Letter 108: This, one of the longest of Jerome's letters, was written to console Eustochium for the loss of her mother who had recently died. Jerome relates the story of Paula in detail; speaking first of her high birth, marriage, and social success at Rome, and then narrating her conversion and subsequent life as a Christian ascetic. Much space is devoted ...

JeromeEustochium|c. 406 AD|jerome
barbarian invasiondiplomaticeducation booksfamine plaguegrief deathhumorillnessimperial politicsmonasticismproperty economicsslavery captivitytravel mobilitywomen
Barbarian peoples/invasions; Theological controversy; Imperial politics

Jerome to Eustochium — greetings, and a memorial of your mother.

If every limb of my body were turned into a tongue and every joint were given a human voice, I still could not do justice to the virtues of the holy and venerable Paula. Noble in family — nobler still in holiness; once rich in worldly goods, more distinguished now in the poverty she embraced for Christ. Of the blood of the Gracchi, descended from the Scipios, heir to a name that echoed through Roman history — she preferred Bethlehem to Rome and exchanged a palace bright with gold for a mud-walled cell. We do not mourn that we have lost her; we thank God that we had her — that in a sense we have her still. For all live to God, and those who return to the Lord remain members of his household.

She was born in Rome to a family that made the very names of its ancestors into a history lesson. Widowed at thirty-two after giving birth to five children, she sat in the crowded circle of Roman aristocratic society, surrounded by senators and priests, the toast of the city's upper class. And then she met Marcella. And then she met the monks from Egypt. And then everything changed.

I will not recount every detail of her journey eastward — the sea voyage, the visit to the monasteries of Egypt and to the great father Isidore, the pilgrimages through the Holy Land, the tears she shed at every site connected with the Savior's life and death. I will say only this: she visited them all with the eagerness of someone coming home, and she wept at each one with a grief that seemed to draw its intensity from faith itself rather than mere sentiment.

She settled at Bethlehem. She built a monastery for men, a convent for women, and a hospice for pilgrims — because the Lord himself had had no room at the inn. She studied Hebrew until she could chant the Psalms in the original tongue without any Latin accent. She fasted more strictly than her health permitted; I fought with her about it constantly and lost constantly. She gave her entire fortune away — indeed she gave away more than she had, leaving debts behind her — and would answer my objections with the same text: "If I am impoverished, Christ will feed me; if I die, that is better still."

Her death: She had been ill for some time. In her final hours she lay silent, murmuring Psalm verses under her breath. When asked if she was in pain she said no, only that a great peace was upon her. She died with that on her lips — a peace that passed understanding, or so it seemed to those of us watching.

She left behind her daughter Eustochium, who continues the work of the monastery with a faithfulness that has never permitted the institution to fall short of the standards Paula set. She left behind a debt — considerable, for she had given everything away — which her daughters and friends are still paying down. She left behind, in every pilgrim who stopped at Bethlehem and found a meal and a bed, a memorial more lasting than marble.

I write this for you, Eustochium, because you asked me to. I also write it for myself — because putting her virtues into words is the only form of mourning left to me that carries any dignity. The rest is tears, and I have shed enough of those in private.

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

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