Belijdenissen - Augustinus (boek IV)
The Confessions of Saint Augustine - Book IV
Chapter I
For this space of nine years (from my nineteenth year to my
eight-and-twentieth) we lived seduced and seducing, deceived and deceiving,
in divers lusts; openly, by sciences which they call liberal; secretly, with
a false-named religion; here proud, there superstitious, every where vain.
Here, hunting after the emptiness of popular praise, down even to theatrical
applauses, and poetic prizes, and strifes for grassy garlands, and the
follies of shows, and the intemperance of desires. There, desiring to be
cleansed from these defilements, by carrying food to those who were called
“elect” and “holy,” out of which, in the workhouse of their stomachs, they
should forge for us Angels and Gods, by whom we might be cleansed. These
things did I follow, and practise with my friends, deceived by me, and with
me. Let the arrogant mock me, and such as have not been, to their soul's
health, stricken and cast down by Thee, O my God; but I would still confess
to Thee mine own shame in Thy praise. Suffer me, I beseech Thee, and give me
grace to go over in my present remembrance the wanderings of my forepassed
time, and to offer unto Thee the sacrifice of thanksgiving. For what am I to
myself without Thee, but a guide to mine own downfall? or what am I even at
the best, but an infant sucking the milk Thou givest, and feeding upon Thee,
the food that perisheth not? But what sort of man is any man, seeing he is
but a man? Let now the strong and the mighty laugh at us, but let us poor
and needy confess unto Thee.
Chapter II
In those years I taught rhetoric, and, overcome by cupidity, made sale of a
loquacity to overcome by. Yet I preferred (Lord, Thou knowest) honest
scholars (as they are accounted), and these I, without artifice, taught
artifices, not to be practised against the life of the guiltless, though
sometimes for the life of the guilty. And Thou, O God, from afar perceivedst
me stumbling in that slippery course, and amid much smoke sending out some
sparks of faithfulness, which I showed in that my guidance of such as loved
vanity, and sought after leasing, myself their companion. In those years I
had one,—not in that which is called lawful marriage, but whom I had found
out in a wayward passion, void of understanding; yet but one, remaining
faithful even to her; in whom I in my own case experienced what difference
there is betwixt the self-restraint of the marriage-covenant, for the sake
of issue, and the bargain of a lustful love, where children are born against
their parents’ will, although, once born, they constrain love.
I remember also, that when I had settled to enter the lists for a theatrical
prize, some wizard asked me what I would give him to win; but I, detesting
and abhorring such foul mysteries, answered, “Though the garland were of
imperishable gold, I would not suffer a fly to be killed to gain me it. “
For he was to kill some living creatures in his sacrifices, and by those
honours to invite the devils to favour me. But this ill also I rejected, not
out of a pure love for Thee, O God of my heart; for I knew not how to love
Thee, who knew not how to conceive aught beyond a material brightness. And
doth not a soul, sighing after such fictions, commit fornication against
Thee, trust in things unreal, and feed the wind? Still I would not forsooth
have sacrifices offered to devils for me, to whom I was sacrificing myself
by that superstition. For what else is it to feed the wind, but to feed
them, that is by going astray to become their pleasure and derision?
Chapter III
Those impostors then, whom they style Mathematicians, I consulted without
scruple; because they seemed to use no sacrifice, nor to pray to any spirit
for their divinations: which art, however, Christian and true piety
consistently rejects and condemns. For, it is a good thing to confess unto
Thee, and to say, Have mercy upon me, heal my soul, for I have sinned
against Thee; and not to abuse Thy mercy for a licence to sin, but to
remember the Lord's words, Behold, thou art made whole, sin no more, lest a
worse thing come unto thee. All which wholesome advice they labour to
destroy, saying, “The cause of thy sin is inevitably determined in heaven”;
and “This did Venus, or Saturn, or Mars”: that man, forsooth, flesh and
blood, and proud corruption, might be blameless; while the Creator and
Ordainer of heaven and the stars is to bear the blame. And who is He but our
God? the very sweetness and well-spring of righteousness, who renderest to
every man according to his works: and a broken and contrite heart wilt Thou
not despise.
