Capita selecta
Chapter 9. Conversion of Augustine
4.
In spite of this reluctance to give up a
secular life, yet in proportion as the light of Christian truth opened on
Augustine's mind, so was he drawn on to that higher Christian state on which
our Lord and His Apostle have bestowed special praise. So it was, and not
unnaturally in those times, that high and earnest minds, when they had found
the truth, were not content to embrace it by halves; they would take all or
none, they would go all lengths, they would covet the better gifts, or else
they would remain as they were. It seemed to them absurd to take so much
trouble to find the truth, and to submit to such a revolution in their opinions
and motives as its reception involved; and yet, after all, to content
themselves with a second-best profession, unless there was some plain duty
obliging them to live the secular life they had hitherto led. The cares of this
world, and the deceitfulness of riches, the pomp of life, the pride of station,
and the indulgence of sense, would be tolerated by the Christian, then only,
when it would be a sin to renounce them. The pursuit of gain may be an act of
submission to the will of parents; a married life is the performance of a
solemn and voluntary vow; but it may often happen, and did happen in
Augustine's day especially, that there are no religious reasons against a man's
giving up the world, as our Lord and His Apostles renounced it. When his
parents were heathen, or were Christians of his own high temper, when he had no
fixed engagement or position in life, when the State itself was either infidel
or but partially emerging out of its old pollutions, and when grace was given
to desire and strive after, if not fully to reach, the sanctity of the Lamb's
virginal company, duty would often lie, not in shunning, but in embracing an
ascetic life. Besides, the Church in the fourth century had had no experience
yet of temporal prosperity; she knew religion only amid the storms of
persecution, or the uncertain lull between them, in the desert or the catacomb,
in insult, contempt, and calumny. She had not yet seen how opulence, and
luxury, and splendour, and pomp, and polite refinement, and fashion, were
compatible with the Christian name; and her more serious children imagined,
with a simplicity or narrowness of mind which will in this day provoke a smile
that they ought to imitate Cyprian and Dionysius in their mode of living and
their habits, as well as in their feelings, professions, and spiritual
knowledge. They thought that religion consisted in deeds, not words. Riches,
power, rank, and literary eminence, were then thought misfortunes, when viewed
apart from the service they might render to the cause of truth; the atmosphere
of the world was thought unhealthy:—Augustine then, in proportion as he
approached the Church, ascended towards heaven.
Time went on; he was in his thirty-second
year; he still was gaining light; he renounced his belief in fatalism; he
addressed himself to St. Paul's Epistles. He began to give up the desire of
distinction in his profession: this was a great step; however, still his spirit
mounted higher than his heart as yet could follow.
"I was displeased," he says,
"that I led a secular life; yea, now that my desires no longer inflamed
me, as of old, with hopes of honour and profit, a very grievous burden it was
to undergo so heavy
a bondage. For in comparison of Thy sweetness, and 'the beauty of Thy honour,
which I loved,' these things delighted me no longer. But I still was enthralled
with the love of woman: nor did the Apostle forbid me to marry, although he
advised me to something better, chiefly wishing that all men were as he
himself. But I, being weak, chose the more indulgent place; and, because of
this alone, was tossed up and down in all beside, faint and wasted with
withering cares, because in other matters I was constrained, against my will,
to conform myself to a married life, to which I was given up and enthralled. I
had now found the goodly pearl, which, selling all that I had, I ought to have
bought; and I hesitated."—viii. 2.
Finding Ambrose, though kind and
accessible, yet reserved, he went to an aged man named Simplician, who, as some
say, baptized St. Ambrose, and eventually succeeded him in his see. He opened
his mind to him, and happening in the course of his communications to mention
Victorinus's translation of some Platonic works, Simplician asked him if he
knew that person's history. It seems he was a professor of rhetoric at Rome,
was well versed in literature and philosophy, had been tutor to many of the
senators, and had received the high honour of a statue in the Forum. Up to his
old age he had professed, and defended with his eloquence, the old pagan
worship. He was led to read the Holy Scriptures, and was brought, in
consequence, to a belief in their divinity. For a while he did not feel the
necessity of changing his profession; he looked upon Christianity as a
philosophy, he embraced it as such, but did not propose to join what he
considered the Christian sect, or, as Christians would call it, the Catholic
Church. He let Simplician into his secret; but whenever the latter pressed him
to take the step, he was accustomed to ask, "whether walls made a
Christian." However, such a state could not continue with a man of earnest
mind: the leaven worked; at length he unexpectedly called upon Simplician to
lead him to church. He was admitted a catechumen, and in due time baptized,
"Rome wondering, the Church rejoicing." It was customary at Rome for
the candidates for baptism to profess their faith from a raised place in the
church, in a set form of words. An offer was made to Victorinus, which was not
unusual in the case of bashful and timid persons, to make his profession in
private. But he preferred to make it in the ordinary way. "I was public
enough," he made answer, "in my profession of rhetoric, and ought not
to be frightened when professing salvation." He continued the school which
he had before he became a Christian, till the edict of Julian forced him to
close it. This story went to Augustine's heart, but it did not melt it. There was
still the struggle of two wills, the high aspiration and the habitual
inertness.
