No More Learning

The hybrid character
of this country without unity was illustrated by the streaks found in the
Carthaginian crowds. All the specimens of African races elbowed one another
in the streets, from the nigger, brought from his native Soudan by the
slave-merchant, to the Romanized Numidian. The inflow, continually renewed,
of traffickers and cosmopolitan adventurers increased this confusion.
And so Carthage was a Babel of races, of costumes, of beliefs and ideas.
Augustin, who was at heart a mystic, but also a dialectician extremely fond
of showy discussions, found in Carthage a lively summary of the religions
and philosophies of his day. During these years of study and reflection he
captured booty of knowledge and observation which he would know how to make
use of in the future.

In the Carthage sanctuaries and schools, in the squares and the streets,
he could see pass the disciples of all the systems, the props of all the
superstitions, the devotees of all the religions. He heard the shrill
clamour of disputes, the tumult of fights and riots. When a man was at the
end of his arguments, he knocked down his opponent. The authorities had a
good deal of trouble to keep order. Augustin, who was an intrepid logician,
must have longed to take his share in these rows. But one cannot exactly
improvise a faith between to-day and to-morrow. While he awaited the
enlightenment of the truth, he studied the Carthaginian Babel.

First of all, there was the official religion, the most obvious and perhaps
the most brilliant, that of the Divinity of the Emperors, which was still
kept up even under the Christian Cæsars. Each year, at the end of October,
the elected delegates of the entire province, having at their head the
_Sacerdos province_, the provincial priest, arrived at Carthage. Their
leader, clad in a robe broidered with palms, gold crown on head, made his
solemn entry into the city. It was a perfect invasion, each member dragging
in his wake a mob of clients and servants. The Africans, with their
taste for pomp and colour, seized the chance to give themselves over to a
display of ruinous sumptuosities: rich dresses, expensive horses splendidly
caparisoned, processions, sacrifices, public banquets, games at the circus
and amphitheatre. These strangers so overcrowded the city that the imperial
Government had to forbid them, under severe penalties, to stay longer
than five days. A very prudent measure! At these times, collisions were
inevitable between pagans and Christians. It was desirable to scatter such
crowds as soon as possible, for riots were always smouldering in their
midst.

No less thronged were the festivals of the Virgin of Heaven. A survival
of the national religion, these feasts were dear to the hearts of the
Carthaginians. Augustin went to them with his fellow-students. "We trooped
there from every quarter," he says. There was a great gathering of people
in the interior court which led up to the temple. The statue, taken from
its sanctuary, was placed before the peristyle upon a kind of repository.
Wantons, arrayed with barbarous lavishness, danced around the holy
image; actors performed and sang hymns. "Our eager eyes," Augustin adds
maliciously, "rested in turn on the goddess, and on the girls, her
adorers. " The Great Mother of the Gods, the Goddess of Mount Berecyntus,
was worshipped with similar license. Every year the people of Carthage went
to wash her solemnly in the sea. Her statue, carried in a splendid litter,
robed with precious stuffs, curled and farded, passed through the streets
of the city, with its guard of mummers and Corybants. These last, "with
hair greasy from pomade, pale faces, and a loose and effeminate walk, held
out bowls for alms to the onlookers. "

The devotion to Isis was yet another excuse for processions: the _Serapeum_
was a rival attraction to the temple of the Heavenly Maiden. If we may
trust Tertullian, the Africans swore only by Serapis. Possibly Mithras
had also worshippers in Carthage. Anyhow, the occult religions were fully
represented there. Miracle-working was becoming more and more the basis
even of paganism. Never had the soothsayers been more flourishing.
Everybody, in secret, pried into the entrails of the sacrificial victims,
or used magic spells. As to the wizards and astrologists, they did business
openly. Augustin himself consulted them, like all the Carthaginians. The
public credulity had no limits.

