The Confessions of St. Augustine
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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 fleeth he, but from Thee
well-pleased, to Thee displeased? For where doth he not find Thy law in