Dialogues 1.16–2.3

“There was also the famous name of another anchorite in those regions, who lived in the part of the desert that belongs to Syene. When he had first gone to the desert, intending to live on the roots of plants, which the sand sometimes produces very sweet and of excellent flavor, not knowing how to choose the plants he often picked harmful ones. Nor was it easy to tell the strength of the roots by taste, for all were equally sweet, but many, by a more hidden nature, contained a deadly poison. So when the force within tormented him as he ate, and all his vital organs were shaken with immense pains, and frequent vomiting with unbearable agonies was dissolving the very seat of life, his stomach already failing, he was so afraid of everything edible that he was spending the seventh day fasting, his breath failing, when a wild animal called an ibex came up to him. As it stood close by, he threw to it a bundle of plants which he had gathered the day before and did not dare to touch; and the beast, pushing aside with its mouth those that were poisonous, picked out those it knew to be harmless. So the holy man, taught by its example what he ought to eat and what reject, both escaped the danger of starvation and avoided the poisons of the plants. But it would take long to tell what we learned or heard about all who inhabit the desert. I spent a whole year and about seven months living in the solitude, more an admirer of others’ virtue than able myself to attempt so arduous and difficult a way of life; yet I lived most often with that old man who had the well and the ox.

“I went to the two monasteries of the blessed Antony, which are inhabited by his disciples to this day. I also went to the place where the most blessed Paul, the first hermit, lived. I saw the Red Sea and the ridge of Mount Sinai, whose summit almost touches heaven and cannot be reached at all. Among its recesses a certain anchorite was said to live, whom, after long and hard searching, I could not see. Withdrawn from human society for nearly fifty years already, wearing no clothing, covered with the hair of his body, he did not know his nakedness, by the gift of God. Whenever devout men wished to approach him, he would run off to pathless places and avoid meeting people. He was said to have shown himself to only one person, five years before, who, I believe, deserved to obtain this by his strong faith; and when that man, among many conversations, asked him why he avoided people so much, he is said to have answered that one who is visited by men cannot be visited by angels. Hence, not without reason, report had spread abroad, accepted by many, that that holy man was visited by angels. For my part, leaving Mount Sinai, I returned to the river Nile, whose banks, crowded with monasteries, I traveled along on both sides. For the most part I saw, as I said before, a hundred living in one place; but it was well known that two and three thousand lived in the same villages. And do not suppose that there is less virtue there among the monks living in a multitude than you have learned there is among those who have withdrawn from human company. The chief and first virtue there, as I have said, is obedience; nor is a newcomer received by the abbot of a monastery in any other way than after he has first been tested and proved, as one who will never refuse any command of the abbot, however arduous and difficult and hard to bear.

“I will tell you two very great miracles of incredible obedience, though more come to mind as I recall them; but for stirring up emulation of virtues, those for whom a few are not enough will not be helped by many. So when a certain man, having renounced the affairs of the world, came to a monastery of great discipline and asked to be received, the abbot began to set many things before him: the labors of that discipline were heavy, and his own commands harsh, such as no one’s patience could easily fulfill; he should rather seek another monastery, where people lived under easier rules, and not attempt to undertake what he could not carry out. But he was not at all moved by these threats; rather he promised complete obedience, so that if the abbot ordered him to go into the fire, he would not refuse to enter. When the master heard this profession, he did not hesitate to test the one who made it. As it happened, an oven was burning nearby, heated with a great fire and being made ready for baking bread: the flame was pouring out of the open furnace, and within the hollow of that oven the fire reigned with full rein. The master orders the newcomer to go in there, and he did not delay to obey the command: without hesitation he walked into the midst of the flames, which, overcome at once by so bold a faith, gave way to him as he came, as once to the Hebrew youths. Nature was overcome, the fire fled; and he who was expected to burn was himself amazed to be as though bathed in cool dew. But what wonder, Christ, if that fire did not touch your recruit? So that neither did the abbot regret having given hard orders, nor the disciple repent of having obeyed the command; on the very day he had come, while he was being tested as weak, he was found perfect; deservedly happy, deservedly glorious, proved by obedience, he was glorified by suffering.