On the opposite side from the pagan worship, the sects which had sprung
from Christianity sprouted. True, Africa has given birth to but a small
number of heresies: the Africans had not the subtle mind of the Orientals
and they were not given to theorizing. But a good many of the Eastern
heresies had got into Carthage. Augustin must have still met Arians there,
although at this period Arianism was dying out in Africa. What is certain
is that orthodox Catholicism was in a very critical state. The Donatists
captured its congregations and churches; they were unquestionably in the
majority. They raised altar against altar. If Genethlius was the Catholic
bishop, the Donatist bishop was Parmenianus. And they claimed to be more
Catholic than their opponents. They boasted that they were the Church, the
single, the unique Church, the Church of Christ. But these schismatics
themselves were already splitting up into many sects. At the time Augustin
was studying at Carthage, Rogatus, Bishop of Tenes, had just broken
publicly with Parmenian's party. Another Donatist, Tyconius, published
books wherein he traversed many principles dear to his fellow-religionists.
Doubt darkened consciences. Amid these controversies, where was the truth?
Among whom did the Apostolic tradition dwell?

To put the finishing touch on this anarchy, a sect which likewise derived
from Christianity--Manicheeism--began to have numerous adepts in Africa.
Watched with suspicion by the Government, it concealed part of its
doctrine, the most scandalous and subversive. But the very mystery which
enveloped it, helped it to get adherents.

Among all these apostles preaching their gospel, these devotees beating
the drum before their god, these theologians reciprocally insulting and
excommunicating one another, Augustin brought the superficial scepticism of
his eighteenth year. He wanted no more of the religion in which his mother
had brought him up. He was a good talker, a clever dialectician; he was in
a hurry to emancipate himself, to win freedom for his way of thinking as
for his way of life; and he meant to enjoy his youth. With such gifts, and
with such dispositions, he could only choose among all these doctrines that
which would help most the qualities of his mind, at once flattering his
intellectual pretensions, and leaving his pleasure-loving instincts a loose
rein.




III

THE CARTHAGE STUDENT


However strong were the attractions of the great city, Augustin well knew
that he had not been sent there to amuse himself, or to trifle as an
amateur with philosophy. He was poor, and he had to secure his future--make
his fortune. His family counted on him. Neither was he ignorant of the
difficult position of his parents and by what sacrifices they had supplied
him with the means to finish his studies. Necessarily he was obliged to be
a student who worked.

With his extraordinary facility, he stood out at once among his
fellow-students. In the rhetoric school, where he attended lectures,
he was, he tells us, not only at the top, but he was the leader of his
companions. He led in everything. At that time, rhetoric was extremely
far-reaching: it had come to take in all the divisions of education,
including science and philosophy. Augustin claims to have learned all that
the masters of his time had to teach: rhetoric, dialectic, geometry, music,
mathematics. Having gone through the whole scholastic system, he thought of
studying law, and aided by his gift of words, to become a barrister. For a
gifted young man it was the shortest and surest road to money and honours.

Unhappily for him, hardly was he settled down at Carthage than his father
died. This made his future again problematical. How was he to keep up his
studies without the sums coming from his father? The affairs of Patricius
must have been left in the most parlous condition. But Monnica, clinging to
her ambitious plans for her son, knew how to triumph over all difficulties,
and she continued to send Augustin money. Romanianus, the Mæcenas of
Thagaste, who was doubtless applied to by her, came once more to the rescue
of the hard-up student. The young man, set at ease about his expenses,
resumed light-heartedly his studious and dissipated life.

As a matter of fact, this family bereavement does not seem to have caused
him much grief. In the _Confessions_ he mentions the death of his father in
a few words, and, so to speak, in parenthesis, as an event long foreseen
without much importance. And yet he owed him a great deal. Patricius was
hard pressed, and he took immense trouble to provide the means for his
son's education. But with the fine egotism of youth, Augustin perhaps
thought it enough to have profited by his father's sacrifices, and
dispensed himself from gratitude. In any case, his affection for his father
must have been rather lukewarm; the natural differences between them ran
too deep. In these years, Monnica filled all the heart of Augustin.

But the influence of Monnica herself was very slight upon this grown-up
youth, eighteen years old. He had forgotten her lessons, and it did not
trouble him much if his conduct added to the worries of the widow, who was
now struggling with her husband's creditors. At heart he was a good son and
he deeply loved his mother, but inevitably the pressure of the life around
him swept him along.

