Confessions, Book 6

Hope from my youth, where were you to me and where had you gone away? Had you not created me and differentiated me from the beasts of the field and the birds of the air, making me wiser than they? And yet I was wandering about in a dark and slippery way, seeking you outside myself and thus not finding the God of my heart. I had gone down into the depths of the sea and had lost faith, and had despaired of ever finding the truth. By this time my mother had come to me, having mustered the courage of piety, following over sea and land, secure in you through all the perils of the journey. For in the dangers of the voyage she comforted the sailors—to whom the inexperienced voyagers, when alarmed, were accustomed to go for comfort—and assured them of a safe arrival because she had been so assured by you in a vision. She found me in deadly peril through my despair of ever finding the truth. But when I told her that I was now no longer a Manichean, though not yet a Catholic Christian, she did not leap for joy as if this were unexpected; for she had already been reassured about that part of my misery for which she had mourned me as one dead, but also as one who would be raised to you. She had carried me out on the bier of her thoughts, so that you might say to the widow's son, "Young man, I say to you, arise!" and then he would revive and begin to speak, and you would deliver him to his mother. Therefore, her heart was not agitated with any violent exultation when she heard that so great a part of what she daily entreated you to do had actually already been done—that, though I had not yet grasped the truth, I was rescued from falsehood. Instead, she was fully confident that you who had promised the whole would give her the rest, and thus most calmly, and with a fully confident heart, she replied to me that she believed, in Christ, that before she died she would see me a faithful Catholic. And she said no more than this to me. But to you, Fountain of mercy, she poured out still more frequent prayers and tears that you would hasten your aid and enlighten my darkness, and she hurried all the more zealously to the church and hung on the words of Ambrose, praying for the fountain of water that springs up into everlasting life. For she loved that man as an angel of God, since she knew that it was by him that I had been brought thus far to that wavering state of agitation I was now in, through which she was fully persuaded I would pass from sickness to health, even though it would be after a still sharper convulsion which physicians call "the crisis."

So also my mother brought to certain oratories, erected in the memory of the saints, offerings of porridge, bread, and wine—as had been her custom in Africa—and she was forbidden to do so by the doorkeeper [ostiarius]. And as soon as she learned that it was the bishop who had forbidden it, she acquiesced so devoutly and obediently that I myself marveled how readily she could bring herself to become a critic of her own customs, rather than question his prohibition. For heavy drinking had not taken possession of her spirit, nor did the love of wine stimulate her to hate the truth, as it does too many, both male and female, who turn as sick at a hymn to sobriety as drunkards do at a drink of water. When she had brought her basket with the festive gifts, which she would taste first herself and give the rest away, she would never allow herself more than one little cup of wine, diluted according to her own temperate palate, which she would taste out of courtesy. And, if there were many oratories of departed saints that ought to be honored in the same way, she still carried around with her the same little cup, to be used everywhere. This became not only very much watered but also quite tepid with carrying it about. She would distribute it by small sips to those around, for she sought to stimulate their devotion, not pleasure. But as soon as she found that this custom was forbidden by that famous preacher and most pious prelate, even to those who would use it in moderation, for fear that it might become an occasion of gluttony for those who were already drunken (and also because these funereal memorials were very much like some of the superstitious practices of the pagans), she most willingly abstained from it. And, in place of a basket filled with fruits of the earth, she had learned to bring to the oratories of the martyrs a heart full of purer petitions, and to give all that she could to the poor—so that the Communion of the Lord's body might be rightly celebrated in those places where, after the example of his Passion, the martyrs had been sacrificed and crowned. Yet it seems to me, Lord my God—and my heart thinks of it this way in your sight—that my mother would probably not have given way so easily to the rejection of this custom if it had been forbidden by another, whom she did not love as she did Ambrose. For, out of her concern for my salvation, she loved him most dearly; and he loved her truly, on account of her faithful religious life, in which she frequented the church with good works, "fervent in spirit." Thus he would, when he saw me, often burst forth into praise of her, congratulating me that I had such a mother—little knowing what a son she had in me, who was still a skeptic in all these matters and who could not conceive that the way of life could be found.

