The Confessions of St. Augustine
upon that subject, informing and wondering at our ignorance of one so
eminent. But we stood amazed, hearing Thy wonderful works most fully
attested, in times so recent, and almost in our own, wrought in the true
Faith and Church Catholic. We all wondered; we, that they were so great,
and he, that they had not reached us.
Thence his discourse turned to the flocks in the monasteries, and their
holy ways, a sweet-smelling savour unto Thee, and the fruitful deserts
of the wilderness, whereof we knew nothing. And there was a monastery
at Milan, full of good brethren, without the city walls, under the
fostering care of Ambrose, and we knew it not. He went on with his
discourse, and we listened in intent silence. He told us then how one
afternoon at Triers, when the Emperor was taken up with the Circensian
games, he and three others, his companions, went out to walk in gardens
near the city walls, and there as they happened to walk in pairs, one
went apart with him, and the other two wandered by themselves; and
these, in their wanderings, lighted upon a certain cottage, inhabited
by certain of Thy servants, poor in spirit, of whom is the kingdom
of heaven, and there they found a little book containing the life of
Antony. This one of them began to read, admire, and kindle at it; and
as he read, to meditate on taking up such a life, and giving over his
secular service to serve Thee. And these two were of those whom they
style agents for the public affairs. Then suddenly, filled with a holy
love, and a sober shame, in anger with himself cast his eyes upon his
friend, saying, "Tell me, I pray thee, what would we attain by all these
labours of ours? what aim we at? what serve we for? Can our hopes in
court rise higher than to be the Emperor's favourites? and in this, what
is there not brittle, and full of perils? and by how many perils arrive
we at a greater peril? and when arrive we thither? But a friend of God,
if I wish it, I become now at once." So spake he. And in pain with the
travail of a new life, he turned his eyes again upon the book, and
read on, and was changed inwardly, where Thou sawest, and his mind was
stripped of the world, as soon appeared. For as he read, and rolled up
and down the waves of his heart, he stormed at himself a while, then
discerned, and determined on a better course; and now being Thine, said
to his friend, "Now have I broken loose from those our hopes, and am
resolved to serve God; and this, from this hour, in this place, I begin
upon. If thou likest not to imitate me, oppose not." The other answered,
he would cleave to him, to partake so glorious a reward, so glorious
a service. Thus both being now Thine, were building the tower at the
necessary cost, the forsaking all that they had, and following Thee.
Then Pontitianus and the other with him, that had walked in other parts
of the garden, came in search of them to the same place; and finding
them, reminded them to return, for the day was now far spent. But they
relating their resolution and purpose, and how that will was begun and
settled in them, begged them, if they would not join, not to molest
them. But the others, though nothing altered from their former selves,
did yet bewail themselves (as he affirmed), and piously congratulated
them, recommending themselves to their prayers; and so, with hearts
lingering on the earth, went away to the palace. But the other two,
fixing their heart on heaven, remained in the cottage. And both had
affianced brides, who when they heard hereof, also dedicated their
virginity unto God.
Such was the story of Pontitianus; but Thou, O Lord, while he was
speaking, didst turn me round towards myself, taking me from behind my
back where I had placed me, unwilling to observe myself; and setting
me before my face, that I might see how foul I was, how crooked and
defiled, bespotted and ulcerous. And I beheld and stood aghast; and
whither to flee from myself I found not. And if I sought to turn mine
eye from off myself, he went on with his relation, and Thou again didst
set me over against myself, and thrustedst me before my eyes, that I
might find out mine iniquity, and hate it. I had known it, but made as
though I saw it not, winked at it, and forgot it.
But now, the more ardently I loved those whose healthful affections I
heard of, that they had resigned themselves wholly to Thee to be cured,
the more did I abhor myself, when compared with them. For many of my
years (some twelve) had now run out with me since my nineteenth, when,
upon the reading of Cicero's Hortensius, I was stirred to an earnest
love of wisdom; and still I was deferring to reject mere earthly
felicity, and give myself to search out that, whereof not the finding
only, but the very search, was to be preferred to the treasures and
kingdoms of the world, though already found, and to the pleasures of the
body, though spread around me at my will. But I wretched, most wretched,
in the very commencement of my early youth, had begged chastity of Thee,
and said, "Give me chastity and continency, only not yet." For I feared
lest Thou shouldest hear me soon, and soon cure me of the disease
of concupiscence, which I wished to have satisfied, rather than
extinguished. And I had wandered through crooked ways in a sacrilegious
superstition, not indeed assured thereof, but as preferring it to the
others which I did not seek religiously, but opposed maliciously.