He has pictured his companions for us, after his conversion, as terrible
blackguards. No doubt he is too severe. Those young men were neither better
nor worse than elsewhere. They were rowdy, as they were in the other cities
of the Empire, and as one always is at that age. Imperial regulations
enjoined the police to have an eye on the students, to note their conduct
and what company they kept. They were not to become members of prohibited
societies, not to go too often to the theatre, nor to waste their time in
raking and feastings. If their conduct became too outrageous, they were to
be beaten with rods and sent back to their parents. At Carthage there was
a hard-living set of men who called themselves "The Wreckers. " Their great
pleasure was to go and make a row at a professor's lecture; they would
burst noisily into the classroom and smash up anything they could lay hold
of. They amused themselves also by "ragging" the freshmen, jeering at their
simplicity, and playing them a thousand tricks. Things haven't much changed
since then. The fellow-students of Augustin were so like students of
to-day that the most modern terms suggest themselves to describe their
performances.

Augustin, who was on the whole well conducted, and, as behoved a future
professor, had a respect for discipline, disapproved of "The Wreckers" and
their violence. This did not prevent him from enjoying himself in their
society. He was overcome with shame because he could not keep pace with
them--we must believe it at least, since he tells us so himself. With a
certain lack of assurance, blended however with much juvenile vanity, he
joined the band. He listened to that counsel of vulgar wisdom which is
disastrous to souls like his: "Do as others do. " He accordingly did do
as the others; he knew all their debauchery, or he imagined he did, for
however low he went, he was never able to do anything mean. He was then so
far from the faith that he arranged love-trysts in the churches. "I was not
afraid to think of my lust, and plan a scheme for securing the deadly fruit
of sin, even within the walls of Thy church during the celebration of Thy
mysteries. " We might be reading the confession of a sensualist of to-day.
One grows astonished at these morals, at once so old and so modern. What,
already! These young Christian basilicas, but newly sprung out of the
earth, where the men were strictly separated from the women--were they
already become places of assignation, where love-letters were slipped into
hands, and procuresses sold their furtive services! . . .

At length the great happiness for which Augustin had so long been sighing
was granted him: he loved and he was loved.

He loved as he indeed was able to love, with all the impetuosity of his
nature and all the fire of his temperament, with all his heart and all his
senses. "I plunged headlong into love, whose fetters I longed to wear. " But
as he went at once to extremes, as he meant to give himself altogether,
and expected all in return, he grew irritated at not receiving this same
kind of love. It was never enough love for him. Yet he was loved, and the
very certainty of this love, always too poor to his mind, exasperated the
violence and pertinacity of his desire. "Because I was loved, I proudly
riveted round myself the chain of woe, to be soon scourged with the red-hot
iron rods of jealousy, torn by suspicions, fears, anger, and quarrels. "
This was passion with chorus and orchestra, a little theatrical, with its
violences, its alternations between fury and ecstasy, such as an African,
steeped in romantic literature, would conceive it. Deceived, he flung
himself in desperate pursuit of the ever-flitting love. He had certainly
more than one passion. Each one left him more hungry than the last.

He was sensual, and he felt each time how brief is pleasure, in what a
limited circle all enjoyment turns. He was tender, eager to give himself;
and he saw plainly that one never gives oneself quite altogether, that even
in the maddest hours of surrender one always reserves oneself in secret,
keeping for oneself something of oneself; and he felt that most of the time
his tenderness got no answer. When the joyous heart brings the offering of
its love, the heart of her he loves is absent. And when it is there, on the
edge of the lips, decked and smiling to meet the loved one, it is the other
who is absent. Almost never do they join together, and they never join
together altogether. And so this Love, which claims to be constant and even
eternal, ought to be, if it would prolong itself, a continual act of faith,
and hope, and charity. To believe in it in spite of its darkening and
falling away; to hope its return, often against all evidence; to pardon its
injustices and sometimes its foul actions--how many are capable of such
abnegation? Augustin went through all that. He was in despair about it.
And then, the nostalgia of predestined souls took hold of him. He had an
indistinct feeling that these human loves were unworthy of him, and that
if he must have a master, he was born to serve another Master. He had a
desire to shake off the platitude of here below, the melancholy fen where
stagnated what he calls "the marsh of the flesh"; to escape, in a word,
from the wretched huts wherein for a little he had sheltered his heart; to
burn all behind him, and so prevent the weakness of a return; and to go and
pitch his tent further, higher, he knew not where--upon some unapproachable
mountain where the air is icy, but before the eyes, the vasty stretches of
light and space. . . .