There was in those days a wise man, very skilful in physic, and renowned
therein, who had with his own proconsular hand put the Agonistic garland
upon my distempered head, but not as a physician: for this disease Thou only
curest, who resistest the proud, and givest grace to the humble. But didst
Thou fail me even by that old man, or forbear to heal my soul? For having
become more acquainted with him, and hanging assiduously and fixedly on his
speech (for though in simple terms, it was vivid, lively, and earnest), when
he had gathered by my discourse that I was given to the books of
nativity-casters, he kindly and fatherly advised me to cast them away, and
not fruitlessly bestow a care and diligence, necessary for useful things,
upon these vanities; saying, that he had in his earliest years studied that
art, so as to make it the profession whereby he should live, and that,
understanding Hippocrates, he could soon have understood such a study as
this; and yet he had given it over, and taken to physic, for no other reason
but that he found it utterly false; and he, a grave man, would not get his
living by deluding people. “But thou,” saith he, “hast rhetoric to maintain
thyself by, so that thou followest this of free choice, not of necessity:
the more then oughtest thou to give me credit herein, who laboured to
acquire it so perfectly as to get my living by it alone.” Of whom when I had
demanded, how then could many true things be foretold by it, he answered me
(as he could) “that the force of chance, diffused throughout the whole order
of things, brought this about. For if when a man by haphazard opens the
pages of some poet, who sang and thought of something wholly different, a
verse oftentimes fell out, wondrously agreeable to the present business: it
were not to be wondered at, if out of the soul of man, unconscious what
takes place in it, by some higher instinct an answer should be given, by
hap, not by art, corresponding to the business and actions of the
demander.”
And thus much, either from or through him, Thou conveyedst to me, and
tracedst in my memory, what I might hereafter examine for myself. But at
that time neither he, nor my dearest Nebridius, a youth singularly good and
of a holy fear, who derided the whole body of divination, could persuade me
to cast it aside, the authority of the authors swaying me yet more, and as
yet I had found no certain proof (such as I sought) whereby it might without
all doubt appear, that what had been truly foretold by those consulted was
the result of haphazard, not of the art of the star-gazers.
Chapter IV
In those years when I first began to teach rhetoric in my native town, I had
made one my friend, but too dear to me, from a community of pursuits, of
mine own age, and, as myself, in the first opening flower of youth. He had
grown up of a child with me, and we had been both school-fellows and
play-fellows. But he was not yet my friend as afterwards, nor even then, as
true friendship is; for true it cannot be, unless in such as Thou cementest
together, cleaving unto Thee, by that love which is shed abroad in our
hearts by the Holy Ghost, which is given unto us. Yet was it but too sweet,
ripened by the warmth of kindred studies: for, from the true faith (which he
as a youth had not soundly and thoroughly imbibed), I had warped him also to
those superstitious and pernicious fables, for which my mother bewailed me.
With me he now erred in mind, nor could my soul be without him. But behold
Thou wert close on the steps of Thy fugitives, at once God of vengeance, and
Fountain of mercies, turning us to Thyself by wonderful means; Thou tookest
that man out of this life, when he had scarce filled up one whole year of my
friendship, sweet to me above all sweetness of that my life.
Who can recount all Thy praises, which he hath felt in his one self? What
diddest Thou then, my God, and how unsearchable is the abyss of Thy
judgments? For long, sore sick of a fever, he lay senseless in a
death-sweat; and his recovery being despaired of, he was baptised,
unknowing; myself meanwhile little regarding, and presuming that his soul
would retain rather what it had received of me, not what was wrought on his
unconscious body. But it proved far otherwise: for he was refreshed, and
restored. Forthwith, as soon as I could speak with him (and I could, so soon
as he was able, for I never left him, and we hung but too much upon each
other), I essayed to jest with him, as though he would jest with me at that
baptism which he had received, when utterly absent in mind and feeling, but
had now understood that he had received. But he so shrunk from me, as from
an enemy; and with a wonderful and sudden freedom bade me, as I would
continue his friend, forbear such language to him. I, all astonished and
amazed, suppressed all my emotions till he should grow well, and his health
were strong enough for me to deal with him as I would. But he was taken away
from my frenzy, that with Thee he might be preserved for my comfort; a few
days after in my absence, he was attacked again by the fever, and so
departed.