Nor had I yet come to groan in my prayers that you would help me. My mind was wholly intent on knowledge and eager for disputation. I considered Ambrose himself a happy man, as the world counted happiness, because great personages held him in honor. Only his celibacy appeared to me a painful burden. But what hope he cherished, what struggles he had against the temptations that beset his high station, what solace in adversity, and what savory joys your bread possessed for the hidden mouth of his heart when feeding on it, I could neither conjecture nor experience. Nor did he know my own frustrations, nor the pit of my danger. For I could not ask him for what I wanted in the way I wanted it, because I was kept from hearing and speaking to him by crowds of busy people to whose infirmities he devoted himself. And when he was not engaged with them—which was never for long at a time—he was either refreshing his body with necessary food or his mind with reading. Now, as he read, his eyes glanced over the pages and his heart searched out the sense, but his voice and tongue were silent. Often when we came to his room—for no one was forbidden to enter, nor was it his custom that the arrival of visitors should be announced to him—we would see him reading to himself like this. After we had sat for a long time in silence—for who would dare interrupt one so intent?—we would then depart, realizing that he was unwilling to be distracted in the little time he could gain for refreshing his mind, free from the clamor of other men's business. Perhaps he was afraid that, if the author he was studying expressed himself vaguely, some doubtful and attentive hearer would ask him to expound it or discuss some of the more abstruse questions, so that he could not get over as much material as he wished, if his time was occupied with others. And even a truer reason for his reading to himself might have been the care for preserving his voice, which was very easily weakened. Whatever his motive was in doing so, it was doubtless, in such a man, a good one.
But actually I could find no opportunity of putting the questions I wanted to put to that holy oracle of yours in his heart, unless it was a matter which could be dealt with briefly. However, those surgings in me required that he give me his full leisure so that I might pour them out to him; but I never found him free. I heard him, indeed, every Lord's Day, "rightly dividing the word of truth" among the people. And I became all the more convinced that all those knots of crafty calumnies which those deceivers of ours had knit together against the divine books could be unraveled. I soon understood that the statement that man was made after the image of Him who created him was not understood by your spiritual sons—whom you had regenerated through the Catholic Mother through grace—as if they believed and imagined that you were bounded by a human form, although I did not have the faintest or vaguest notion of what the nature of a spiritual substance was. Still rejoicing, I blushed that for so many years I had bayed, not against the Catholic faith, but against the fables of fleshly imagination. For I had been both impious and rash in having condemned by pronouncement what I ought to have learned by inquiry. For you, Most High, and most near, most secret, yet most present, who do not have limbs, some of which are larger and some smaller, but who are wholly everywhere and nowhere in space, and are not shaped by some corporeal form: you created man in your own image and, see, he dwells in space, both head and feet.

Since I could not then understand how this image of yours could subsist, I should have knocked on the door and asked how it was to be believed, and not have insultingly opposed it as if it were actually believed. Therefore, my anxiety as to what I could retain as certain gnawed all the more sharply into my soul, and I felt quite ashamed because during the long time I had been deluded and deceived by the [Manichean] promises of certainties, I had, with childish petulance, chattered about so many uncertainties as if they were certain. That they were falsehoods became apparent to me only afterward. However, I was certain that they were uncertain and since I had held them as certainly uncertain I had accused your Catholic Church with a blind contentiousness. I had not yet discovered that it taught the truth, but I now knew that it did not teach what I had so vehemently accused it of. In this respect, at least, I was confounded and converted; and I rejoiced, my God, that the one Church, the body of your only Son—in which the name of Christ had been sealed upon me as an infant—did not relish these childish trifles and did not maintain in its sound doctrine any tenet that would involve pressing you, the Creator of all, into space, which, however extended and immense, would still be bounded on all sides—like the shape of a human body.
I was also glad that the old Scriptures of the Law and the Prophets were laid before me to be read, not now with an eye to what had seemed absurd in them when formerly I censured your holy ones for thinking that way, when they actually did not think in that way. And I listened with delight to Ambrose, in his sermons to the people, often recommending this text most diligently as a rule: "The letter kills, but the spirit gives life," while at the same time he drew aside the mystic veil and opened to view the spiritual meaning of what seemed to teach perverse doctrine if it were taken according to the letter. I found nothing in his teachings that offended me, though I could not yet know for certain whether what he taught was true. For all this time I restrained my heart from assenting to anything, fearing to fall headlong into error. Instead, by this hanging in suspense, I was being strangled. For my desire was to be as certain of invisible things as I was that seven and three are ten. I was not so deranged as to believe that this could not be comprehended, but my desire was to have other things as clear as this, whether they were physical objects, which were not present to my senses, or spiritual objects, which I did not know how to conceive of except in physical terms. If I could have believed, I might have been cured, and, with the sight of my soul cleared up, it might in some way have been directed toward your truth, which always abides and fails in nothing. But, just as it happens that a man who has tried a bad physician fears to trust himself with a good one, so it was with the health of my soul, which could not be healed except by believing. But for fear of believing falsehoods, it refused to be cured, resisting your hand, who have prepared for us the medicines of faith and applied them to the maladies of the whole world, and endowed them with such great efficacy.