These first loves of Augustin were really too fierce to last. They
burned up themselves. Augustin did not keep them up long. There was in
him, besides, an instinct which counteracted his exuberant, amorous
sentimentality--the sense of beauty. That in itself was enough to make him
pause on the downhill of riot. The anarchy and commotion of passion was
repellent to a mind devoted to clearness and order. But there was still
another thing--the son of the Thagaste freeholder had any amount of common
sense. That at least was left to him of the paternal heritage. A youth of
what we call the lower middle class, strictly brought up in the hard and
frugal discipline of the provinces, he felt the effects of his training.
The bohemianism in which his friends revelled could not hold him
indefinitely. Besides this, the career he desired, that of a barrister
or professor, had a preliminary obligation to maintain a certain outward
decorum. He himself tells us so; in the midst of his most disreputable
performances he aspired to be known for his fashion and wit--_elegans atque
urbanus_. Politeness of speech and manners, the courteous mutual deference
of the best society--such, was the ideal of this budding professor of
rhetoric.

Anxiety about his future, joined to his rapid disenchantments, ere long
sobered the student: he just took his fling and then settled down. Love
turned for him into sensual habit. His head became clear for study and
meditation. The apprentice to rhetoric liked his business. Up to his
last breath, despite his efforts to change, he continued, like all his
contemporaries, to love rhetoric. He handled words like a worker in verbals
who is aware of their price and knows all their resources. Even after his
conversion, if he condemns profane literature as a poisoner of souls, he
absolves the beauty of language. "I accuse not words," he says. "Words
are choice and precious vessels. I accuse the wine of error that drunken
doctors pour out for us into these fair goblets. " At the Rhetoric School he
took extreme pleasure in declaiming. He was applauded; the professor gave
him as an example to the others. These scholastic triumphs foretold others
more celebrated and reverberating. And so, in his heart, literary vanity
and ambition disputed the ever-lively illusions of love. And then, above
all! he had to live; Monnica's remittances were necessarily small; the
generosity of Romanianus had its limit. So he beat about to enlarge his
small student's purse. He wrote verses for poetic competitions. Perhaps
already he was able to act as tutor to certain of his fellow-students, less
advanced.

If the need of loving tormented his sentimental heart, he tried to assuage
it in friendship. He loved friendship as he loved love. He was a passionate
and faithful friend up to his death. At this time of his life, he was
riveting friendships which were never to be broken. He had beside him his
fellow-countryman, Alypius, the future Bishop of Thagaste, who had followed
him to Carthage and would, later on, follow him to Milan; Nebridius, a not
less dear companion, fated to die early; Honoratus, whom he drew into his
errors and later did his best to enlighten; and, finally, that mysterious
young man, whose name he does not tell us, and whose loss he mourned as
never any one has mourned the death of a friend.

They lived in daily and hourly intimacy, in continual fervour and
enthusiasm. They were great theatre-goers, where Augustin was able to
satisfy his desire for tender emotions and romantic adventures. They had
musical parties; they tried over again the popular airs heard at the
Odeum or some other of the innumerable theatres at Carthage. All the
Carthaginians, even the populace, were mad about music. The Bishop of
Hippo, in his sermons, recalls a mason upon his scaffolding, or a shoemaker
in his stall, singing away the tunes of well-known musicians. Then our
students strolled on the quays or in the Harbour Square, contemplating
the many-coloured sea, this splendour of waters at the setting sun, which
Augustin will extol one day with an inspiration unknown to the ancient
poets. Above all, they fell into discussions, commented what they had
lately read, or built up astonishing plans for the future. So flowed by a
happy and charming life, abruptly interpolated with superb anticipations.
With what a full heart the Christian penitent calls it back for us! --"What
delighted me in the intercourse of my friends, was the talk, the laughter,
the good turns we did each other, the common study of the masters of
eloquence, the comradeship, now grave now gay, the differences that left
no sting, as of a man differing with himself, the spice of disagreement
which seasoned the monotony of consent. Each by turns would instruct or
listen; impatiently we missed the absent friend, and savoured the joy of
his return. We loved each other with all our hearts, and such tokens of
friendship springing from the heart and displayed by a word, a glance, an
expression, by a thousand pretty complaisances, supply the heat which welds
souls together, and of many make one. "