At this grief my heart was utterly darkened; and whatever I beheld was
death. My native country was a torment to me, and my father's house a
strange unhappiness; and whatever I had shared with him, wanting him, became
a distracting torture. Mine eyes sought him every where, but he was not
granted them; and I hated all places, for that they had not him; nor could
they now tell me, “he is coming,” as when he was alive and absent. I became
a great riddle to myself, and I asked my soul, why she was so sad, and why
she disquieted me sorely: but she knew not what to answer me. And if I said,
Trust in God, she very rightly obeyed me not; because that most dear friend,
whom she had lost, was, being man, both truer and better than that phantasm
she was bid to trust in. Only tears were sweet to me, for they succeeded my
friend, in the dearest of my affections.
Chapter V
And now, Lord, these things are passed by, and time hath assuaged my wound.
May I learn from Thee, who art Truth, and approach the ear of my heart unto
Thy mouth, that Thou mayest tell me why weeping is sweet to the miserable?
Hast Thou, although present every where, cast away our misery far from Thee?
And Thou abidest in Thyself, but we are tossed about in divers trials. And
yet unless we mourned in Thine ears, we should have no hope left. Whence
then is sweet fruit gathered from the bitterness of life, from groaning,
tears, sighs, and complaints? Doth this sweeten it, that we hope Thou
hearest? This is true of prayer, for therein is a longing to approach unto
Thee. But is it also in grief for a thing lost, and the sorrow wherewith I
was then overwhelmed? For I neither hoped he should return to life nor did I
desire this with my tears; but I wept only and grieved. For I was miserable,
and had lost my joy. Or is weeping indeed a bitter thing, and for very
loathing of the things which we before enjoyed, does it then, when we shrink
from them, please us?
Chapter VI
But what speak I of these things? for now is no time to question, but to
confess unto Thee. Wretched I was; and wretched is every soul bound by the
friendship of perishable things; he is torn asunder when he loses them, and
then he feels the wretchedness which he had ere yet he lost them. So was it
then with me; I wept most bitterly, and found my repose in bitterness. Thus
was I wretched, and that wretched life I held dearer than my friend. For
though I would willingly have changed it, yet was I more unwilling to part
with it than with him; yea, I know not whether I would have parted with it
even for him, as is related (if not feigned) of Pylades and Orestes, that
they would gladly have died for each other or together, not to live together
being to them worse than death. But in me there had arisen some unexplained
feeling, too contrary to this, for at once I loathed exceedingly to live and
feared to die. I suppose, the more I loved him, the more did I hate, and
fear (as a most cruel enemy) death, which had bereaved me of him: and I
imagined it would speedily make an end of all men, since it had power over
him. Thus was it with me, I remember. Behold my heart, O my God, behold and
see into me; for well I remember it, O my Hope, who cleansest me from the
impurity of such affections, directing mine eyes towards Thee, and plucking
my feet out of the snare. For I wondered that others, subject to death, did
live, since he whom I loved, as if he should never die, was dead; and I
wondered yet more that myself, who was to him a second self, could live, he
being dead. Well said one of his friend, “Thou half of my soul”; for I felt
that my soul and his soul were “one soul in two bodies”: and therefore was
my life a horror to me, because I would not live halved. And therefore
perchance I feared to die, lest he whom I had much loved should die wholly.