"I was weighed down with the
encumbrance of this world, pleasantly, as one is used to be with sleep; and my
meditations upon Thee were like the efforts of men who would awake, yet are
steeped again under the depth of their slumber. And as no one would wish always
to be asleep, and, in the sane judgment of all, waking is better, yet a man
commonly delays to shake off sleep, when a heavy torpor is on his limbs, and
though it is time to rise, he enjoys it the more heartily while he ceases to
approve it: so, in spite of my conviction that Thy love was to be obeyed rather
than my own lusts, yet I both yielded to the approval, and was taken prisoner
by the enjoyment. When Thou saidst to me, 'Rise, thou that sleepest, and arise
from the dead, and Christ will enlighten thee,' and showedst the plain
reasonableness of Thy word, convinced by its truth, I could but give the slow
and sleepy answer, 'Presently;' 'yes, presently;' 'wait awhile;' though that
presently was never present, and that awhile became long. It was in vain that I
delighted in Thy law in the inner man, while another law in my members fought
against the law of my mind, and led me captive to the law of sin, which was in
my members."—viii. 12. 5.
One day, when he and his friend Alypius
were together at home, a countryman, named Pontitian, who held an office in the
imperial court, called on him on some matter of business. As they sat talking,
he observed a book upon the table, and on opening it found it was St. Paul's
Epistles. A strict Christian himself, he was agreeably surprised to find an
Apostle, where he expected to meet with some work bearing upon Augustine's
profession. The discourse fell upon St. Antony, the celebrated Egyptian
solitary, and while it added to Pontitian's surprise to find that they did not
even know his name, they, on the other hand, were still more struck with wonder
at the relation of his Life, and the recent date of it. Thence the conversation
passed to the subject of monasteries, the purity and sweetness of their
discipline, and the treasures of grace which through them had been manifested
in the desert. It turned out that Augustine and his friend did not even know of
the monastery, of which Ambrose had been the patron, outside the walls of
Milan. Pontitian went on to give an account of the conversion of two among his
fellow-officers under the following circumstances. When he was at Treves, one
afternoon, while the emperor was in the circus, he happened to stroll out, with
three companions, into the gardens close upon the city wall. After a time they
split into two parties, and while he and another went their own way, the other
two came upon a cottage, which they were induced to enter. It was the abode of certain
recluses, "poor in spirit," as Augustine says, "of whom is the
kingdom of heaven;" and here they found the life of St. Antony, which
Athanasius had written about twenty years before (A.D. 364-366). One of {155} them began to
peruse it; and, moved by the narrative, they both of them resolved on adopting
the monastic life.
The effect produced by this relation on
Augustine was not less than was caused by the history of Antony itself upon the
imperial officers, and almost as immediately productive of a religious issue.
He felt that they did but represent to him, in their obedience, what was
wanting in his own, and suggest a remedy for his disordered and troubled state
of mind. He says:
"The
more ardently I loved these men, whose healthful state of soul was shown in
surrendering themselves to Thee for healing, so much the more execrable and
hateful did I seem to myself in comparison of them. For now many years had
passed with me, as many perhaps as twelve, since my nineteenth, when, upon
reading Cicero's 'Hortensius,' I was first incited to seek for wisdom; and
still I was putting off renunciation of earthly happiness, and simple search
after a treasure which, even in the search, not to speak of the discovery, was
better than the actual possession of heathen wealth and power, and than the
pleasures of sense poured around me at my will. But I, wretched, wretched
youth, in that springtime of my life, had asked indeed of Thee the gift of
chastity, but had said, 'Give me chastity and continence, but not at once.' I
feared, alas, lest Thou shouldst hear me too soon, and cure a thirst at once,
which I would fain have had satisfied, not extinguished … But now ... disturbed
in countenance as well as mind, I turn upon Alypius, 'What ails us?' say I,
'what is this? what is this story? See; the unlearned rise and take heaven by
violence, while we, with all our learning, all our want of heart, see where we
wallow in flesh and blood! Shall I feel shame to follow their lead, and not
rather to let alone what alone is left to me?' Something of this kind I said to
him, and while he eyed me in silent wonder, I rushed from him in the ferment of
my feelings."—viii. 17-19.
He betook himself to the garden of the house where he
lodged, Alypius following him, and sat for awhile in bitter meditation on the
impotence and slavery of the {156} human will. The thought of giving up his old
habits of life once for all pressed upon him with overpowering force, and, on
the other hand, the beauty of religious obedience pierced and troubled him. He
says:
"The
very toys of toys, and vanities of vanities, my old mistresses, kept hold of
me; they plucked my garment of flesh, and whispered softly, 'Are you indeed
giving us up? What! from this moment are we to be strangers to you for ever?