It is easily understood that such ties as these had given Augustin a
permanent disgust for his rowdy comrades of a former time: he went no more
with "The Wreckers. " The small circle he took pleasure in was quiet and
cheerful.
Its merriment was controlled by the African gravity. He and his
friends come before my eyes, a little like those students of theology, or
those cultivated young Arabs, who discuss poetry, lolling indolently upon
the cushions of a divan, while they roll between their fingers the amber
beads of their rosary, or walking slowly under the arcades of a mosque,
draped in their white-silk simars, with a serious and meditative air,
gestures elegant and measured, courteous and harmonious speech, and
something discreet, polite, and already clerical in their tone and manners.

In fact, the life which Augustin was at that time relishing was the pagan
life on its best and gentlest side. The subtle network of habits and daily
occupations enveloped him little by little. There was some risk of his
growing torpid in this soft kind of life, when suddenly a rude shock roused
him. . . . It was a chance, but in his eyes a providential chance, which put
the _Hortensius_ of Cicero between his hands. Augustin was about nineteen,
still a student; according to the order which prevailed in the schools,
the time had come for him to read and explain this philosophical dialogue.
He had no curiosity about the book. He took it from his sense of duty as
a student, because it figured on the schedule. He unrolled the book, and
began it, doubtless with calm indifference. All of a sudden, a great
unexpected light shone between the lines. His heart throbbed. His whole
soul sprang towards these phrases, so dazzling and revealing. He awoke
from his long drowsiness. Before him shone a marvellous vision. . . . As this
dialogue is lost, we can hardly to-day account for such enthusiasm, and
we hold that the Roman orator was a very middling philosopher. We know,
however, through Augustin himself, that the book contained an eloquent
praise of wisdom. And then, words are naught without the soul of the
reader; all this, falling into Augustin's soul, rendered a prolonged and
magnificent sound. It is evident, too, that just at the moment when he
unrolled the book he was in a condition to receive this uplifting summons.
In such minutes, when the heart, ignorant of itself, swells like the sea
before a storm, when all the inner riches of the being overflow, the
slightest glimmer is enough to reveal all these imprisoned forces, and the
least shock to set them free.

He has at least preserved for us, in pious and faithful gratitude, some
phrases of this dialogue which moved him so deeply. Especially does he
admire this passage, wherein the author, after a long discussion, ends in
these terms: "If, as pretend the philosophers of old time, who are also
the greatest and most illustrious, we have a soul immortal and divine, it
behoves us to think, that the more it has persevered in its way, that is to
say, in reason, love, and the pursuit of truth, and the less it has been
intermingled and stained in human error and passion, the easier will it be
for it to raise itself and soar again to the skies. "

Such phrases, read in a certain state of mind, might well overwhelm this
young man, who was ere long to yearn for the cloister and was destined to
be the founder of African monasticism. To give his whole life to the study
of wisdom, to compel himself towards the contemplation of God, to live
here below an almost divine life--this ideal, impossible to pagan wisdom,
Augustin was called to realize in the name of Christ. That had dawned on
him, all at once, while he was reading the _Hortensius_. And this ideal
appeared to him so beautiful, so well worth the sacrifice of all he had
hitherto loved, that nothing else counted for him any more. He despised
rhetoric, the vain studies it compelled him to pursue, the honour and glory
it promised him. What was all that to the prize of wisdom? For wisdom he
felt himself ready to give up the world. . . . But these heroic outbursts
do not, as a rule, keep up very long in natures so changeable and
impressionable as Augustin's. Yet they are not entirely thrown away.
Thus, in early youth, come dim revelations of the future. There comes a
presentiment of the port to which one will some day be sailing; a glimpse
of the task to fulfil, the work to build up; and all this rises before the
eyes in an entrancement of the whole being. Though the bright image be
eclipsed, perhaps for years, the remembrance of it persists amid the worst
degradations or the worst mediocrities. He who one single time has seen it
pass, can never afterwards live quite like other people.

