On the Death of Satyrus

²⁹ And, indeed, so great kindness seems to me to merit no ordinary gratitude. For not without a purpose are the widows in the Acts of the Apostles described as weeping when Tabitha was dead, or the crowd in the Gospel, moved by the widow's tears and accompanying the funeral of the young man who was to be raised again. There is, then, no doubt that by your tears the protection of the apostles is obtained; no doubt, I say, that Christ is moved to mercy, seeing you weeping. Though He has not now touched the bier, yet He has received the spirit commended to Him, and if He have not called the dead by the bodily voice, yet He has by the authority of His divine power delivered my brother's soul from the pains of death and from the attacks of wicked spirits. And though he that was dead has not sat up on the bier, yet he has found rest in Christ; and if he have not spoken to us, yet he sees those things which are above us, and rejoices in that he now sees higher things than we. For by the things which we read in the Gospels we understand what shall be, and what we see at present is a sign of what is to be.

30. He had no need of being raised again for time, for whom the raising again for eternity is waiting. For why should he fall back into this wretched and miserable state of corruption, and return to this mournful life, for whose rescue from such imminent evils and threatening dangers we ought rather to rejoice? For if no one mourns for Enoch, who was translated when the world was at peace and wars were not raging, but the people rather congratulated him, as Scripture says concerning him: “He was taken away, lest that wickedness should alter his understanding,” with how much greater justice must this now be said, when to the dangers of the world is added the uncertainty of life. He was taken away that he might not fall into the hands of the barbarians; he was taken away that he might not see the ruin of the whole earth, the end of the world, the burial of his relatives, the death of fellow citizens; lest, lastly, which is more bitter than any death, he should see the pollution of the holy virgins and widows.

31. So then, brother, I esteem you happy both in the beauty of your life and in the opportuneness of your death. For you were snatched away not from us but from dangers; thou did not lose life but escaped the fear of threatening troubles. For with the pity of your holy mind for those near to you, if you knew that Italy was now oppressed by the nearness of the enemy, how would you groan, how would you grieve that our safety wholly depended on the barrier of the Alps, and that the protection of purity consisted in barricades of trees! With what sorrow would you mourn that your friends were separated from the enemy by so slight a division, from an enemy, too, both impure and cruel, who spares neither chastity nor life.

32. How, I say, could thou bear these things which we are compelled to endure, and perchance (which is more grievous) to behold virgins ravished, little children torn from the embrace of their parents and tossed on javelins, the bodies consecrated to God defiled, and even aged widows polluted? How, I say, could thou endure these things, who even with your last breath, forgetful of yourself, yet not without thought for us, warned us concerning the invasion of the barbarians, saying that not in vain had you said that we ought to flee. Perchance was it because you saw that we were left destitute by your death, and you did it, not out of weakness of spirit, but from affection, and wast weak with respect to us, but strong with respect to yourself. For when you were summoned home by the noble man Symmachus your parent, because Italy was said to be blazing with war, because you were going into danger, because you were likely to fall among enemies, you answered that this was the cause of your coming, that you might not fail us in danger, that you might show yourself a sharer in your brother's peril.

33. Happy, then, was he in so opportune a death, because he has not been preserved for this sorrow. Certainly you are happier than your holy sister, deprived of your comfort, anxious for her own modesty, lately blessed with two brothers, now wretched because of both, being able neither to follow the one nor to leave the other; for whom your tomb is a lodging, and the burying-place of your body a home. And would that even this resting-place were safe! Our food is mingled with weeping and our drink with tears, for you have given us the bread of tears as food, and tears to drink in large measure, nay, even beyond measure.

34. What now shall I say of myself, who may not die lest I leave my sister, and desire not to live lest I be separated from you? For what can ever be pleasant to me without you, in whom was always my whole pleasure? Or what satisfaction is it to remain longer in this life, and to linger on the earth where we lived with pleasure so long as we lived together? If there were anything which could delight us here, it could not delight without you; and if ever we had earnestly desired to prolong our life, now at any rate we would not exist without you.

35. This is indeed unendurable. For what can be endured without you, such a companion of my life, such a sharer of my toil and partaker of my duties? And I could not even make his loss more endurable by dwelling on it beforehand, so much did my mind fear to think of any such thing concerning him! Not that I was ignorant of his condition, but a certain kind of prayers and vows had so clouded the sense of common frailty, that I knew not how to think anything concerning him except entire prosperity.

36. And then lately, when I was oppressed by a severe attack (would that it had been fatal), I grieved only that you were not sitting by my couch, and sharing the kindly duty with my holy sister might with your fingers close my eyes when dead. What had I wished? What am I now pondering? What vows are wanting? What services are to succeed? I was preparing one thing, I am compelled to set forth another; not being the subject of the funeral rites but the minister. O hard eyes, which could behold my brother dying! O cruel and unkind hands, which closed those eyes in which I used to see so much! O still harder neck, which could bear so sad a burden, though it were in a service full of consolation.

37. You, my brother, had more justly done these things for me. I used to expect these services at your hands, I used to long for them. But now, having survived my own life, what comfort can I find without you, who alone used to comfort me when mourning, to excite my happiness and drive away my sorrow? How do I now behold you, my brother, who now addressest no words to me, offerest me no kiss? Though, indeed, our mutual love was so deeply seated in each of us, that it was cherished rather by inward affection than made public by open caresses, for we who professed such mutual trust and love did not seek the testimony of others. The strong spirit of our brotherhood had so infused itself into each of us, that there was no need to prove our love by caresses; but our minds being conscious of our affection, we, satisfied with our inward love, did not seem to require the show of caresses, whom the very appearance of each other fashioned for mutual love; for we seemed, I know not by what spiritual stamp or bodily likeness, to be the one in the other.

38. Who saw you, and did not think that he had seen me? How often have I saluted those who, because they had previously saluted you, said that they had been already saluted by me? How many said something to you, and related that they had said it to me? What pleasure, what amusement often was given me by this, because I saw that they were mistaken in us? What an agreeable mistake, what a pleasant slip, how innocent a deceit, how sweet a trick! For there was nothing for me to fear in your words or acts, and I rejoiced when they were ascribed to me.