“In the same monastery, what I am going to tell was reported as a recent memory. Another man had likewise come to the same abbot to be received. When the first law of obedience was laid on him, and he promised unending patience in all things, even the most extreme, the abbot happened to be holding in his hand a staff of storax wood, long since dried up. He fixed it in the ground and laid this task on the newcomer: to keep the stick watered until, against all nature, the dry wood should grow green in the dry ground. The newcomer, submitting to the command of this hard law, carried water every day on his own shoulders, fetched from the river Nile about two miles away. And now a year had passed, and the worker’s labor did not cease, though there could be no hope of fruit from the work; yet the virtue of obedience held out in the labor. The following year too mocked the vain labor of the now exhausted brother. At last, as the third course of the seasons was passing, while that water-carrier did not cease working night or day, the stick blossomed. I saw the little tree itself that grew from that stick, which to this day stands in the courtyard of the monastery with green branches, as though remaining as a witness, and shows how much obedience has merited and how much faith can do. But the day will fail me before I finish the various miracles I have learned of the virtues of the saints.

“I will tell you two more remarkable things: one will be an excellent example against the swelling of wretched vanity, the other no small lesson against false righteousness. A certain holy man, endowed with an incredible power of putting demons to flight from possessed bodies, worked unheard-of signs every day. For he healed possessed bodies not only when present, and not only by a word, but sometimes also when absent, by the fringes of his hair shirt or by sending letters. So he was visited in a wonderful way by peoples coming to him from the whole world. I say nothing of lesser people: prefects and counts and judges of various ranks often lay before his doors. Most holy bishops too, laying aside their priestly authority, humbly begged to be touched and blessed by him, and believed, not without reason, that they were sanctified and enlightened by a divine gift whenever they had touched his hand or garment. He was said to abstain entirely from all drink forever, and for food (I will whisper it in your ear, Sulpicius, so that Gallus does not hear) to live on only six dried figs. Meanwhile, as honor came to the holy man from his power, so from honor vanity began to creep in. When he first could feel this evil spreading in him, he tried long and hard to shake it off; but it could not be wholly driven out, even by silently acknowledging the vanity, while his power persisted. Everywhere the demons confessed his name; he could not shut out the crowds flocking to him. Meanwhile the hidden poison was creeping in his breast, and he at whose nod demons were driven from the bodies of others could not cleanse himself of the secret thoughts of vanity. So, turning to God with all his prayers, he is said to have asked that power over him be given to the devil for five months, and that he might become like those whom he himself had healed. Why should I delay with many words? That man of great power, famous throughout the East for signs and mighty works, to whose threshold crowds had flocked, at whose doors the highest powers of this world had prostrated themselves, was seized by a demon and held in chains; and having suffered all those things that the possessed usually endure, in the fifth month he was cleansed, not only of the demon, but, what was more useful and more desired for him, of vanity.

“But as I go over these things, our unhappiness, our weakness comes to mind. For which of us is there who, if one humble little man greets him or one woman praises him with silly and flattering words, is not at once lifted up with pride, at once puffed up with vanity? So that even if he has no consciousness of holiness, yet because he is called holy, through the flattery or perhaps the mistake of fools, he will think himself most holy! And if gifts are frequently sent him, he will declare that he is honored by the magnificence of God, since necessities are supplied to him while he sleeps and takes his ease. And if any signs of any power, even a little, came to him, he would think himself an angel. Moreover, though he is conspicuous neither for work nor for virtue, if someone has been made a cleric, he at once enlarges his fringes, rejoices in greetings, is puffed up by people coming to meet him, runs about everywhere himself; and he who used to go on foot or on a donkey is carried proudly by foaming horses; formerly content to live in a small and cheap cell, he raises lofty ceilings, builds many rooms, carves doors, paints cupboards, rejects coarser clothing, desires soft garments, and lays these as tributes on dear widows and familiar virgins, one to weave him a stiff cloak, another a flowing mantle. But let us leave these things to be described more sharply by the blessed Jerome; let us return to our purpose.” “You,” said my Gallus, “I do not know what you have left to Jerome: you have summed up all the practices of our people so briefly that I think these few words of yours, if they take them calmly and weigh them patiently, will do them much good, so that they will not need to be restrained by Jerome’s books hereafter. But do you rather unfold what you had begun, and bring out that lesson which you promised to tell against false righteousness; for, to confess the truth to you, we in Gaul suffer from no more pernicious evil.” “I will do so,” said Postumianus, “and will not keep you in suspense any longer.