Chapter VII
O madness, which knowest not how to love men, like men! O foolish man that I
then was, enduring impatiently the lot of man! I fretted then, sighed, wept,
was distracted; had neither rest nor counsel. For I bore about a shattered
and bleeding soul, impatient of being borne by me, yet where to repose it, I
found not. Not in calm groves, not in games and music, nor in fragrant
spots, nor in curious banquetings, nor in the pleasures of the bed and the
couch; nor (finally) in books or poesy, found it repose. All things looked
ghastly, yea, the very light; whatsoever was not what he was, was revolting
and hateful, except groaning and tears. For in those alone found I a little
refreshment. But when my soul was withdrawn from them a huge load of misery
weighed me down. To Thee, O Lord, it ought to have been raised, for Thee to
lighten; I knew it; but neither could nor would; the more, since, when I
thought of Thee, Thou wert not to me any solid or substantial thing. For
Thou wert not Thyself, but a mere phantom, and my error was my God. If I
offered to discharge my load thereon, that it might rest, it glided through
the void, and came rushing down again on me; and I had remained to myself a
hapless spot, where I could neither be, nor be from thence. For whither
should my heart flee from my heart? Whither should I flee from myself?
Whither not follow myself? And yet I fled out of my country; for so should
mine eyes less look for him, where they were not wont to see him. And thus
from Thagaste, I came to Carthage.
Chapter VIII
Times lose no time; nor do they roll idly by; through our senses they work
strange operations on the mind. Behold, they went and came day by day, and
by coming and going, introduced into my mind other imaginations and other
remembrances; and little by little patched me up again with my old kind of
delights, unto which that my sorrow gave way. And yet there succeeded, not
indeed other griefs, yet the causes of other griefs. For whence had that
former grief so easily reached my very inmost soul, but that I had poured
out my soul upon the dust, in loving one that must die, as if he would never
die? For what restored and refreshed me chiefly was the solaces of other
friends, with whom I did love, what instead of Thee I loved; and this was a
great fable, and protracted lie, by whose adulterous stimulus, our soul,
which lay itching in our ears, was being defiled. But that fable would not
die to me, so oft as any of my friends died. There were other things which
in them did more take my mind; to talk and jest together, to do kind offices
by turns; to read together honied books; to play the fool or be earnest
together; to dissent at times without discontent, as a man might with his
own self; and even with the seldomness of these dissentings, to season our
more frequent consentings; sometimes to teach, and sometimes learn; long for
the absent with impatience; and welcome the coming with joy. These and the
like expressions, proceeding out of the hearts of those that loved and were
loved again, by the countenance, the tongue, the eyes, and a thousand
pleasing gestures, were so much fuel to melt our souls together, and out of
many make but one.
Chapter IX
This is it that is loved in friends; and so loved, that a man's conscience
condemns itself, if he love not him that loves him again, or love not again
him that loves him, looking for nothing from his person but indications of
his love. Hence that mourning, if one die, and darkenings of sorrows, that
steeping of the heart in tears, all sweetness turned to bitterness; and upon
the loss of life of the dying, the death of the living. Blessed whoso loveth
Thee, and his friend in Thee, and his enemy for Thee. For he alone loses
none dear to him, to whom all are dear in Him who cannot be lost. And who is
this but our God, the God that made heaven and earth, and filleth them,
because by filling them He created them? Thee none loseth, but who leaveth.
And who leaveth Thee, whither goeth or whither teeth he, but from Thee
well-pleased, to Thee displeased? For where doth he not find Thy law in his
own punishment? And Thy law is truth, and truth Thou.
Chapter X
Turn us, O God of Hosts, show us Thy countenance, and we shall be whole. For
whithersoever the soul of man turns itself, unless toward Thee, it is
riveted upon sorrows, yea though it is riveted on things beautiful. And yet
they, out of Thee, and out of the soul, were not, unless they were from
Thee. They rise, and set; and by rising, they begin as it were to be; they
grow, that they may be perfected; and perfected, they wax old and wither;
and all grow not old, but all wither. So then when they rise and tend to be,
the more quickly they grow that they may be, so much the more they haste not
to be. This is the law of them. Thus much has Thou allotted them, because
they are portions of things, which exist not all at once, but by passing
away and succeeding, they together complete that universe, whereof they are
portions. And even thus is our speech completed by signs giving forth a
sound: but this again is not perfected unless one word pass away when it
hath sounded its part, that another may succeed. Out of all these things let
my soul praise Thee, O God, Creator of all; yet let not my soul be riveted
unto these things with the glue of love, through the senses of the body. For
they go whither they were to go, that they might not be; and they rend her
with pestilent longings, because she longs to be, yet loves to repose in
what she loves. But in these things is no place of repose; they abide not,
they flee; and who can follow them with the senses of the flesh? yea, who
can grasp them, when they are hard by? For the sense of the flesh is slow,
because it is the sense of the flesh; and thereby is it bounded. It
sufficeth for that it was made for; but it sufficeth not to stay things
running their course from their appointed starting-place to the end
appointed. For in Thy Word, by which they are created, they hear their
decree, “hence and hitherto.”