This fever calmed, Augustin set himself to reflect. The ancient
philosophers promised him wisdom. But Christ also promised it! Was it not
possible to reconcile them? And was not the Gospel ideal essentially more
human than that of the pagan philosophers? Suppose he tried to submit to
that, to bring the faith of his childhood into line with his ambitions as a
young man of intellect? To be good after the manner of his mother, of his
grandparents, of the good Thagaste servants, of all the humble Christian
souls whose virtues he had been taught to respect, and at the same time to
rival a Plato by the strength of thought--what a dream! Was it possible? . . .
He tells us himself that the illusion was brief, and that he grew cool
about the _Hortensius_ because he did not find the name of Christ in it. He
deceives himself, probably. At this time he was not so Christian. He yields
to the temptation of a fine phrase: when he wrote his _Confessions_ he had
not yet entirely lost this habit.

But what remains true is, that feeling the inadequateness of pagan
philosophy, he returned for a moment towards Christianity. The Ciceronian
dialogue, by disappointing his thirst for the truth, gave him the idea of
knocking at the door of the Church and trying to find out if on that side
there might not be a practicable road for him. This is why the reading
of _Hortensius_ is in Augustin's eyes one of the great dates of his life.
Although he fell back in his errors, he takes credit for his effort.
He recognizes in it the first sign, and, as it were, a promise of his
conversion. "Thenceforth, my God, began my upward way, and my return
towards Thee. "

He began then to study the Holy Scriptures with a more or less serious
intention to instruct himself in them. But to go to the Bible by way of
Cicero was to take the worst road. Augustin got lost there. This direct
popular style, which only cares about saying things, and not about how they
are said, could only repel the pupil of Carthage rhetoricians, the imitator
of the harmonious Ciceronian sentences. Not only had he much too spoiled
a taste in literature, but there was also too much literature in this
pose of a young man who starts off one fine morning to conquer wisdom. He
was punished for his lack of sincerity, and especially of humility. He
understood nothing of the Scripture, and "I found it," he says, "a thing
not known to the proud, nor yet laid open to children, but poor in
appearance, lofty in operation, and veiled in mysteries. At that time, I
was not the man to bow my head so as to pass in at its door. ". . .

He grew tired very quickly. He turned his back on the Bible, as he
had thrown aside _Hortensius_, and he went to find pasture elsewhere.
Nevertheless, his mind had been set in motion. Nevermore was he to know
repose, till he had found truth. He demanded this truth from all the sects
and all the churches. So it was, that in despair he flung himself into
Manicheeism.

Some have professed amazement that this honest and practical mind should
have stuck fast in a doctrine so tortuous, so equivocal, contaminated by
fancies so grossly absurd. But perhaps it is forgotten that there was
everything in Manicheeism. The leaders of the sect did not deliver the bulk
of the doctrine all at once to their catechumens; the entire initiation was
a matter of several degrees. Now Augustin never went higher than a simple
_auditor_ in the Manichean Church. What attracted specially fine minds to
the Manichees, was that they began by declaring themselves rationalists.
To reconcile faith with natural science and philosophy has been the fad
of heresiarchs and free-thinkers in all ages. The Manicheans bragged that
they had succeeded. They went everywhere, crying out: "Truth, Truth! " That
suited Augustin very well: it was just what he was looking for. He hastened
to the preachings of these humbugs, impatient to receive at last this
"truth," so noisily announced. From what they said, it was contained in
several large books written by their prophet under the guidance of the Holy
Ghost. There was quite a library of them. By way of bamboozling the crowd,
they produced some of them which looked very important, ponderous as
Tables of the Law, richly bound in vellum, and embellished with striking
illuminations. How was it possible to doubt that the entire revelation was
contained in such beautiful books? One felt at once full of respect for a
religion which was able to produce in its favour the testimony of such a
mass of writings.

