Letter 66: Pammachius a Roman senator, had lost his wife Paulina one of Paula's daughters, while she was still in the flower of her youth. It was not till two years had elapsed that Jerome ventured to write to him; and when he did so he dwelt but little on the life and virtues of Paulina. Probably there was but little to tell.

JeromePammachius|c. 392 AD|jerome
barbarian invasioneducation booksgrief deathillnessimperial politicsmonasticismproperty economicsslavery captivitytravel mobilitywomen
Barbarian peoples/invasions; Theological controversy; Travel & mobility
From: Jerome, priest and scholar in Bethlehem
To: Pammachius, Roman senator and monk
Date: ~397 AD
Context: A late and careful consolation letter — two years after the death of Pammachius's young wife Paulina — that spends more time praising Pammachius's monastic conversion than mourning the dead, with a vivid picture of the hospice he and Fabiola built at the port of Rome.

Pammachius,

When a wound has healed and a scar has formed, any treatment meant to improve the appearance risks reopening the original injury. After two years of silence, my condolence comes late — but even now, I am afraid that words may do more harm than good. I fear that in touching the tender spot in your heart, I may rekindle a grief that time and reflection have managed to quiet.

Who can hear the name of your Paulina without tears? Who can look, dry-eyed, at a rose cut down before it opened, a bud withered before it could spread its petals? In her, a priceless pearl is shattered. In her, a vivid emerald is broken. We never know what we have until we lose it, and sickness alone teaches us the value of health.

The good soil of the parable brought forth fruit — a hundredfold, sixtyfold, thirtyfold [Matthew 13:8]. In this threefold yield I see an image of three women united by blood and by virtue. Eustochium gathers the flowers of virginity — a hundredfold. Paula sweeps the hard threshing floor of widowhood — sixtyfold. Paulina kept the marriage bed undefiled — thirtyfold. A mother with such daughters wins on earth everything Christ has promised in heaven.

But I did not write this letter mainly to mourn. I wrote it to praise what you have become. When Paulina died, you did something that Rome had never seen: you took a senator's fortune and a senator's rank and laid them at the feet of Christ. You put on the monk's rough garment. You traded the purple-bordered toga for a tunic of undyed wool. You gave up the banqueting hall for the monastery. And you did all of this not in some remote desert where no one could see you, but in the full glare of Roman society — where every eye was watching, every tongue wagging, and every rival waiting for you to stumble.

What impressed me most was not the grand gesture — anyone can make a dramatic sacrifice once — but the daily discipline. You fasted. You prayed. You studied. You did not merely renounce wealth; you gave it away. Together with Fabiola [a Roman noblewoman famous for her conversion and charity], you built a hospice at Portus, the harbor of Rome, where travelers and the sick could find shelter, food, and care. I have heard of it even here in Bethlehem — the whole East talks of it. Travelers arriving from Africa, from Egypt, from the provinces tell me of a haven at the gates of Rome where strangers are received as though they were Christ himself.

We have tried to do something similar here at Bethlehem. We receive all who come — pilgrims, monks, the destitute. The work is overwhelming. Sometimes the numbers are so great that we turn no one away but have nothing left for ourselves. Paula and Eustochium give everything they have. I contribute what I can. But our resources are small compared to yours, and our fame is nothing beside the shining example of a Roman senator who chose Christ over the world.

Let your Paulina rest in sweet sleep. She needs no mourning now. Between Eustochium and Paula — the virgin and the widow — she stands in her own honored place. And you, Pammachius, standing among them, will fly upward to Christ all the more easily for the company you keep.

Modern English rendering for readability. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek for scholarly use.

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