Chapter XI
Be not foolish, O my soul, nor become deaf in the ear of thine heart with
the tumult of thy folly. Hearken thou too.
The Word itself calleth thee to return: and there is the place of rest
imperturbable, where love is not forsaken, if itself forsaketh not. Behold,
these things pass away, that others may replace them, and so this lower
universe be completed by all his parts. But do I depart any whither? saith
the Word of God. There fix thy dwelling, trust there whatsoever thou hast
thence, O my soul, at least now thou art tired out with vanities. Entrust
Truth, whatsoever thou hast from the Truth, and thou shalt lose nothing; and
thy decay shall bloom again, and all thy diseases be healed, and thy mortal
parts be reformed and renewed, and bound around thee: nor shall they lay
thee whither themselves descend; but they shall stand fast with thee, and
abide for ever before God, Who abideth and standeth fast for ever.
Why then be perverted and follow thy flesh? Be it converted and follow thee.
Whatever by her thou hast sense of, is in part; and the whole, whereof these
are parts, thou knowest not; and yet they delight thee. But had the sense of
thy flesh a capacity for comprehending the whole, and not itself also, for
thy punishment, been justly restricted to a part of the whole, thou
wouldest, that whatsoever existeth at this present, should pass away, that
so the whole might better please thee. For what we speak also, by the same
sense of the flesh thou hearest; yet wouldest not thou have the syllables
stay, but fly away, that others may come, and thou hear the whole. And so
ever, when any one thing is made up of many, all of which do not exist
together, all collectively would please more than they do severally, could
all be perceived collectively. But far better than these is He who made all;
and He is our God, nor doth He pass away, for neither doth aught succeed
Him.
Chapter XII
If bodies please thee, praise God on occasion of them, and turn back thy
love upon their Maker; lest in these things which please thee, thou
displease. If souls please thee, be they loved in God: for they too are
mutable, but in Him are they firmly stablished; else would they pass, and
pass away. In Him then be they beloved; and carry unto Him along with thee
what souls thou canst, and say to them, “Him let us love, Him let us love:
He made these, nor is He far off. For He did not make them, and so depart,
but they are of Him, and in Him. See there He is, where truth is loved. He
is within the very heart, yet hath the heart strayed from Him. Go back into
your heart, ye transgressors, and cleave fast to Him that made you. Stand
with Him, and ye shall stand fast. Rest in Him, and ye shall be at rest.
Whither go ye in rough ways? Whither go ye? The good that you love is from
Him; but it is good and pleasant through reference to Him, and justly shall
it be embittered, because unjustly is any thing loved which is from Him, if
He be forsaken for it. To what end then would ye still and still walk these
difficult and toilsome ways? There is no rest, where ye seek it. Seek what
ye seek; but it is not there where ye seek. Ye seek a blessed life in the
land of death; it is not there. For how should there be a blessed life where
life itself is not?