“A certain young man from Asia, very rich, of famous family, with a wife and a little son, was a tribune in Egypt; in frequent expeditions against the Blemmyes he had reached certain parts of the desert and had seen many dwellings of the saints, and he received the word of salvation from the blessed John. Without delay he despised his useless military service along with its empty honor, entered the desert steadfastly, and in a short time shone out perfect in every kind of virtue. Strong in fasting, conspicuous in humility, firm in faith, he had easily equaled the old monks in zeal for virtue, when meanwhile a thought, cast in by the devil, came over him: that it would be more right to return to his homeland and save his only son and his whole household together with his wife; that this would surely be more acceptable to God than if, content to snatch himself alone from the world, he neglected the salvation of his family, not without impiety. Overcome by such a show of false righteousness, after about four years the hermit deserted his cell and his purpose. But when he came to the nearest monastery, which was inhabited by many brothers, he confessed to those who asked the reason and plan of his departure. Though all opposed him, and especially the abbot of that place tried to hold him back, the decision wrongly fixed in his mind could not be torn away. So, rushing off in unhappy obstinacy, he left the brothers, to the sorrow of all. He had scarcely gone out of sight when he was filled by a demon, and, foaming blood at the mouth, tore himself with his own teeth. Then he was carried back on the brothers’ shoulders to the same monastery, and since the unclean spirit could not be restrained in him, of necessity he was bound with iron chains, his feet and hands fettered: no undeserved punishment for a runaway, that a chain should restrain the man whom faith had not restrained. At last, after two years, freed from the unclean spirit by the prayer of the saints, he soon returned to the desert from which he had departed, himself corrected and an example to others, that no one should be deceived by the shadow of false righteousness or be driven by uncertain fickleness and useless levity to abandon what he has once begun. Let it be enough for you to know these things about the mighty works of the Lord, which he has worked in his servants, either for imitation or for fear. But since I have satisfied your ears, indeed have perhaps been more talkative than I should, you now” (he was speaking to me) “pay the interest you owe, so that we may hear you telling more about your Martin, as you usually do; my desires have long been burning for this.”

“What?” I said. “Is that book not enough for you about my Martin, which you yourself know I published about his life and miracles?” “I know it, indeed,” said Postumianus, “and that book never leaves my right hand. For if you recognize it, look” (and he opened the book, which was hidden in his clothing) “here it is. This,” he said, “has been my companion on land and sea; this has been my comrade and comforter on my whole journey. But I will tell you how far this book has penetrated, and how there is hardly any place in the world where the subject of so happy a story is not widely known. The first to bring it to the city of Rome was Paulinus, a man most devoted to you; then, when it was being snatched up eagerly by the whole city, I saw the booksellers rejoicing, because nothing brought them more profit, since nothing sold more readily or more dearly. Running far ahead of my voyage, when I came to Africa, it was already being read throughout Carthage. Only that Cyrenian presbyter did not have it, but he copied it from my gift. And what shall I say of Alexandria? There it is known to almost everyone, better than to you. It has passed through Egypt, Nitria, the Thebaid, and all the regions of Memphis. I saw it being read in the desert by a certain old man; and when I told him that I was a friend of yours, he and many brothers laid on me this commission: that if ever I reached these lands and found you safe, I should compel you to supply what you said in that book of yours you had passed over of the blessed man’s miracles. Come then: since I do not want to hear from you the things that are adequately written, let those things which you passed over then, I believe for fear of wearying readers, be set out, as many ask of you along with me.”