Still, from this time forward, I began to prefer the Catholic doctrine. I felt that it was with moderation and honesty that it commanded things to be believed that were not demonstrated—whether they could be demonstrated, but not to everyone, or whether they could not be demonstrated at all. This was far better than the method of the Manicheans, in which our credulity was mocked by an audacious promise of knowledge and then many fabulous and absurd things were forced upon believers because they were incapable of demonstration. After that, Lord, little by little, with a gentle and most merciful hand, drawing and calming my heart, you persuaded me that, if I took into account the multitude of things I had never seen, nor been present when they were enacted—such as many of the events of secular history; and the numerous reports of places and cities which I had not seen; or such as my relations with many friends, or physicians, or with these men and those—that unless we believed, we would do nothing at all in this life. Finally, I was struck by the unalterable assurance with which I believed which two people were my parents, though this was impossible for me to know except by hearsay. By bringing all this into my consideration, you persuaded me that it was not the ones who believed your books—which you have established with such great authority among nearly all nations—but those who did not believe them who were to be blamed. Moreover, I was not to listen to those men who would say to me, "How do you know that those Scriptures were imparted to mankind by the Spirit of the one and most true God?" For this was the point that was most of all to be believed, since no wranglings of blasphemous questions such as I had read in the books of the self-contradicting philosophers could ever snatch from me the belief that you exist—although I did not know what you are—and that to you belongs the governance of human affairs.
This much I believed, sometimes more strongly than at other times. But I always believed both that you are and that you care for us, although I was ignorant both of what should be thought about your substance and of which way led, or led back, to you. Thus, since we are too weak by unaided reason to find the truth, and since, because of this, we need the authority of the Holy Writings, I had now begun to believe that you would not, under any circumstances, have given such eminent authority to those Scriptures throughout all lands if it had not been your will that through them you might be believed in and sought. For as for the passages in Scripture that had until then appeared incongruous and offensive to me, now that I had heard several of them expounded reasonably, I could see that they were to be resolved by the mysteries of spiritual interpretation. The authority of Scripture seemed to me all the more revered and worthy of devout belief because, although it was visible for all to read, it reserved the full majesty of its secret wisdom within its spiritual profundity. While it stooped to all in the great plainness of its language and simplicity of style, it still required the closest attention of the most serious-minded—so that it might receive all into its common bosom, and direct a few through its narrow passages toward you, yet many more than would have been the case had there not been in it such a lofty authority, which nevertheless allured multitudes to its bosom by its holy humility. I continued to reflect on these things, and you were with me. I sighed, and you heard me. I vacillated, and you guided me. I roamed the broad way of the world, and you did not desert me.