“But our true Life came down hither, and bore our death, and slew him, out
of the abundance of His own life: and He thundered, calling aloud to us to
return hence to Him into that secret place, whence He came forth to us,
first into the Virgin's womb, wherein He espoused the human creation, our
mortal flesh, that it might not be for ever mortal, and thence like a
bridegroom coming out of his chamber, rejoicing as a giant to run his
course. For He lingered not, but ran, calling aloud by words, deeds, death,
life, descent, ascension; crying aloud to us to return unto Him. And He
departed from our eyes, that we might return into our heart, and there find
Him. For He departed, and to, He is here. He would not be long with us, yet
left us not; for He departed thither, whence He never parted, because the
world was made by Him. And in this world He was, and into this world He came
to save sinners, unto whom my soul confesseth, and He healeth it, for it
hath sinned against Him. O ye sons of men, how long so slow of heart? Even
now, after the descent of Life to you, will ye not ascend and live? But
whither ascend ye, when ye are on high, and set your mouth against the
heavens? Descend, that ye may ascend, and ascend to God. For ye have fallen,
by ascending against Him.” Tell them this, that they may weep in the valley
of tears, and so carry them up with thee unto God; because out of His spirit
thou speakest thus unto them, if thou speakest, burning with the fire of
charity.
Chapter XIII
These things I then knew not, and I loved these lower beauties, and I was
sinking to the very depths, and to my friends I said, “Do we love any thing
but the beautiful? What then is the beautiful? and what is beauty? What is
it that attracts and wins us to the things we love? for unless there were in
them a grace and beauty, they could by no means draw us unto them.” And I
marked and perceived that in bodies themselves, there was a beauty, from
their forming a sort of whole, and again, another from apt and mutual
correspondence, as of a part of the body with its whole, or a shoe with a
foot, and the like. And this consideration sprang up in my mind, out of my
inmost heart, and I wrote “on the fair and fit,” I think, two or three
books. Thou knowest, O Lord, for it is gone from me; for I have them not,
but they are strayed from me, I know not how.
Chapter XIV
But what moved me, O Lord my God, to dedicate these books unto Hierius, an
orator of Rome, whom I knew not by face, but loved for the fame of his
learning which was eminent in him, and some words of his I had heard, which
pleased me? But more did he please me, for that he pleased others, who
highly extolled him, amazed that out of a Syrian, first instructed in Greek
eloquence, should afterwards be formed a wonderful Latin orator, and one
most learned in things pertaining unto philosophy. One is commended, and,
unseen, he is loved: doth this love enter the heart of the hearer from the
mouth of the commender? Not so. But by one who loveth is another kindled.
For hence he is loved who is commended, when the commender is believed to
extol him with an unfeigned heart; that is, when one that loves him, praises
him.
For so did I then love men, upon the judgment of men, not Thine, O my God,
in Whom no man is deceived. But yet why not for qualities, like those of a
famous charioteer, or fighter with beasts in the theatre, known far and wide
by a vulgar popularity, but far otherwise, and earnestly, and so as I would
be myself commended? For I would not be commended or loved, as actors are
(though I myself did commend and love them), but had rather be unknown, than
so known; and even hated, than so loved. Where now are the impulses to such
various and divers kinds of loves laid up in one soul? Why, since we are
equally men, do I love in another what, if I did not hate, I should not
spurn and cast from myself? For it holds not, that as a good horse is loved
by him, who would not, though he might, be that horse, therefore the same
may be said of an actor, who shares our nature. Do I then love in a man,
what I hate to be, who am a man? Man himself is a great deep, whose very
hairs Thou numberest, O Lord, and they fall not to the ground without Thee.
And yet are the hairs of his head easier to be numbered than his feelings,
and the beatings of his heart.
But that orator was of that sort whom I loved, as wishing to be myself such;
and I erred through a swelling pride, and was tossed about with every wind,
but yet was steered by Thee, though very secretly. And whence do I know, and
whence do I confidently confess unto Thee, that I had loved him more for the
love of his commenders, than for the very things for which he was commended?