“Indeed, Postumianus,” I said, “while I was listening intently to you for so long about the miracles of the saints, I kept returning in silent thought to my Martin, rightly perceiving that all those different things which individuals had done were easily accomplished by this one man. For though you told of lofty things, I heard nothing at all from you (I may say it with the leave of the saints) in which Martin was inferior. But just as I declare that no one’s power is ever to be compared with that man’s merits, so it should be noted that he is compared on unequal terms with the hermits or even the anchorites. For they, free from every hindrance, with only heaven and the angels as witnesses, are taught to do plainly wonderful things; but he, in the midst of the crowds and dealings of the peoples, among quarreling clergy, among raging bishops, pressed on this side and that by almost daily offenses, nevertheless stood grounded in a virtue unconquerable against everything, and did such things as not even those did whom we have heard to be or to have been in the desert. And even if they had done equal things, what judge would be so unjust as not to judge that he deserved to be ranked higher? For suppose he was a soldier who fought on unfavorable ground and yet came off victor, and compare them likewise to soldiers, but ones who fought on equal or even higher ground. What then? Even if all have one victory, not all can have equal glory. Moreover, though you told of splendid things, you told of no one raising the dead; in this one thing at least it must be confessed that no one is to be compared with Martin.

“For if it is admirable that the flame did not touch that Egyptian, Martin too often commanded fires. If you recall that the ferocity of beasts was overcome and gave way to the anchorites, Martin, as a matter of course, checked both the rage of beasts and the venom of serpents. And if you compare him with the man who healed those possessed by unclean spirits by the command of his word or even by the power of his fringes, there is much evidence that Martin was not inferior even in this respect. If you go back to the one who, covered by his hair instead of clothing, was thought to be visited by angels, angels talked with Martin every day. Moreover, he kept a spirit so unconquered against vanity and boasting that no one has despised those vices more bravely, although he very often healed people seized by unclean spirits while absent, and gave orders not only to counts and prefects but even to kings themselves. That is the least among his virtues; but I would have you believe that no one resisted more bravely not only vanity but even the causes and occasions of vanity. I am going to tell a small thing, but one not to be passed over, because he too is to be praised who, endowed with the highest power, showed so devout a wish to honor the blessed man. I remember that the prefect Vincentius, an excellent man, than whom no one in Gaul is more eminent in every kind of virtue, when passing through Tours, often asked Martin to give him a meal in his monastery (in this he put forward the example of the blessed bishop Ambrose, who at that time was said often to entertain consuls and prefects); but Martin, a man of loftier mind, refused, lest some vanity and pride should creep in from it. So you must confess that in Martin were the virtues of all those you have listed, but Martin’s were not in all of them.”

“Why do you speak to me so,” said Postumianus, “as though I did not think the same as you, and always have? As long as I live and have my senses, I shall always proclaim the monks of Egypt, praise the anchorites, admire the hermits: Martin I shall always except; I dare not compare any monk, and certainly not any bishop, with him. Egypt confesses this, Syria has learned it, the Ethiopian has found it out, the Indian has heard it, the Parthian and the Persian know it, Armenia is not ignorant of it, the remote Bosporus has learned it, and lastly anyone who visits the Fortunate Isles or the icy ocean. All 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 involve the common people in this charge: only the clergy, only the priests do not know him; and not without reason did they in their envy refuse to know him, because if they had known his virtues, they would have recognized their own vices. I shudder to say what I heard lately, that some unhappy man said that you lied a great deal in that book of yours. That is not the voice of a man but of the devil; nor is Martin disparaged in this, but faith in the Gospels is detracted from. For since the Lord himself testified that works of this kind, which Martin accomplished, are to be done by all the faithful, he who does not believe that Martin did them does not believe that Christ said them. But the unhappy, degenerate, sleepy men are ashamed that he did what they themselves cannot do, and prefer to deny his miracles rather than confess their own sloth. But as we are hurrying on to other things, let all memory of them be left behind; you rather, as I have long desired, put together the rest of Martin’s works.” “But I,” I said, “think this should more rightly be asked of Gallus, since he knows more (for the disciple could not be ignorant of his master’s deeds), and not without reason he owes this turn not only to Martin but also to us; for I have already published a book, and you have so far recounted the deeds of the Easterners; let Gallus at last unfold this story that must be told, because, as I said, he owes us his turn to speak, and will, I believe, do Martin the service of recounting his deeds without reluctance.”