I was still eagerly aspiring to honors, money, and matrimony; and you mocked me. In pursuit of these ambitions I endured the most bitter hardships, in which you were all the more gracious the less you allowed anything that was not you to grow sweet to me. Look into my heart, Lord, for it is at your prompting that I recall all this and confess it to you. Now let my soul cling to you, now that you have freed her from that fast-sticking glue of death. How wretched she was! And you irritated her sore wound so that she might forsake all else and turn to you—who are above all and without whom all things would be nothing at all—so that she might be converted and healed. How wretched I was at that time, and how you dealt with me so as to make me aware of my wretchedness, I recall from the incident of the day on which I was preparing to recite a panegyric on the emperor. In it I was to deliver many lies, and the lying was to be applauded by those who knew I was lying. My heart was agitated with this sense of guilt and it seethed with the fever of my uneasiness. For, while walking along one of the streets of Milan, I saw a poor beggar—with what I believe was a full belly—joking and hilarious. And I sighed and spoke to the friends around me of the many sorrows that flowed from our madness, because in spite of all our exertions—such as those I was then laboring in, dragging the burden of my unhappiness under the spur of ambition, and, by dragging it, increasing it at the same time—we still aimed only to attain that very happiness which this beggar had reached before us; and there was a grim chance that we would never attain it! For what he had obtained through a few coins, got by his begging, I was still scheming for by many wretched and tortuous turnings—namely, the joy of a passing felicity. He had not, indeed, gained true joy, but, at the same time, with all my ambitions, I was seeking one still more untrue. Anyhow, he was now joyous and I was anxious. He was free from care, and I was full of alarms. Now, if anyone asked me whether I would prefer to be merry or anxious, I would reply, "Merry." Again, if I had been asked whether I would prefer to be as he was or as I myself then was, I would have chosen to be myself; though I was beset with cares and alarms. But would not this have been a false choice? Was the contrast valid? Actually, I ought not to prefer myself to him because I happened to be more learned than he was; for I got no great pleasure from my learning, but sought, rather, to please men by its exhibition—and this not to instruct, but only to please. Thus you broke my bones with the rod of your correction.
Let my soul take its leave of those who say: "It matters what a man derives his joy from. The beggar rejoiced in drunkenness; you longed to rejoice in glory." What glory, Lord? The kind that is not in you, for, just as his was no true joy, mine was no true glory; but it turned my head all the more. He would get over his drunkenness that same night, but I had slept with mine many nights and risen again with it, and was to sleep again and rise again with it, I do not know how many times. It does indeed matter what a man's joy is gained from. I know this is so, and I know that the joy of a faithful hope is incomparably beyond such vanity. Yet, at the same time, this beggar was beyond me, for he truly was the happier man—not only because he was thoroughly steeped in his mirth while I was torn to pieces with my cares, but because he had gotten his wine by giving good wishes to the passers-by while I was following after the ambition of my pride by lying. I said much to this effect to my good companions, and I saw how readily they reacted pretty much as I did. Thus I found that things went badly for me; and I fretted, and so doubled the trouble. And if any prosperity smiled upon me, I was reluctant to seize it, for almost before I could grasp it, it would fly away.

Those of us who were living like friends together used to bemoan our lot in our common talk; but I discussed it with Alypius and Nebridius more especially and in very familiar terms. Alypius had been born in the same town as I; his parents were of the highest rank there, but he was a bit younger than I. He had studied under me when I first taught in our town, and then afterward at Carthage. He esteemed me highly because I appeared to him good and learned, and I esteemed him for his inborn love of virtue, which was uncommonly marked in a man so young. But in the whirlpool of Carthaginian fashion—where frivolous spectacles are hotly followed—he had been lured into the madness of the gladiatorial games. While he was miserably tossed about in this fad, I was teaching rhetoric there in a public school. At that time he was not attending my classes because of some ill feeling that had arisen between me and his father. I then came to discover how fatally he doted on the circus, and I was deeply grieved, for he seemed likely to cast away his very great promise—if, indeed, he had not already done so. Yet I had no means of advising him, or any way of reclaiming him through restraint, either by the kindness of a friend or by the authority of a teacher. For I imagined that his feelings toward me were the same as his father's. But this turned out not to be the case. Indeed, disregarding his father's will in the matter, he began to be friendly and to visit my lecture room, to listen for a while and then depart.
But I forgot to try to deal with his problem, to prevent him from ruining his excellent mind in his blind and headstrong passion for frivolous sport. But you, Lord, who hold the helm of all that you have created, you had not forgotten him who was one day to be numbered among your sons, a chief minister of your sacrament. And in order that his reform might plainly be attributed to you, you brought it about through me while I knew nothing of it. One day, when I was sitting in my accustomed place with my students before me, he came in, greeted me, sat down, and fixed his attention on the subject I was then discussing. It so happened that I had a passage in hand and, while I was interpreting it, a simile occurred to me, taken from the gladiatorial games. It struck me as relevant to make the point I wanted to convey more pleasant and plain by adding a biting gibe at those whom that madness had enthralled. You know, our God, that I had no thought at that time of curing Alypius of that plague. But he took it to himself and thought that I had said it for his sake alone. And what any other man would have taken as an occasion of offense against me, this worthy young man took as a reason for being offended at himself, and for loving me all the more fervently. You said it long ago and wrote it in your Book, "Rebuke a wise man, and he will love you." Now I had not rebuked him; but you who can make use of everything, both the knowing and the unknowing, and in the order which you yourself know to be best—and that order is right—you made my heart and tongue into burning coals with which you might cauterize and cure the hopeful mind thus languishing. Let anyone who does not meditate on your mercy be silent in your praise, which rises up in my inmost parts to confess to you. For after that speech Alypius rushed up out of that deep pit into which he had willfully plunged and in which he had been blinded by its miserable pleasures. And he roused his mind with a resolve to moderation. When he had done this, all the filth of the gladiatorial pleasures dropped away from him, and he never went to them again. Then he also prevailed upon his reluctant father to let him be my pupil. And, at the son's urging, the father at last consented. Thus Alypius began again to hear my lectures and became involved with me in the same superstition, loving in the Manicheans that outward display of ascetic discipline which he believed was true and unfeigned. It was, however, a senseless and seducing continence, which ensnared precious souls who were not yet able to reach the height of true virtue, and who were easily beguiled by the veneer of what was only a shadowy and feigned virtue.