Because, had he been unpraised, and these self-same men had dispraised him,
and with dispraise and contempt told the very same things of him, I had
never been so kindled and excited to love him. And yet the things had not
been other, nor he himself other; but only the feelings of the relators. See
where the impotent soul lies along, that is not yet stayed up by the
solidity of truth! Just as the gales of tongues blow from the breast of the
opinionative, so is it carried this way and that, driven forward and
backward, and the light is overclouded to it, and the truth unseen. And to,
it is before us. And it was to me a great matter, that my discourse and
labours should be known to that man: which should he approve, I were the
more kindled; but if he disapproved, my empty heart, void of Thy solidity,
had been wounded. And yet the “fair and fit,” whereon I wrote to him, I
dwelt on with pleasure, and surveyed it, and admired it, though none joined
therein.
Chapter XV
But I saw not yet, whereon this weighty matter turned in Thy wisdom, O Thou
Omnipotent, who only doest wonders; and my mind ranged through corporeal
forms; and “fair,” I defined and distinguished what is so in itself, and
“fit,” whose beauty is in correspondence to some other thing: and this I
supported by corporeal examples. And I turned to the nature of the mind, but
the false notion which I had of spiritual things, let me not see the truth.
Yet the force of truth did of itself flash into mine eyes, and I turned away
my panting soul from incorporeal substance to lineaments, and colours, and
bulky magnitudes. And not being able to see these in the mind, I thought I
could not see my mind. And whereas in virtue I loved peace, and in
viciousness I abhorred discord; in the first I observed a unity, but in the
other, a sort of division. And in that unity I conceived the rational soul,
and the nature of truth and of the chief good to consist; but in this
division I miserably imagined there to be some unknown substance of
irrational life, and the nature of the chief evil, which should not only be
a substance, but real life also, and yet not derived from Thee, O my God, of
whom are all things. And yet that first I called a Monad, as it had been a
soul without sex; but the latter a Duad;—anger, in deeds of violence, and in
flagitiousness, lust; not knowing whereof I spake. For I had not known or
learned that neither was evil a substance, nor our soul that chief and
unchangeable good.
For as deeds of violence arise, if that emotion of the soul be corrupted,
whence vehement action springs, stirring itself insolently and unrulily; and
lusts, when that affection of the soul is ungoverned, whereby carnal
pleasures are drunk in, so do errors and false opinions defile the
conversation, if the reasonable soul itself be corrupted; as it was then in
me, who knew not that it must be enlightened by another light, that it may
be partaker of truth, seeing itself is not that nature of truth. For Thou
shalt light my candle, O Lord my God, Thou shalt enlighten my darkness: and
of Thy fulness have we all received, for Thou art the true light that
lighteth every man that cometh into the world; for in Thee there is no
variableness, neither shadow of change.
But I pressed towards Thee, and was thrust from Thee, that I might taste of
death: for thou resistest the proud. But what prouder, than for me with a
strange madness to maintain myself to be that by nature which Thou art? For
whereas I was subject to change (so much being manifest to me, my very
desire to become wise, being the wish, of worse to become better), yet chose
I rather to imagine Thee subject to change, and myself not to be that which
Thou art. Therefore I was repelled by Thee, and Thou resistedst my vain
stiffneckedness, and I imagined corporeal forms, and, myself flesh, I
accused flesh; and, a wind that passeth away, I returned not to Thee, but I
passed on and on to things which have no being, neither in Thee, nor in me,
nor in the body. Neither were they created for me by Thy truth, but by my
vanity devised out of things corporeal. And I was wont to ask Thy faithful
little ones, my fellow-citizens (from whom, unknown to myself, I stood
exiled), I was wont, prating and foolishly, to ask them, “Why then doth the
soul err which God created?” But I would not be asked, “Why then doth God
err?” And I maintained that Thy unchangeable substance did err upon
constraint, rather than confess that my changeable substance had gone astray
voluntarily, and now, in punishment, lay in error.
I was then some six or seven and twenty years old when I wrote those
volumes; revolving within me corporeal fictions, buzzing in the ears of my
heart, which I turned, O sweet truth, to thy inward melody, meditating on
the “fair and fit,” and longing to stand and hearken to Thee, and to rejoice
greatly at the Bridegroom's voice, but could not; for by the voices of mine
own errors, I was hurried abroad, and through the weight of my own pride, I
was sinking into the lowest pit. For Thou didst not make me to hear joy and
gladness, nor did the bones exult which were not yet humbled.
