St Martin of Tours was born in the year 316 in the Roman province of Pannonia, quite far from Tours, where he eventually served as bishop. He first came to Gaul as a young soldier. The most famous story about St Martin describes how, on a winter evening, he passed a half-naked man begging alms at the gates of Ambianum (Amiens). Martin cut his cloak in two with his sword, giving half to the man. That night in a dream Martin saw Christ conversing with the angels, wearing the same half cloak he had given the beggar. Jesus said, “Look! Though he is only a catechumen, Martin has covered me with his cloak.” In the morning Martin ran to the church and asked to be baptized immediately.
You won’t find a “Life of St Martin of Tours” without that story. It’s central to his biography in even the most sober-minded presentations. In The Golden Legend, a compilation of saints’ lives by thirteenth-century Dominican friar Jacobus de Voragine, however, you will find much, much more. Some of the most amusing tales about St Martin involve animals. Once, for example, St Martin passed by a sheep that had recently been shorn. “That sheep has obeyed the Gospel mandate,” he said. “She had two tunics and gave one of them to someone who had none.” Another time, he was bathing in a river when a venomous snake came swimming toward him. In Christ’s name he commanded it away. “At the saint’s word the reptile turned around and crossed back to the opposite bank,” de Voragine says, and then adds with a wink: “Martin groaned, ‘Serpents listen to me, and men do not!’”
An even more delightful tale involves a demon-possessed cow:
“There was a cow that was possessed by the devil, and she roared and raged and gored many people. Once this cow rushed in a fury at Martin and his company as they passed on the road. Martin raised his hand and ordered the cow to halt. Halt she did, and he saw a demon sitting astride her. Martin rebuked the demon, saying: ‘Get off her back, O evil one, and stop tormenting this harmless animal.’ The spirit departed immediately. The cow then fell to her knees at the bishop’s feet and then, at his behest, ambled peaceably back to the herd.”
In Christian art there are thousands of depictions of St Martin cutting his cloak in two for the naked beggar. I’ve never seen a single one of the grateful cow bowing to him in thanks.
It would be foolish, of course, to insist on the strict historicity of every tale that comes down to us about the saints or (for that matter) most any other historical figure. After the material fact of a person passes out of tangible experience, accretions may cling to his memory like snow compacted around a stone as it tumbles downhill. And yet in a certain sense all these things really did happen, even the most absurd, the most outlandish. What I mean is explained, perhaps, by this passage from Paul Valéry’s Dialogue of the Tree:
“Don’t you think, O wise man that you are, that our knowledge of anything whatsoever is imperfect if it is confined to the exact notion of that thing, if it is limited to the truth? …I certainly think, for my part, that reality, always infinitely more rich than the true, comprises, on every subject and in every matter, the quantity of misunderstandings, of myths, of childish stories and beliefs which the minds of men necessarily produce.…I have noticed that there is not a thing in the world that has not been adorned with dreams, held for a sign, explained by some miracle, and this all the more as the concern with knowing the origins and first circumstances is more naively potent. And that is doubtless why a philosopher whose name I have forgotten coined the maxim: IN THE BEGINNING WAS THE FABLE.”
Valéry gets a little carried away at the end, but who can deny that reality is always more comprehensive than the merely true? This is not to say that we should neglect, or cease to insist, on facts. Some facts we cannot do without. The Christian faith itself is based on facts which, if they were not facts, would put us pretty high up the list of the most deluded fools ever to have lived. But a life made only of facts would be rather poor. If we were always trimming off bits of fabric here and there in the interest of strict historicity, we might end up with something less than half a cloak – and the world can get chilly.
One thing is certain: if by God’s grace I’m ever granted a personal introduction to St Martin, I’ll definitely ask him about the cow.
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Note: If you’re looking for a copy of this book, get the Princeton edition translated by William Granger Ryan and with an introduction by Eamon Duffy. It’s not cheap but it’s worth it.