He had gone on to Rome before me to study law—which was the worldly way which his parents were forever urging him to pursue—and there he was carried away again with an incredible passion for the gladiatorial shows. For, although he had been utterly opposed to such spectacles and detested them, one day he met by chance a company of his acquaintances and fellow students returning from dinner; and, with a friendly violence, they drew him, resisting and objecting vehemently, into the amphitheater, on a day of those cruel and murderous shows. He protested to them: "Though you drag my body to that place and set me down there, you cannot force me to give my mind or lend my eyes to these shows. Thus I will be absent while present, and so overcome both you and them." When they heard this, they dragged him on in, probably interested to see whether he could do as he said. When they got to the arena, and had taken what seats they could get, the whole place became a tumult of inhuman frenzy. But Alypius kept his eyes closed and forbade his mind to wander off after such wickedness. If only he had shut his ears too! For when one of the combatants fell in the fight, a mighty cry from the whole audience stirred him so strongly that, overcome by curiosity and still prepared (as he thought) to despise and rise above it no matter what it was, he opened his eyes and was struck with a deeper wound in his soul than the victim whom he desired to see had been in his body. Thus he fell more miserably than the one whose fall had raised that mighty clamor which had entered through his ears and unlocked his eyes to make way for the wounding and beating down of his soul, which was more audacious than truly valiant—also it was weaker because it presumed on its own strength when it ought to have depended on you. For, as soon as he saw the blood, he drank in with it a savage temper, and he did not turn away, but fixed his eyes on the bloody pastime, unwittingly drinking in the madness—delighted with the wicked contest and drunk with blood lust. He was now no longer the same man who came in, but was one of the mob he came into, a true companion of those who had brought him there. Why should I say more? He looked, he shouted, he was excited, and he took away with him the madness that would stimulate him to come again: not only with those who first enticed him, but even without them; indeed, dragging in others besides. And yet from all this, with a most powerful and most merciful hand, you plucked him and taught him not to rest his confidence in himself but in you—but not until long after.

But this was all being stored up in his memory as medicine for the future. So also was that other incident when he was still studying under me at Carthage and was meditating at noonday in the market place on what he had to recite—as students usually have to do for practice—and you allowed him to be arrested by the police officers in the market place as a thief. I believe, my God, that you allowed this for no other reason than that this man who was in the future to prove so great should now begin to learn that, in making just decisions, a man should not readily be condemned by other men with reckless credulity. For as he was walking up and down alone before the judgment seat with his tablets and pen, suddenly a young man—another one of the students, who was the real thief—secretly brought a hatchet and, without Alypius seeing him, got in as far as the leaden bars which protected the silversmith shop and began to hack away at the lead gratings. But when the noise of the hatchet was heard the silversmiths below began to call to each other in whispers and sent men to arrest whoever they found. The thief heard their voices and ran away, leaving his hatchet because he was afraid to be caught with it. Now Alypius, who had not seen him come in, got a glimpse of him as he went out and noticed that he went off in great haste. Being curious to know the reasons, he went up to the place, where he found the hatchet, and stood wondering and pondering when, behold, those who were sent caught him alone, holding the hatchet which had made the noise which had startled them and brought them there. They seized him and dragged him away, gathering the tenants of the market place about them and boasting that they had caught a notorious thief. Then he was led away to appear before the judge.
But this is as far as his lesson was to go. For immediately, Lord, you came to the rescue of his innocence, of which you were the sole witness. As he was being led off to prison or punishment, they were met by the master builder who was in charge of the public buildings. The captors were especially glad to meet him because he had more than once suspected them of stealing the goods that had been lost out of the market place. Now, at last, they thought they could convince him who it was that had committed the thefts. But the custodian had often met Alypius at the house of a certain senator, whose receptions he used to attend. He recognized him at once and, taking his hand, led him apart from the throng, inquired the cause of all the trouble, and learned what had occurred. He then commanded all the rabble still around—and they were very uproarious and full of threats—to come along with him, and they came to the house of the young man who had committed the deed. There, before the door, was a slave boy so young that he was not restrained from telling the whole story by fear of harming his master. And he had followed his master to the market place. Alypius recognized him, and whispered to the architect, who showed the boy the hatchet and asked whose it was. "Ours," he answered at once. And, being further questioned, he disclosed the whole affair. Thus the guilt was shifted to that household and the rabble, who had begun to triumph over Alypius, were shamed. And so he went home, this man who was to be the future steward of your Word and judge of so many causes in your Church—a wiser and more experienced man.