And I had thought that I therefore deferred from day to day to reject
the hopes of this world, and follow Thee only, because there did not
appear aught certain, whither to direct my course. And now was the day
come wherein I was to be laid bare to myself, and my conscience was
to upbraid me. "Where art thou now, my tongue? Thou saidst that for an
uncertain truth thou likedst not to cast off the baggage of vanity; now,
it is certain, and yet that burden still oppresseth thee, while they who
neither have so worn themselves out with seeking it, nor for often years
and more have been thinking thereon, have had their shoulders lightened,
and received wings to fly away." Thus was I gnawed within, and
exceedingly confounded with a horrible shame, while Pontitianus was so
speaking. And he having brought to a close his tale and the business
he came for, went his way; and I into myself. What said I not against
myself? with what scourges of condemnation lashed I not my soul, that it
might follow me, striving to go after Thee! Yet it drew back; refused,
but excused not itself. All arguments were spent and confuted; there
remained a mute shrinking; and she feared, as she would death, to be
restrained from the flux of that custom, whereby she was wasting to
death.
Then in this great contention of my inward dwelling, which I had
strongly raised against my soul, in the chamber of my heart, troubled in
mind and countenance, I turned upon Alypius. "What ails us?" I exclaim:
"what is it? what heardest thou? The unlearned start up and take heaven
by force, and we with our learning, and without heart, lo, where we
wallow in flesh and blood! Are we ashamed to follow, because others
are gone before, and not ashamed not even to follow?" Some such words I
uttered, and my fever of mind tore me away from him, while he, gazing on
me in astonishment, kept silence. For it was not my wonted tone; and my
forehead, cheeks, eyes, colour, tone of voice, spake my mind more than
the words I uttered. A little garden there was to our lodging, which we
had the use of, as of the whole house; for the master of the house, our
host, was not living there. Thither had the tumult of my breast hurried
me, where no man might hinder the hot contention wherein I had engaged
with myself, until it should end as Thou knewest, I knew not. Only I
was healthfully distracted and dying, to live; knowing what evil thing I
was, and not knowing what good thing I was shortly to become. I retired
then into the garden, and Alypius, on my steps. For his presence did not
lessen my privacy; or how could he forsake me so disturbed? We sate down
as far removed as might be from the house. I was troubled in spirit,
most vehemently indignant that I entered not into Thy will and covenant,
O my God, which all my bones cried out unto me to enter, and praised it
to the skies. And therein we enter not by ships, or chariots, or feet,
no, move not so far as I had come from the house to that place where we
were sitting. For, not to go only, but to go in thither was nothing else
but to will to go, but to will resolutely and thoroughly; not to turn
and toss, this way and that, a maimed and half-divided will, struggling,
with one part sinking as another rose.
Lastly, in the very fever of my irresoluteness, I made with my body many
such motions as men sometimes would, but cannot, if either they have not
the limbs, or these be bound with bands, weakened with infirmity, or
any other way hindered. Thus, if I tore my hair, beat my forehead, if
locking my fingers I clasped my knee; I willed, I did it. But I might
have willed, and not done it; if the power of motion in my limbs had not
obeyed. So many things then I did, when "to will" was not in itself "to
be able"; and I did not what both I longed incomparably more to do, and
which soon after, when I should will, I should be able to do; because
soon after, when I should will, I should will thoroughly. For in these
things the ability was one with the will, and to will was to do; and yet
was it not done: and more easily did my body obey the weakest willing of
my soul, in moving its limbs at its nod, than the soul obeyed itself to
accomplish in the will alone this its momentous will.
Whence is this monstrousness? and to what end? Let Thy mercy gleam that
I may ask, if so be the secret penalties of men, and those darkest
pangs of the sons of Adam, may perhaps answer me. Whence is this
monstrousness? and to what end? The mind commands the body, and it obeys
instantly; the mind commands itself, and is resisted. The mind commands
the hand to be moved; and such readiness is there, that command is
scarce distinct from obedience. Yet the mind is mind, the hand is body.
The mind commands the mind, its own self, to will, and yet it doth not.
Whence this monstrousness? and to what end? It commands itself, I say,
to will, and would not command, unless it willed, and what it commands
is not done. But it willeth not entirely: therefore doth it not command
entirely. For so far forth it commandeth, as it willeth: and, so far
forth is the thing commanded, not done, as it willeth not. For the will
commandeth that there be a will; not another, but itself. But it doth
not command entirely, therefore what it commandeth, is not. For were
the will entire, it would not even command it to be, because it would
already be. It is therefore no monstrousness partly to will, partly to
nill, but a disease of the mind, that it doth not wholly rise, by truth
upborne, borne down by custom. And therefore are there two wills, for
that one of them is not entire: and what the one lacketh, the other
hath.
Let them perish from Thy presence, O God, as perish vain talkers and
seducers of the soul: who observing that in deliberating there were two
wills, affirm that there are two minds in us of two kinds, one good, the
other evil. Themselves are truly evil, when they hold these evil things;
and themselves shall become good when they hold the truth and assent
unto the truth, that Thy Apostle may say to them, Ye were sometimes
darkness, but now light in the Lord. But they, wishing to be light, not
in the Lord, but in themselves, imagining the nature of the soul to
be that which God is, are made more gross darkness through a dreadful
arrogancy; for that they went back farther from Thee, the true Light