Chapter XVI
And what did it profit me, that scarce twenty years old, a book of
Aristotle, which they call the often Predicaments, falling into my hands (on
whose very name I hung, as on something great and divine, so often as my
rhetoric master of Carthage, and others, accounted learned, mouthed it with
cheeks bursting with pride), I read and understood it unaided? And on my
conferring with others, who said that they scarcely understood it with very
able tutors, not only orally explaining it, but drawing many things in sand,
they could tell me no more of it than I had learned, reading it by myself.
And the book appeared to me to speak very clearly of substances, such as
“man,” and of their qualities, as the figure of a man, of what sort it is;
and stature, how many feet high; and his relationship, whose brother he is;
or where placed; or when born; or whether he stands or sits; or be shod or
armed; or does, or suffers anything; and all the innumerable things which
might be ranged under these nine Predicaments, of which I have given some
specimens, or under that chief Predicament of Substance.
What did all this further me, seeing it even hindered me? when, imagining
whatever was, was comprehended under those often Predicaments, I essayed in
such wise to understand, O my God, Thy wonderful and unchangeable Unity
also, as if Thou also hadst been subjected to Thine own greatness or beauty;
so that (as in bodies) they should exist in Thee, as their subject: whereas
Thou Thyself art Thy greatness and beauty; but a body is not great or fair
in that it is a body, seeing that, though it were less great or fair, it
should notwithstanding be a body. But it was falsehood which of Thee I
conceived, not truth, fictions of my misery, not the realities of Thy
blessedness. For Thou hadst commanded, and it was done in me, that the earth
should bring forth briars and thorns to me, and that in the sweat of my
brows I should eat my bread.
And what did it profit me, that all the books I could procure of the
so-called liberal arts, I, the vile slave of vile affections, read by
myself, and understood? And I delighted in them, but knew not whence came
all, that therein was true or certain. For I had my back to the light, and
my face to the things enlightened; whence my face, with which I discerned
the things enlightened, itself was not enlightened. Whatever was written,
either on rhetoric, or logic, geometry, music, and arithmetic, by myself
without much difficulty or any instructor, I understood, Thou knowest, O
Lord my God; because both quickness of understanding, and acuteness in
discerning, is Thy gift: yet did I not thence sacrifice to Thee. So then it
served not to my use, but rather to my perdition, since I went about to get
so good a portion of my substance into my own keeping; and I kept not my
strength for Thee, but wandered from Thee into a far country, to spend it
upon harlotries. For what profited me good abilities, not employed to good
uses? For I felt not that those arts were attained with great difficulty,
even by the studious and talented, until I attempted to explain them to
such; when he most excelled in them who followed me not altogether slowly.
But what did this further me, imagining that Thou, O Lord God, the Truth,
wert a vast and bright body, and I a fragment of that body? Perverseness too
great! But such was I. Nor do I blush, O my God, to confess to Thee Thy
mercies towards me, and to call upon Thee, who blushed not then to profess
to men my blasphemies, and to bark against Thee. What profited me then my
nimble wit in those sciences and all those most knotty volumes, unravelied
by me, without aid from human instruction; seeing I erred so foully, and
with such sacrilegious shamefulness, in the doctrine of piety? Or what
hindrance was a far slower wit to Thy little ones, since they departed not
far from Thee, that in the nest of Thy Church they might securely be
fledged, and nourish the wings of charity, by the food of a sound faith. O
Lord our God, under the shadow of Thy wings let us hope; protect us, and
carry us. Thou wilt carry us both when little, and even to hoar hairs wilt
Thou carry us; for our firmness, when it is Thou, then is it firmness; but
when our own, it is infirmity. Our good ever lives with Thee; from which
when we turn away, we are turned aside. Let us now, O Lord, return, that we
may not be overturned, because with Thee our good lives without any decay,
which good art Thou; nor need we fear, lest there be no place whither to
return, because we fell from it: for through our absence, our mansion fell
not� Thy eternity.
