The Life of Saint Martin · Chapter I
Why a holy life is worth more than the fame of Hector or Socrates
Many people, obsessed with worldly studies and the desire for prestige, have convinced themselves that they could immortalise their own name by writing the biography of famous figures. It is true that this effort did not give them eternity, but it did bring them a little of what they were after: on the one hand, they left their name remembered in the world, little as that is worth; on the other, by telling the lives of remarkable men, they stirred in their readers a great wish to follow those examples. Only none of this was any use for attaining the truly happy and eternal life.
What good, in the end, did the fame of their books do them, doomed as it is to vanish along with this world? And what did later generations gain from reading about the battles of Hector or the philosophical discussions of Socrates? Wanting to imitate them is foolish enough; not opposing those ideas firmly is sheer folly. Since they measured human life only by what is done here on earth, they placed their hope in legends and handed their souls over to the grave. They believed it was enough to survive in people’s memory, when the true aim of a human being ought to be to seek eternal life, not eternal fame — something that is won not by writing, waging war or philosophising, but by living with uprightness, goodness and faithfulness to God.
That mistake, passed down from generation to generation through books, was so powerful that it led a great many people to imitate now that empty philosophy, now that false ideal of warlike bravery. For that very reason, I think it well worth writing the biography of a truly holy man, one who may serve as an inspiration to others in the future. Who knows whether, on reading it, many will not feel called to true wisdom, to the service of God and to an upright life. And in doing so I am also thinking of my own good: I do not expect to become famous among men, but to receive from God a lasting reward. For even if I myself have not managed to live in such a way as to set an example, I have at least done what was in my power to make known someone who really does deserve to be imitated.
I shall begin, then, to tell the life of Saint Martin, showing who he was both before he was a bishop and after he took charge of his diocese. Of course I have not managed to find out everything he did: the episodes that he alone witnessed remain secret, because Martin never looked for praise and, had it been up to him alone, would have preferred to hide all his good deeds. Indeed, even of what did reach my ears I have left a great deal out, for I thought it enough to choose the most striking moments — not least so as not to tire the reader with too many cases. I ask readers only to trust what is written here and to be sure that I have put nothing on paper without first checking it very carefully. Had I had any doubts, I would rather have kept silent than tell lies.
In this opening chapter, Sulpicius Severus speaks directly to the educated public of the Roman Empire. In the Roman school of the fourth century, all education revolved around two great points of reference: the warrior epic of Homer — represented by Hector, the Trojan hero of the Iliad — and the Greek philosophical tradition — represented by Socrates.
By setting them against Martin, Sulpicius is launching a small cultural revolution: he proposes replacing the war hero and the ancient philosopher with a new human model — the man of faith who enlists in the coelestis militia, the “military service of Heaven”. Note, too, the commitment at the end of the chapter: as a former lawyer used to proving facts in court, Sulpicius guarantees that he has included only accounts gathered from trustworthy eyewitnesses or heard from Martin’s own lips.