, you alone are to blame, who both lay snares for me and circumvent them by fraud, so that, without any discrimination, things written familiarly or carelessly sent out are handed over to you utterly unpolished and unworked upon. For, to say nothing of the rest, I ask how that letter which I recently wrote to Aurelius the deacon could have reached you so quickly. For I was staying at Toulouse, you were established at Trier, and separated so far from your homeland by a restless son—by what chance, then, did you steal that private letter?

For I have received your letter, in which you write that, in the same letter in which I made mention of the death of the lord Martin, I ought to have set forth the passing of the blessed man himself. As if indeed I had published that letter to be read by anyone other than the very person to whom it seems to have been sent, or as if I were destined for so great a work, that everything which ought to be known about Martin should become known chiefly through my writing. And so, if you desire to hear anything about the death of the holy bishop, learn it rather from those who were present: I have determined to write nothing to you, lest you publish me everywhere; yet if you give your word that no one shall read it, I will satisfy your wish in a few words: and so I will make you a partaker of what I have learned.

Martin, then, foreknew his death long beforehand, and told the brethren that the dissolution of his body was imminent. Meanwhile there arose an occasion for him to visit the diocese of Candes; for since the clerics of that church were quarreling among themselves, wishing to restore peace, though he was not ignorant of the end of his days, he did not refuse to set out for such a cause: judging this to be a good consummation of his virtues, if he should leave the peace of the church restored. So having set out with that most numerous and most holy company of his disciples, as always, he caught sight of diving birds on the river following a catch of fish, and pressing their rapacious gluttony with constant seizures.

"This," he said, "is the form of demons: they lie in wait for the unwary, seize the unknowing, devour the seized, and cannot be sated by what they have devoured." Then by the powerful virtue of his words he commanded that, leaving the water on which they were swimming, they should seek dry and deserted regions: employing, indeed, upon those birds that same command by which he was accustomed to put demons to flight; and so, forming themselves into a flock, all those birds gathered together, and leaving the river sought the mountains and the woods, not without the admiration of many who saw such power in Martin that he could even command birds. Having therefore lingered for some time in that village, or in the church to which he had gone, peace having been restored among the clerics, when he was already thinking of returning to the monastery, he began suddenly to fail in bodily strength: and having called together his disciples, he indicates that he is now being dissolved.

Then indeed came the grief and mourning of all, with one voice of lamentation: "Why, father, do you forsake us? Or to whom do you leave us desolate? For ravening wolves will invade your flock: and when the shepherd is struck down, who will protect us from their bites?

We know indeed that you desire Christ; but your rewards are safe for you, nor will they be diminished by delay: have pity rather on us, whom you forsake." Then he, moved by these tears—since he was always wholly overflowing with the inmost depths of mercy in the Lord—is said to have wept: and turning to the Lord, he answered those who wept with only this word: "Lord, if I am still necessary to your people, I do not refuse the labor: your will be done." Truly, placed between hope and love, he almost hesitated as to which he would prefer: because he wished neither to forsake these, nor to be separated any longer from Christ: yet he set nothing upon his own wish, nor left anything to his own will, committing himself wholly to the judgment and power of the Lord.

Does he not seem to you to say, in these very few words: "Grievous indeed, Lord, is the struggle of bodily warfare, and it is enough already that I have fought thus far; but if you still bid me stand in the same labor before the camp of your people, I do not refuse, nor will I plead the excuse of failing age; devoutly will I fulfill your service; under your standards, for as long as you yourself command, I will do battle; and although discharge after labor is desired by an old man, yet my spirit is victor over the years, and knows not how to yield to old age. But if you now spare my age, it is good for me, Lord: your will be done: but as for those for whom I fear, you yourself will guard them." O ineffable man, neither conquered by labor, nor to be conquered by death, who inclined to neither side, neither fearing to die, nor refusing to live!

And so, though for some days he was held fast by the force of fevers, yet he did not cease from the work of God: spending the night in prayers and vigils, he compelled his failing limbs to serve the spirit, reclining upon that noble bed of his, ashes and sackcloth.

And when he was asked by his disciples to allow at least some cheap bedding to be placed under him, "It is not fitting, my sons," he said, "for a Christian to die otherwise than in ashes and sackcloth; if I leave you any other example, I myself have sinned." With his eyes and hands, therefore, always fixed upon heaven, he did not relax his unconquered spirit from prayer; and when he was asked by the priests, who had then flocked to him, to relieve his poor body by a change of side, "Allow me, allow me, brothers," he said, "to look rather upon heaven than upon earth, so that my spirit, about to set out on its journey, may be directed to the Lord." Having said this, he saw the devil standing near. "Why do you stand here," he said, "bloody beast? You will find nothing in me, deadly one. Abraham's bosom will receive me."

With this word, then, he rendered up to heaven his spirit, wearied by his divine works; and those who were present have testified to us that, even in his lifeless body, they saw the glory of the glorified man. His countenance shone brighter than light, while not even a faint blemish darkened the rest of his limbs; indeed, in those parts also which men are not accustomed to look upon without shame, there appeared, as it were, the grace of a boy of seven years. Who would ever have believed that this body had been covered with sackcloth, who that it had been wrapped in ashes? So much purer than glass, whiter than milk, was he now shown forth, already in a certain glory of the resurrection to come, and in a nature of flesh already transformed. And indeed, as for the attendance at his funeral, it cannot be believed how great a multitude of men came together: the whole city rushed forth to meet the body; all came from the fields and the villages, and many also from the neighboring towns. O how great was the mourning of all, how great above all the lamentations of the grieving monks! who on that day are said to have come together to the number of almost two thousand, drawn by the special

glory of Martin, by whose example so many great stocks have put forth their shoots into the service of the Lord. For truly the shepherd led before him his flocks, the pale throngs of that holy multitude, companies clad in the pallium, whether old men whose labors were now completed, or novices sworn to Christ under his sacraments. Then the choir of virgins, restrained from weeping by very shame, since they felt that he ought rather to be rejoiced over, whom the Lord now cherished in his own bosom, yet how ill did they conceal, beneath their holy joy, the grief they felt! For though faith forbade them to weep, affection nonetheless wrung forth a groan; for their exultation over his glory was as holy as their confusion at his death was pious. You would have forgiven those who wept, and rejoiced with those who rejoiced: for it is a pious thing to rejoice for Martin, and a pious thing to weep for Martin; since each one both does what is due to himself, in grieving, and what is owed to Martin, in rejoicing. This, then, is the body of the blessed man which the throng, resounding with heavenly hymns, escorts even to the place of burial. Let that worldly pomp be compared, if you please — I will not say of a funeral, but of a triumph: what could be likened to the funeral rites of Martin? Let those generals lead before their chariots captives bound behind their backs: Martin's body is escorted by those who, under his guidance, had overcome the world; let the madness of the crowds honor those others with confused applause: Martin is applauded with divine psalms; Martin is honored with heavenly hymns. Those others, after their triumphs, will be thrust down into the cruel depths of hell; Martin is joyfully received into Abraham's bosom. Martin, poor and lowly here, enters heaven rich. From there, keeping watch over us, as I hope, he looks upon me as I write this, and upon you as you read it.