“For my part,” said Gallus, “though I am unequal to so great a burden, yet I am compelled by the examples of obedience related above by Postumianus not to refuse this task you lay on me. But when I reflect that I, a Gaul, am going to speak among Aquitanians, I fear that my rather rustic speech may offend your too refined ears. Yet you will hear me as a man of Gurdo, speaking nothing with paint or buskin. For if you have granted that I am Martin’s disciple, grant this too: that I may, after his example, despise the empty trappings of speech and ornaments of words.” “Speak,” said Postumianus, “in Celtic, or, if you prefer, in Gallic, so long as you speak of Martin. I believe that even if you were mute, words would not fail you to speak of Martin with an eloquent mouth, just as Zechariah’s tongue was loosed at the name of John. But since you are a rhetorician, you do this very thing artfully like a rhetorician, excusing your lack of skill because you overflow with eloquence. But it is not fitting for a monk to be so crafty, nor for a Gaul to be so cunning. But rather set to, and unfold what remains for you; for we have been spending time too long on other matters, and already the lengthening shadow of the setting sun warns us that not much of the day is left, with night near.” Then, when we had all been silent for a little, Gallus began thus: “I think I must take care above all not to repeat those things about Martin’s miracles which Sulpicius here recorded in his book. So I pass over his first deeds while he was a soldier, nor will I touch on what he did as a layman and as a monk; and I will tell not what I heard from others but what I saw myself.”

“At the very beginning, then, when I had left the schools and joined 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 to be given clothing. Then Martin called the archdeacon and ordered him to clothe the shivering man without delay. Then he went into the sacristy and sat there alone, as was his custom (for he secured this solitude for himself even in the church, giving the clergy their freedom, while the presbyters sat in another sacristy, either free for receiving visitors or busy hearing business; but Martin kept to his solitude until the hour at which custom required the solemn rites to be performed for the people). I will not pass over this, that when sitting in the sacristy he never used a chair; indeed in church no one ever saw him sit, as I lately saw someone, God is my witness, not without shame, sitting on a lofty throne and a high seat like a royal tribunal. Martin, by contrast, sat on a rustic little stool, such as servants use, which we rustic Gauls call tripeccia, and you rhetoricians, or at any rate you who come from Greece, call tripods. Into this privacy of the blessed man that poor man burst, since the archdeacon had put off giving him a tunic, complaining that he had been ignored by the cleric and lamenting that he was cold. Without delay the holy man, without the poor man seeing, secretly drew the tunic off himself from under his outer cloak, covered the poor man with it, and told him to go away. Then a little later the archdeacon came in and reminded him, as was the custom, that the people were waiting in the church and that he ought to go out to perform the solemn rites. Martin answered that the poor man must first be clothed (he meant himself); he could not go to the church unless the poor man received a garment. The deacon, understanding nothing, since he did not see that Martin, covered outwardly by his cloak, was naked underneath, finally pleaded that the poor man was not to be found. ‘Let the garment that has been prepared be brought to me,’ said Martin; ‘a poor man to be clothed will not be lacking.’ Then at last the cleric, forced by necessity, his bile already stirred, snatched from the nearest shops a Bigerrian garment, short and shaggy, bought for five pieces of silver, and laid it angrily at Martin’s feet. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘is the garment, but the poor man is not here.’ Martin, not at all moved, told him to stand outside the doors for a little, contriving privacy while he, naked, put on the garment, striving with all his strength to keep hidden what he had done. But when are such things in holy men hidden from those who seek them? Willing or not, everything comes out. So he went out in this garment to offer the sacrifice to God.