However, the priests did not open them. To allay the impatience of their
hearers, they amused them by criticizing the books and dogmas of the
Catholics. This preliminary criticism was the first lesson of their
instruction. They pointed out any number of incoherences, absurdities,
and interpolations in the Bible: according to them, a great part of the
Scriptures had been foisted on the world by the Jews. But they triumphed
especially in detecting the contradictions of the Gospel narratives. They
sapped them with syllogisms. It is easy to understand that these exercises
in logic should have at once attracted the youthful Augustin. With his
extraordinary dialectical subtilty, he soon became very good at it
himself--much better even than his masters. He made speeches in their
assemblies, fenced against a text, peremptorily refuted it, and reduced his
adversaries to silence. He was applauded, covered with praise. A religion
which brought him such successes must be the true one.

After he became a bishop, he tried to explain to himself how it was that
he fell into Manicheeism, and could find only two reasons. "The first,"
he says, "was a friendship which took hold of me under I know not what
appearance of kindness, and was like a cord about my neck. . . . The second
was those unhappy victories that I almost always won in our disputes. "

But there is still another which he mentions elsewhere, and it had
perhaps the most weight. This was the loose moral code which Manicheeism
authorized. This doctrine taught that we are not responsible for the evil
we do. Our sins and vices are the work of the evil Principle--the God of
Darkness, enemy of the God of Light. Now at the moment when Augustin was
received as _auditor_ by the Manichees, he had a special need of excusing
his conduct by a moral system so convenient and indulgent. He had just
formed his connection with her who was to become the mother of his child.




IV

THE SWEETNESS OF TEARS


Augustin was nearly twenty. He had finished his studies in rhetoric within
the required time. According to the notions of that age, a young man
ought to have concluded his course by his twentieth year. If not, he was
considered past mending and sent back there and then to his family.

It may appear surprising that a gifted student like Augustin did not finish
his rhetoric course sooner. But after his terms at Madaura, he had lost
nearly a year at Thagaste. Besides, the life of Carthage had so many charms
for him that doubtless he was in no hurry to leave. However that may be,
the moment was now come for him to make up his mind about his career.
The wishes of his parents, the advice of his masters, as well as his own
ambitions and qualities, urged him, as we know, to become a barrister. But
now, suddenly, all his projects for the future changed. Not only did he
give up the law, but at the very moment when all appeared to smile on him,
at the opening of his youth, he left Carthage to go and bury himself as a
teacher of grammar in the little free-town his birthplace.

As he has neglected to give any explanation of this sudden determination,
we are reduced to conjectures. It is likely that his mother was bothered
about household expenses and could no longer afford to keep him at
Carthage. Besides, she had other children, a son and daughter, to start in
life. Augustin was on the point of being, if not poor, at least very hard
up. He must do something to earn his living, and as quickly as possible.
In these conditions, the quickest way out of the difficulty was to sell
to others what he had bought from his masters. To live, he would open a
word-shop, as he calls it disdainfully. But as he had only just ceased to
be a student, he could not dream of becoming a professor in a great city
such as Carthage, and setting himself up in rivalry to so many celebrated
masters. The best thing he could do, if he did not want to vegetate, was to
fall back on some more modest post. Now his protector, Romanianus, wanted
him to go to Thagaste. This rich man had a son almost grown up, whom it was
necessary to put as soon as possible in the hands of a tutor. Augustin,
so often helped by the father, was naturally thought of to look after the
youth. Furthermore, Romanianus, who appreciated Augustin's talent, must
have been anxious to attract him to Thagaste and keep him there. With an
eye to the interests of his free-town, he desired to have such a shining
light in the place. So he asked this young man, whom he patronized, to
return to his native district and open a grammar school. He promised
him pupils, and, above all, the support of his influence, which was
considerable, Monnica, as we may conjecture, added her entreaties to those
of the great head of the Thagaste municipality. Augustin yielded.