I found him at Rome, and he was bound to me with the strongest possible ties, and he went with me to Milan, so that he would not be separated from me, and also so that he might obtain some law practice, for which he had qualified with a view to pleasing his parents more than himself. He had already sat three times as assessor, showing an integrity that seemed strange to many others, though he thought those who could prefer gold to integrity strange. His character had also been tested, not only by the bait of covetousness, but by the spur of fear. At Rome he was assessor to the secretary of the Italian Treasury. There was at that time a very powerful senator to whose favors many were indebted, and whom many feared. In his usual highhanded way he demanded to have a favor granted him that was forbidden by the laws. Alypius resisted this. A bribe was promised, but he scorned it with all his heart. Threats were employed, but he trampled them underfoot—so that all men marveled at so rare a spirit, which neither coveted the friendship nor feared the enmity of a man at once so powerful and so widely known for his great resources for helping his friends and doing harm to his enemies. Even the official whose counselor Alypius was—although he was unwilling that the favor should be granted—would not openly refuse the request, but passed the responsibility on to Alypius, alleging that he would not permit him to give his assent. And the truth was that even if the judge had agreed, Alypius would have simply left the court. There was one matter, however, which appealed to his love of learning, in which he was very nearly led astray. He found out that he might have books copied for himself at praetorian rates [i.e., at public expense]. But his sense of justice prevailed, and he changed his mind for the better, thinking that the rule that forbade him was still more profitable than the privilege that his office would have allowed him. These are little things, but "he who is faithful in a little matter is faithful also in a great one." Nor can that possibly be void which was uttered by the mouth of your truth: "If, therefore, you have not been faithful in the unrighteous mammon, who will commit to your trust the true riches? And if you have not been faithful in what is another man's, who shall give you what is your own?" Such a man was Alypius, who clung to me at that time and who wavered in his purpose, just as I did, as to what course of life to follow.
Nebridius also had come to Milan for no other reason than to live with me in a most ardent search after truth and wisdom. He had left his native place near Carthage—and Carthage itself, where he usually lived—leaving behind his fine family estate, his house, and his mother, who would not follow him. Like me, he sighed; like me, he wavered; an ardent seeker after the true life and a most acute analyst of the most abstruse questions. So there were three begging mouths, sighing out their wants one to the other, and waiting on you to give them their food in due season. And in all the vexations with which your mercy followed our worldly pursuits, we sought for the reason why we suffered so—and all was darkness! We turned away groaning and exclaiming, "How long shall these things be?" And this we often asked, yet for all our asking we did not relinquish them; for we had not yet discovered anything certain that we might grasp in their place when we gave those others up.

