The Second Letter, to Aurelius the Deacon: A Vision of Saint Martin

Sulpitius Severus sends greetings to Aurelius the deacon.

After you left me this morning, I was sitting alone in my cell. As often happens, my mind turned to the hope of the future that I cherish, together with a weariness of this present world, a terror of the judgment and a fear of punishment. As a result of all this, or rather as the very source from which that whole train of thought had flowed, I remembered my sins, and the memory left me worn out and miserable. Then I laid my limbs, tired from the anguish of my mind, on my bed, and sleep crept over me, as often happens when one is sad. Sleep in the morning hours is always rather light and unsettled, and so it spread through my limbs only in a hovering, uncertain way. So it happens, as it does not in a different kind of slumber, that a person can feel he is dreaming while he is almost awake. [a]

In this state I suddenly seemed to see Saint Martin appear to me as a bishop, clothed in a white robe, with a face like fire, eyes like stars, and purple hair. He appeared to me with the very look and bodily form I had known, so that, though I find it hard to say what I mean, he could not be looked at steadily, and yet he could be clearly recognized. With a gentle smile toward me, he held out in his right hand the little book I had written about his life. For my part, I embraced his holy knees and asked for his blessing, as is the custom. Then I felt his hand laid on my head with the sweetest touch, and among the solemn words of the blessing he repeated again and again the name of the cross, so familiar on his lips. Soon after, while my eyes were fixed on him and I could not gaze enough at his face, he was suddenly taken from me and lifted up on high. At last he passed through the vast expanse of the air, and though my straining eyes followed him as he rose in a swiftly moving cloud, I could no longer see him, however I gazed after him. Not long after, I saw the holy presbyter Clarus, a disciple of Martin’s who had recently died, rise in the same way I had seen his master rise. Shamelessly wanting to follow, and reaching and straining after those lofty steps, I suddenly woke up.

Roused from sleep, I had begun to rejoice over the vision when a boy, a servant of the household, came in to me with a face sadder than a person’s usually is when he is putting his grief into words. “What is it,” I asked him, “that you want to tell me with such a sorrowful face?” “Two monks have just come here from Tours,” he answered, “and they bring word that Martin is dead.” I confess I was cut to the heart. I burst into tears and wept and wept. Even now, brother, as I write this to you, my tears are flowing, and I find no comfort for a grief I can hardly bear. When this news reaches you, I want you to share my grief, just as you shared his love with me. So come to me, I beg you, without delay, so that together we may mourn the man we both love.

And yet I know well that such a man ought not to be mourned. After his victory and triumph over the world, the crown of righteousness has now at last been given to him. Still, I cannot command myself enough to keep from grieving. No doubt I have sent on ahead of me one who will plead my cause in heaven; but at the same time I have lost the great comfort of this present life. Yet if grief would give way to reason, I certainly ought to rejoice. For he is now among the apostles and prophets, and, with all respect to the saints on high, he is second to no one in that company of the righteous. So I firmly hope, believe and trust. He is joined above all to those who washed their robes in the blood of the Lamb, and now he follows the Lamb as his guide, free from every stain.

For although the character of our times could not give him the honor of martyrdom, he will not go without the glory of a martyr, because by his vow and by his virtues alike he was both able and willing to be a martyr. If he had been allowed to take part in the struggle that went on in the times of Nero and of Decius, I call the God of heaven and earth to witness that he would freely have mounted the rack and readily given himself up to the flames. Yes, worthy to be compared with the famous Hebrew young men, he would have sung a hymn to the Lord among the circling flames, in the very middle of the furnace. If the persecutor had chosen to inflict on him the punishment that Isaiah suffered, he would never have shown himself less than the prophet, nor shrunk from having his limbs torn apart by saws and swords. If godless fury had preferred to drive the blessed man over sheer rocks or steep mountains, I declare that he would willingly have fallen, holding fast to his witness to the truth. And if, after the example of the teacher of the Gentiles, he had been included, as often happened, among other victims condemned to die by the sword, he would have been the first to urge the executioner on to his work, so that he might win the crown of blood.

Indeed, far from shrinking from confessing the Lord in the face of all those penalties and punishments that so often prove too much for human weakness, he would have stood so firm that he would have smiled with joy and gladness over the sufferings and torments he endured, whatever tortures might have been inflicted on him. But although he did not in fact suffer any of these things, he fully attained the honor of martyrdom without shedding his blood. For what agonies of human suffering did he not endure for the hope of eternal life, in hunger, in sleepless nights, in nakedness, in fasting, in the insults of the spiteful, in the persecutions of the wicked, in care for the weak, in anxiety for those in danger? Who ever suffered, and Martin did not suffer with him? Who was made to stumble, and he did not burn? Who was lost, and he did not grieve deeply? Besides all this, there were the daily struggles he carried on against the many attacks of human and spiritual wickedness; and through them all, assailed as he was by every kind of temptation, there always prevailed in him courage to conquer, patience to wait, and calm to endure.

O man truly beyond words in devotion, in mercy, in love! That love grows cold every day even in holy men, through the coldness of the world; but in him it increased to the very end and held firm from day to day. I myself had the happiness of enjoying this grace in him to a special degree, for he loved me in a particular way, though I was far from deserving such affection. And at the memory my tears burst out yet again, while groans rise from the bottom of my heart. In what man will I ever again find such rest for my spirit as I found in him? In whose love will I find such comfort? Wretched and sunk in grief as I am, can I ever, if my life is spared, stop lamenting that I have outlived Martin? Will there be any pleasure in life for me from now on, any day or hour free from tears? Can I ever, my dearest brother, speak of him to you without lamenting? And yet, when I talk with you, can I ever talk of anything but him?

But why do I stir you up to tears and lamenting? Instead, I want you now to be comforted, though I cannot comfort myself. He will not be absent from us. Believe me, he will never, never leave us. He will be present with us as we talk about him, and near us as we pray. The happiness he was pleased to grant even today, the sight of him in his glory, he will often grant in the future; and he will protect us with his unceasing blessing, as he did only a little while ago. Then again, as the vision showed, he made it plain that heaven is open to those who follow him, and taught us where we ought to follow him; he instructed us where our hope should be directed and to what goal our minds should be turned. Yet, my brother, what is to be done? For I know well that I will never be able to climb that difficult ascent and enter those blessed regions. Such a wretched burden weighs me down. Since the load of sin that overwhelms me keeps me from rising to heaven, its cruel pressure instead sinks me in my misery down to the place of despair. Still, hope remains, one last and only hope: that what I cannot obtain by myself, I may at least be found worthy of through Martin’s prayers for me.

But why, brother, should I keep you any longer with a letter that has turned out so talkative, and so delay your coming to me? Besides, my page is now full and can hold no more. My purpose in stretching out my words somewhat beyond due measure was this: since this letter brings you news of sorrow, it might also bring you comfort, through this friendly sort of conversation with you.