“On that day (I am going to tell a marvel), when he was already blessing the altar, as is the rite, we saw a globe of fire shoot out from his head, so that, rising on high, the flame drew out a very long trail. And although we saw this happen on a most crowded day in a great multitude of people, only one of the virgins, one of the presbyters, and only three of the monks saw it; why the rest did not see it is not ours to judge. At about the same time, when my uncle Evanthius, a man very Christian although occupied with the business of the world, had begun to be pressed by a very grave illness to the last danger of death, he summoned Martin. Martin hurried without delay; but before the blessed man had covered half the journey, the sick man felt the power of his coming, and, recovering his health at once, came out himself to meet us as we arrived. The next day he kept Martin, who wished to return, with great entreaty; meanwhile a serpent struck one of the household slaves, a boy, with a deadly bite. Evanthius himself carried him on his shoulders, already lifeless from the force of the venom, and laid him at the holy man’s feet, trusting that nothing was impossible for him. And by now the serpent’s poison had spread through all his limbs: you could see the skin swollen in every vein and the vital organs stretched like a wineskin. Martin stretched out his hand, felt all the boy’s limbs, and placed his finger close to the little wound itself through which the creature had injected the venom. Then indeed (I am going to tell a marvel) we saw the poison, drawn out from every part, run to Martin’s finger; then through that small opening of the wound the venom was pressed out with the blood, just as a long stream of abundant milk usually flows from the udders of goats or sheep pressed by the shepherds’ hands. The boy rose up unharmed. We, astonished at the miracle of so great a thing, confessed what the truth itself compelled us to: there is no one under heaven who can imitate Martin.

“Likewise at a later time we were traveling with him while he was visiting his parishes. We had fallen behind for some reason or other, and he had gone on a little ahead. Meanwhile along the public highway came a state wagon full of soldiers. But when the animals harnessed alongside saw Martin in his shaggy garment, wrapped in a black, hanging cloak, they shied a little to the other side in fright. Then, their traces getting tangled, they threw into confusion those long lines by which, as you have often seen, the poor animals themselves are bunched together; and while they were being disentangled with difficulty, they caused delay to men in a hurry. Provoked by this hindrance, the soldiers leaped headlong to the ground. Then they began to lay into Martin with whips and clubs; and he, silent, offering his back to those beating him with incredible patience, roused the unhappy men to greater madness, and they raged the more because he scorned the blows as though he did not feel them. We, following at once, found him foully bloodied and torn in every part of his body, where he had fallen half dead to the ground; we immediately put him on his donkey and hurried away from the place of that beating, cursing it. Meanwhile the soldiers, going back to their wagon with their fury sated, ordered the animals to be driven on where they had begun to go. But they all stood fixed to the ground as stiff as bronze statues; and though the drivers raised their voices louder and the whips cracked on this side and that, they did not move at all. Then all rise together to the beating: the punishment of the mules uses up the Gallic whips; a whole wood nearby is torn up; the animals are pounded with beams. But the savage hands achieved nothing at all: the animals stood fixed in one and the same place like statues. The unhappy men did not know what to do, nor could they any longer pretend not to recognize, brutish as their hearts were, that they were held by divine power. So at last, coming to themselves, they began to ask who he was whom they had beaten a little before in that same place, and on inquiry they learned from travelers that it was Martin whom they had beaten so cruelly. Then indeed the cause was plain to all, and they could no longer be ignorant that they were held because of the wrong done to that man. So they all follow us with rapid steps. Conscious of their deed and of their deserts, overcome with shame, weeping, their heads and faces sprinkled with the dust with which they had defiled themselves, they throw themselves at Martin’s knees, begging pardon and asking him to let them go: they had paid penalty enough even by their consciences alone, and understood well enough how the earth could have swallowed them alive on that spot, or rather they themselves ought to have lost their senses and stiffened into the immovable nature of stone, as they had seen the animals fixed to the places where they had stood; they prayed and implored him to grant pardon for the crime and give them leave to go. The blessed man had perceived even before they came up that they were held, and had told us so beforehand; yet he graciously granted pardon and let them go, the animals being restored.