And I especially puzzled and wondered when I remembered how long a time had passed since my nineteenth year, in which I had first fallen in love with wisdom and had determined as soon as I could find her to abandon the empty hopes and mad delusions of vain desires. Behold, I was now getting close to thirty, still stuck fast in the same mire, still greedy to enjoy present goods which fly away and distract me; and I was still saying, "Tomorrow I shall discover it; behold, it will become plain, and I shall see it; behold, Faustus will come and explain everything." Or I would say:"You mighty Academics, is there no certainty that man can grasp for the guidance of his life? No, let us search all the more diligently, and let us not despair. See, the things in the Church's books that appeared so absurd to us before do not appear so now, and may be otherwise and honestly interpreted. I will set my feet upon that step where, as a child, my parents placed me, until the clear truth is discovered. But where and when shall it be sought? Ambrose has no leisure—we have no leisure to read. Where are we to find the books? How or where could I get hold of them? From whom could I borrow them? Let me set a schedule for my days and set apart certain hours for the health of the soul. A great hope has risen up in us, because the Catholic faith does not teach what we thought it did and vainly accused it of teaching. Its teachers hold it as an abomination to believe that God is limited by the form of a human body. And do I doubt that I should knock' in order for the rest also to be opened' to me? My pupils take up the morning hours; what am I doing with the rest of the day? Why not do this? But, then, when am I to visit my influential friends, whose favors I need? When am I to prepare the orations that I sell to the class? When would I get some recreation and relax my mind from the strain of work?
"Let everything perish, and let us dismiss these idle trifles. Let me devote myself solely to the search for truth. This life is unhappy, death uncertain. If it comes upon me suddenly, in what state shall I depart, and where shall I learn what I have neglected here? Should I not indeed suffer the punishment of my negligence here? But suppose death cuts off and finishes all care and feeling. This too is a question that calls for inquiry. God forbid that it should be so. It is not without reason, it is not in vain, that the stately authority of the Christian faith has spread over the entire world, and God would never have done such great things for us if the life of the soul perished with the death of the body. Why, therefore, do I delay in abandoning my hopes of this world and giving myself wholly to seeking God and the blessed life? "But wait a moment. This life also is pleasant, and it has a sweetness of its own, not at all negligible. We must not abandon it lightly, for it would be shameful to lapse back into it again. See now, it is important to gain some post of honor. And what more should I desire? I have crowds of influential friends, if nothing else; and, if I push my claims, a governorship may be offered me, and a wife with some money, so that she would not be an added expense. This would be the height of my desire. Many men, who are great and worthy of imitation, have combined the pursuit of wisdom with married life."
While I talked about these things, and the winds of opinions veered about and tossed my heart here and there, time was slipping away. I delayed my conversion to the Lord; I postponed from day to day the life in you,⁠a but I could not postpone the daily death in myself. I was enamored of a happy life, but I still feared to seek it in its own abode, and so I fled from it while I sought it. I thought I would be miserable if I were deprived of the embraces of a woman, and I never gave a thought to the medicine that your mercy has provided for the healing of that infirmity, for I had never tried it. As for continence, I imagined that it depended on one's own strength, though I found no such strength in myself, for in my folly I did not know what is written, "None can be continent unless you grant it."⁠b Certainly you would have given it, if I had pleaded in your ears with heartfelt groaning, and if I had cast my care upon you with firm faith.

Actually, it was Alypius who prevented me from marrying, urging that if I did so it would not be possible for us to live together and to have as much undistracted leisure in the love of wisdom as we had long desired. For he himself was so chaste that it was wonderful, all the more because in his early youth he had entered upon the path of promiscuity, but had not continued in it. Instead, feeling sorrow and disgust at it, he had lived with complete continence from that time to the present. I quoted against him the examples of men who had been married and still lovers of wisdom, who had pleased God and had been loyal and affectionate to their friends. I fell far short of them in greatness of soul, and, enthralled with the disease of my carnality and its deadly sweetness, I dragged my chain along, afraid to be freed from it. Thus I rejected the words of him who counseled me wisely, as if the hand that would have released the chain only hurt my wound. Moreover, the serpent spoke to Alypius himself through me, weaving and lying in his path, through my tongue to catch him with pleasant snares in which his honorable and free feet might be entangled.
For he wondered that I, for whom he had such a great esteem, should be stuck so fast in the gluepot of pleasure as to maintain, whenever we discussed the subject, that I could not possibly live a celibate life. And when I urged in my defense against his accusing questions that the hasty and stolen delight, which he had tasted and now hardly remembered, and therefore too easily disparaged, was not to be compared with a settled acquaintance with it; and that, if to this stable acquaintance were added the honorable name of marriage, he would not then be astonished at my inability to give it up—when I spoke like this, then he also began to wish to be married, not because he was overcome by the lust for such pleasures, but out of curiosity. For, he said, he longed to know what that could be without which my life, which he thought was so happy, seemed to me to be no life at all, but a punishment. For he who wore no chain was amazed at my slavery, and his amazement awoke the desire for experience, and from that he would have gone on to the experiment itself, and then perhaps he would have fallen into the very slavery that amazed him in me, since he was ready to enter into "a covenant with death," for "he who loves danger shall fall into it."⁠a Now, the question of conjugal honor in the ordering of a good married life and the bringing up of children interested us only slightly. What afflicted me most and what had made me already a slave to it was the habit of satisfying an insatiable lust; but Alypius was about to be enslaved by a merely curious wonder. This is the state we were in until you, Most High, who never forsake our lowliness, took pity on our misery and came to our rescue in wonderful and secret ways.