This and that, shall it be allowed you from this moment never again?'
Yet, what a view began to open on the other side, whither I had set my face and
was in a flutter to go; the chaste majesty of Continency, serene, cheerful, yet
without excess, winning me in a holy way to come without doubting, and ready to
embrace me with religious hands full stored with honourable patterns! So many
boys and young maidens, a multitude of youth and every age, grave widows and
aged virgins, and Continence herself in all, not barren, but a fruitful mother
of children, of joys by Thee, O Lord, her Husband. She seemed to mock me into
emulation, saying, 'Canst not thou what these have done, youths and maidens?
Can they in their own strength or in the strength of their Lord God? The Lord
their God gave me unto them. Why rely on thyself and fall? Cast thyself upon
His arm. Be not afraid. He will not let you slip. Cast thyself in confidence,
He will receive thee and heal thee.' Meanwhile Alypius kept close to my side,
silently waiting for the end of my unwonted agitation."
He then proceeds to give an account of the termination
of this struggle:
"At
length burst forth a mighty storm, bringing a mighty flood of tears; and to
indulge it to the full, even unto cries, in solitude, I rose up from Alypius,
... who perceived from my choked voice how it was with me. He remained where we
had been sitting, in deep astonishment. I threw myself down under a fig-tree, I
know not how, and allowing my tears full vent, offered up to Thee the acceptable
sacrifice of my streaming eyes. And I cried out to this effect:—'And Thou, O
Lord, how long, how long, Lord, wilt Thou be angry? For ever? Remember not our
old sins!' for I felt that they were my tyrants. I cried out, piteously, 'How
long? how long? tomorrow
and tomorrow? why not now? why not in this very hour put an end to this
my vileness?' While I thus spoke, with tears, in the bitter contrition of my
heart, suddenly I heard a voice, as if from a house near me, of a boy or girl
chanting forth again and again, 'TAKE UP AND READ, TAKE UP AND READ!' Changing
countenance at these words, I began intently to think whether boys used them in
any game, but could not recollect that I had ever heard them. I left weeping
and rose up, considering it a divine intimation to open the Scriptures and read
what first presented itself. I had heard that Antony had come in during the
reading of the Gospel, and had taken to himself the admonition, 'Go, sell all
that thou hast,' etc., and had turned to Thee at once, in consequence of that
oracle. I had left St. Paul's volume where Alypius was sitting, when I rose
thence. I returned thither, seized it, opened, and read in silence the
following passage, which first met my eyes, 'Not in rioting and drunkenness,
not in chambering and impurities, not in contention and envy, but put ye on the
Lord Jesus Christ, and make not provision for the flesh in its concupiscences.'
I had neither desire nor need to read farther. As I finished the sentence, as
though the light of peace had been poured into my heart, all the shadows of
doubt dispersed. Thus hast Thou converted me to Thee, so as no longer to seek
either for wife or other hope of this world, standing fast in that rule of
faith in which Thou so many years before hadst revealed me to my
mother."—viii. 26-30.
The last words of this extract relate to a
dream which his mother had had some years before, concerning his conversion. On
his first turning Manichee, abhorring his opinions, she would not for a while
even eat with him, when she had this dream, in which she had an intimation that
where she stood, there Augustine should one day be with her. At another time
she derived great comfort from the casual words of a bishop, who, when
importuned by her to converse with her son, said at length with some
impatience, "Go thy ways, and God bless thee, for it is not possible that
the son of these tears should perish!" It would be out of place, and is
{158} perhaps unnecessary, to enter here into the affecting and well-known
history of her tender anxieties and persevering prayers for Augustine. Suffice
it to say, she saw the accomplishment of them; she lived till Augustine became
a Catholic; and she died in her way back to Africa with him. Her last words
were, "Lay this body anywhere; let not the care of it in any way distress
you; this only I ask, that wherever you be, you remember me at the Altar of the
Lord."
"May she," says her son, in
dutiful remembrance of her words, "rest in peace with her husband, before
and after whom she never had any; whom she obeyed, with patience bringing forth
fruit unto Thee, that she might win him also unto Thee. And inspire, O Lord my
God, inspire Thy servants, my brethren,—Thy sons, my masters,—whom, in heart,
voice, and writing I serve, that so many as read these confessions, may at Thy
altar remember Monica, Thy handmaid, with Patricius, her sometime husband, from
whom Thou broughtest me into this life; how, I know not. May they with pious
affection remember those who were my parents in this transitory light,—my brethren
under Thee, our Father, in our Catholic Mother,—my fellow-citizens in the
eternal Jerusalem, after which Thy pilgrim people sigh from their going forth
unto their return: that so, her last request of me may in the prayers of many
receive a fulfilment, through my confessions, more abundant than through my
prayers."—ix. 37.
