On the Death of Satyrus

¹⁹ It profited me nothing to receive your last breath, nor to have breathed into the mouth of you dying, for I thought that either I myself should receive your death, or should transfer my life to you. O that sad, yet sweet pledge of the last kiss! O the misery of that embrace, in which the lifeless body began to stiffen, the last breath vanished! I tightened my arms indeed, but had already lost him whom I was holding; I drew in your last breath with my mouth, that I might share your death. But in some way that breath became lifegiving to me, and even in death diffused an odour of greater love. And if I was unable to lengthen your life by my breath, would that at least the strength of your last breath might have been transfused into my mind, and that our affection might have inspired me with that purity and innocence of yours. You would have left me, dearest brother, this inheritance, which would not smite the affections with tears of grief, but commend your heir by notable grace.

20. What, then, shall I now do, since all the sweetness, all the solace, in fine, all the charms of that life are lost to me? For you were alone my solace at home, my charm abroad; you, I say, my adviser in counsel, the sharer in my cares, the averter of anxiety, the driver away of sorrow; you were the protector of my acts and the defender of my thoughts; you, lastly, the only one on whom rested care of home and of public matters. I call your holy soul to witness that, in the building of the church, I often feared lest I might displease you. Lastly, when you came back you chided your delay. So were you, at home and abroad, the instructor and teacher of the priest, that you did not suffer him to think of domestic matters, and took thought to care for public matters. But I may not fear to seem to speak boastingly, for this is your meed of praise, that you, without displeasing any, both managed your brother's house and recommend his priesthood.

21. I feel, indeed, that my mind is touched by the repetition of your services and the enumeration of your virtues, and yet in being thus affected I find my rest, and although these memories renew my grief, they nevertheless bring pleasure. Am I able either not to think of you, or ever to think of you without tears? And shall I ever be able either not to remember such a brother, or to remember him without tearful gratitude? For what has ever been pleasant to me that has not had its source in you? What, I say, has ever been a pleasure to me without you, or to you without me? Had we not every practice in common, almost to our very eyesight and our sleep? Were our wills ever at variance? And what step did we not take in common? So that we almost seemed in raising our feet to move each other's body.

22. But if ever either had to go forth without the other, one would think that his side was unprotected, one could see his countenance troubled, one would suppose that his soul was sad, the accustomed grace, the usual vigour did not shine forth, the loneliness was a subject of dread to all, and made them fearful of some sickness. Such a strange thing it seemed to all that we were separated. I certainly, impatient at my brother's absence, and having it constantly in mind, kept on turning my head seeking him, as it were, present, and seemed to myself then to see him and speak to him. But if I was disappointed in my hope, I seemed to myself, as it were, to be dragging a yoke on my bowed down neck, to advance with difficulty, to meet others with diffidence, and to return home hurriedly, since it gave me no pleasure to go farther without you.

23. But when we both had to go forth, there were not more steps on the way than words, nor was our pace quicker than our talk, and it was less for the sake of walking than for the pleasure of conversing, for each of us hung on the lips of the other. We thought not of gazing intently on the view as we passed along, but listened to each other's anxious talk, drank in the kindly expression of the eyes, and inhaled the delight of the brother's appearance. How I used silently to admire within myself your virtues, how I congratulated myself that God had given me such a brother, so modest, so capable, so innocent, so simple, so that when I thought of your innocence I began to doubt your capability, when I saw your capability I could hardly imagine your innocence! But you combined both with wonderful perfection.

24. Lastly, what we both had been unable to effect, you accomplished alone. Prosper, as I hear, congratulated himself because he thought that on account of my priesthood he need not restore what he had purloined, but he found your power alone to be greater than that of us both together. And so he paid all, and was not ungrateful for your moderation, and did not scoff at your modesty. But for whom, brother, did you seek to gain that? We wished that should be the reward of your labours which was the proof of them. You accomplished everything, and when having done all you returned, you alone, who art to be preferred to all, art torn from us; as if you had put off death for this end, that you might fulfil the office of affection, and then carry off the palm for capability.

25. How little, dearest brother, did the honours of this world delight us, because they separated us from one another! And we accepted them, not because the acquisition of them was to be desired, but that there might be no appearance of paltry dissimulation. Or perhaps they were therefore granted to us, that, inasmuch as by your early death you were about to shatter our pleasure, we might learn to live without each other.

26. And indeed I recognize the foreboding dread of my mind, when I often go again through what I have written. I endeavoured to restrain you, brother, from visiting Africa yourself, and wished you rather to send some one. I was afraid to let you go that journey, to trust you to the waves, and a greater fear than usual came over my mind; but you arranged the journey, and order the business, and, as I hear, entrusted yourself again to the waves in an old and leaky vessel. For since you were aiming at speed, you set caution aside; eager to do me a kindness, you made nothing of your danger.

27. O deceitful joy! O the uncertain course of earthly affairs! We thought that he who was returned from Africa, restored from the sea, preserved after shipwreck, could not now be snatched from us; but, though on land, we suffered a more grievous shipwreck, for the death of him whom shipwreck at sea owing to strong swimming could not kill is shipwreck to us. For what enjoyment remains to us, from whom so sweet an ornament has been taken, so bright a light in this world's darkness has been extinguished? For in him an ornament not only of our family but of the whole fatherland has perished.

28. I feel, indeed, the deepest gratitude to you, dearest brethren, holy people, that you esteem my grief as no other than your own, that you feel this bereavement as having happened to yourselves, that you offer me the tears of the whole city, of every age, and the good wishes of every rank, with unusual affection. For this is not the grief of private sympathy, but as it were a service and offering of public good-will. And should any sympathy with me because of the loss of such a brother touch you, I have abundant fruit from it, I have the pledge of your affection. I might prefer that my brother were living, but yet public kindness is in prosperity very pleasant, and in adversity very grateful.