Active efforts were made to get me a wife. I courted; I was engaged; and my mother took the greatest pains in the matter. For her hope was that, once I was married, I might be washed clean in health-giving baptism for which I was being daily prepared, as she joyfully saw, taking note that her desires and promises were being fulfilled in my faith. Yet, when, at my request and her own impulse, she called upon you daily with strong, heartfelt cries, asking you to disclose to her in a vision some guidance about my future marriage, you would not. She did, indeed, see certain vain and fantastic things, such as are conjured up by the strong preoccupation of the human spirit, and she supposed these had some reference to me. And she told me about them, but not with the confidence she usually had when you had shown her anything. For she always said that she could distinguish, by a certain feeling impossible to describe, between your revelations and the dreams of her own soul. Yet the matter was pressed forward, and proposals were made for a girl who was still some two years too young to marry. And because she pleased me, I agreed to wait for her.

Many in my band of friends, talking over and abhorring the turbulent vexations of human life, had often considered and were now almost determined to undertake a peaceful life, away from the turmoil of men. We thought this could be obtained by bringing together what we each owned and thus making it into a common household, so that in the sincerity of our friendship nothing would belong more to one than to the other; but all were to have one purse and the whole was to belong to each and to all. We thought that this group might consist of ten persons, some of whom were very rich—especially Romanianus, my fellow townsman, an intimate friend from childhood days. He had been brought up to the court on grave business matters and he was the most earnest of us all about the project and his voice was of great weight in commending it because his estate was far more ample than that of the others. We had resolved, also, that each year two of us should be managers and provide all that was needed, while the rest were left undisturbed. But when we began to reflect whether this would be permitted by our wives, whom some of us had already and others hoped to have, the whole plan, so excellently framed, collapsed in our hands and was utterly wrecked and cast aside. From this we fell again into sighs and groans, and our steps followed the broad and beaten ways of the world; for many thoughts were in our hearts, but "your counsel stands fast forever." In your counsel you mocked ours, and prepared your own plan, for it was your purpose "to give us food in due season, to open your hand, and to fill our souls with blessing."

Meanwhile my sins were being multiplied. My mistress was torn from my side as an impediment to my marriage, and my heart which clung to her was torn and wounded until it bled. And she went back to Africa, vowing to you never to know any other man and leaving with me my natural son by her. But I, unhappy as I was, and weaker than a woman, could not bear the delay of the two years that had to pass before I could obtain the bride I sought. And so, since I was not a lover of marriage so much as a slave of lust, I procured another mistress—not a wife, of course. In this way, in bondage to a lasting habit, the disease of my soul could be nursed along and kept in its vigor or even increased until it reached the realm of matrimony. Nor indeed was the wound that had been caused by cutting away my former mistress healed; only it ceased to burn and throb, and began to fester, and was more dangerous because it was less painful.

Praise be yours, and glory be to you, Fountain of mercies. I became more wretched and you came nearer. Your right hand was always ready to pluck me out of the mire and to cleanse me, but I did not know it. Nor did anything call me back from a still deeper plunge into carnal pleasure except the fear of death and of your future judgment, which, amid all the waverings of my opinions, never faded from my breast. And I discussed with my friends, Alypius and Nebridius, the nature of good and evil, maintaining that, in my judgment, Epicurus would have won the prize if I had not believed what Epicurus would not believe: that after death there remains a life for the soul, and places of recompense. And I asked them: "Suppose we are immortal and live in the enjoyment of perpetual bodily pleasure, and that without any fear of losing it—why, then, should we not be happy, or why should we search for anything else?" I did not know that this was in fact the root of my misery: that I was so fallen and blinded that I could not discern the light of virtue and of beauty which must be embraced for its own sake, which the eye of flesh cannot see, and only the inner vision can see. Nor did I, alas, consider the reason why I found delight in discussing these very perplexities, shameful as they were, with my friends. For I could not be happy without friends, even according to the notions of happiness I had then, and no matter how rich the store of my carnal pleasures might be. Yet truly I loved my friends for their own sakes, and felt that they in turn loved me for my own sake. What crooked ways! Woe to the audacious soul which hoped that by forsaking you it would find something better! It tossed and turned, on back and side and belly—but the bed is hard, and you alone give it rest. And see, you are near, and you deliver us from our wretched wanderings and establish us in your way, and you comfort us and say, "Run, I will carry you; yes, I will lead you home and then I will set you free."