Did it grieve him very much to make up his mind to this exile? It must have
been extremely hard for a young man of twenty to give up Carthage and its
pleasures. Moreover, it is pretty nearly certain that at this time he had
already started that connection which was to last so long. To leave a
mistress whom he loved, and that in all the freshness of a passion just
beginning--one wonders how he was able to make up his mind to it. And yet
he did leave, and spent nearly a year at Thagaste.

One peculiar mark of the youth, and even of the whole life of Augustin, is
the ease with which he unlearns and breaks off his habits--the sentimental
as well as the intellectual. He used up a good many doctrines before
resting in the Catholic truth; and even afterwards, in the course of a
long life, he contradicted and corrected himself more than once in his
controversies and theological writings. His _Retractations_ prove this. One
might say that the accustomed weighs on him as a hindrance to his liberty;
that the look of the places where he lives becomes hateful to him as a
threat of servitude. He feels dimly that his true country is elsewhere, and
that if he must settle anywhere it is in the house of his Heavenly Father.
_Inquietum est cor nostrum, donec requiescat in te. . . . _ "Restless are our
hearts, O my God, until they rest in Thee. " Long before St. Francis of
Assisi, he practised the mystic rule: "As a stranger and a pilgrim. " It is
true that in his twentieth year he was very far from being a mystic. But he
already felt that restlessness which made him cross the sea and roam Italy
from Rome to Milan. He is an impulsive. He cannot resist the mirages of his
heart or his imagination. He is always ready to leave. The road and its
chances tempt him. He is eager for the unknown. He lets himself be carried
in delight by the blowing wind. God calls him; he obeys without knowing
where he goes. This unsettled young man, halting between contrary passions,
who feels at home nowhere, has already the soul of an apostle.

This changeableness of mood was probably the true cause of his departure
for Thagaste. But other more apparent reasons, reasons more patent to a
juvenile consciousness, guided him also. No doubt he was not sorry to
reappear in his little town, although he was so young, with the importance
and authority of a master. His former companions were going to become his
pupils. And then the Manichees had fanaticized him. Carried away by the
neophyte's bubbling zeal, elevated by his triumphs at the public meetings
in Carthage, he meant to shine before his fellow-countrymen, and perhaps
convert them. He departed with his mind made up to proselytize. Let us
believe also, that in spite of his dissolute life, and the new passion that
filled his heart, he did not come back to Thagaste without an affectionate
thought at the back of his head for his mother.

The reception that Monnica had in reserve for him was going to surprise him
considerably. Since her widowhood, the wife of Patricius had singularly
advanced in the way of Christian perfection. The early Church not only
offered widows the moral help of its sacraments and consolations, it also
granted a special dignity with certain privileges to those who made a vow
to refrain from sex-intercourse. They had in the basilicas, even as the
consecrated virgins, a place of honour, divided from that of the other
matrons by a balustrade. They wore a special dress. They were obliged to
a conduct which would shew them worthy of all the outer marks of respect
which surrounded them. The austerity of Monnica had increased with the zeal
of her faith. She set an example to the Church people at Thagaste. Docile
to the teachings of her priests, eager to serve her brethren, multiplying
alms as much as she could with her straitened means, she was unfailing at
the services of the Church. Twice daily, morning and evening, she might be
seen, exact to the hour of prayer and sermon. She did not go there, her son
assures us, to mingle in cabals and the gossip of pious females, but to
hear God's word in homily, and that God might hear her in prayer.

The widow compelled all who were about her to the same severe rule which
she herself observed. In this rigid atmosphere of his home, the student
from Carthage, with his free, fashionable airs, must have caused a painful
astonishment. Monnica felt at once that she and her son understood each
other no longer. She began by remonstrating with him. Augustin rebelled.
Things got worse when, with his presumption of the young professor
new-enamelled by the schools, the harsh and aggressive assurance of the
heresiarch, he boasted as loud as he could of being a Manichee. Monnica,
deeply wounded in her piety and motherly tenderness, ordered him to give up
his errors.