youth, neither will their dying bring you immortality. So let us leave
on one side everything else and return to your own case. Tell me; when
you have noticed these signs of change in your body, has it not brought
some change also in your soul?
_Petrarch._ It has certainly made some impression on me, but not
exactly a change.
_S. Augustine._ What, then, were your thoughts, and what did you say to
yourself?
_Petrarch._ What would you have me say, except what was said by
Domitian the Emperor, "With even mind I brook the sight of watching,
though still young, my hairs grow grey."[42] So illustrious an example
has consoled me for what grey hairs I too behold. And if I needed more,
I brought to mind a king beside that emperor; I mean Numa Pompilius
the Second, who, as the historian relates, had grey hair even from
his youth. And Poetry as well as History comes to my aid, since in
his Bucolics our own Virgil, writing when he was but five-and-twenty,
speaking of himself in the person of a shepherd, exclaims--
"When now my whitening beard the razor knew."[43]
_S. Augustine._ What vast abundance of examples you can command! Pray
heaven you have as many recollections of your own death. For I praise
not those exemplars that lead one to dissemble grey hairs which are
the heralds of old age, and the _avant-couriers_ of Death. And good
those examples are not, if their effect is to take you off the trouble
of remembering how time flies, and to lead you to forget your own
last hour; to the recollection of which the whole of my discourse is
entirely and without ceasing directed. When I bid you think on your own
whitening forehead, do you quote me a crowd of famous men whose locks
were white also? What does it prove? Ah, if you were able to say these
were immortal, then you might from their example put away the dread of
your changing brow. If instead of mentioning greyness I had ventured
to hint that you were getting bald, you would, I suppose, have thrown
Julius Cæsar in my teeth!
_Petrarch_. Certainly. What more illustrious example could I need?
Now, unless I am mistaken, it is in fact a great comfort to find
oneself surrounded by companions so famous. Yes, I will freely admit
that I am not disposed for a moment to reject such examples, which
are, for me, part of the luggage I carry daily in my mind; for it is a
pleasure to me not only in such misfortunes as Nature or chance have
already allotted me, but also in those which they may still have in
store; it is a pleasure, I say, to have ever at hand such matter of
comfort and consolation as I can obtain only from some truly cogent
reason or outstanding example.
If, then, you meant to reproach me for being afraid of thunder--a
charge I could not deny (and one of the chief reasons why I love the
laurel is because it is said that thunder will not strike this tree),
then I shall reply to you that this was a weakness Cæsar Augustus
shared; if you allege that I am getting blind (and there also you
would be right), I should quote you Appius Cæcus and also Homer, the
Prince of Poets; if you call me one-eyed, I will, shield myself behind
Hannibal, the Punic leader, or Philip, King of Macedon; call me deaf,
and Marcus Crassus shall be my defence; say I cannot stand the heat,
and I will say I am but like Alexander, Prince of Macedonia.
It were tedious to go through all the list; but after these you can
judge who they would be.
_S. Augustine._ Yes, perfectly. I am nowise displeased with your
wealth of instances, provided it does not make you self-negligent and
only serves to disperse the clouds of fear and sadness. I applaud
anything that helps a man to face with courage the coming of old age,
and keeps him from bewailing its presence when it has arrived. But I
loathe and abominate profoundly everything that conceals from him the
truth that old age is the port of departure from this life, and blinds
him to the need of reflecting on death. To take with equanimity the
going grey before one's time is the sign of a good natural disposition;
but to try and interpose artificial checks, to cheat time of his years,
to raise an outcry and declare grey hairs are come too soon, to begin
dyeing or plucking them out, is a piece of folly, which, common as it
may be, is none the less egregious for all that.
You perceive not, O blind that you are, how swiftly the stars roll
in their course, and how soon the flight of time consumes the space
of your short life, and you marvel when you see old age coming on,
hastening quickly the despatch of all your days.
Two causes seem to foster this delusion. The first is that even the
shortest life is partitioned out by some people into four, by others
into six, and by others again into a still larger number of periods;
that is to say, the reality is so small, and as you cannot make it
longer, you think you will enlarge it by division. But of what profit
tis all this dividing? Make as many particles as you like, and they are
all gone in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye.
"Yesterday was born the baby,
See to-day the lovely boy,
Then the young man quick as may be,
Then an end of life and joy."
You observe with what quick hurrying words the subtle poet has sketched
out the swift course of our life. So it is in vain you strive to
lengthen out what Nature, the mother of us all, has made so short.
The second cause is that you will persist in letting old age find you
still in the midst of games and empty pleasures; like the old Trojans
who in their customary ways passed the last night without perceiving.
"The cunning, fatal horse, who bore within
Those armed bands, had overleapt the wall
Of Pergamos."[44]
Yes, even so you perceive not that old age, bringing in his train
the armed warrior Death, unpitying and stem, has over-leapt the
weakly-guarded rampart of your body; and then you find your foe has
already glided by stealth along his rope--
"And now the invader climbs within the gate
And takes the city in its drunken sleep."[45]
For in the gross body and the pleasure of things temporal, not less
drunk are you than those old Trojans were, as Virgil saw them, in their
slumber and their wine.
Or, looking to another quarter, no less truth is to be found in the
neat lines of the Satirist--
"Our lives unfold in morning air As lilies of a day, 'Come bring us
wine,' we shout. 'Ho, there, Fetch garlands, odours, damsels fair.' But
ah! before we are aware, Old Age sweeps all away."[46]
Now, to come back to our subject and to yourself, when this old age
comes stealing on and knocks at your door, you make an effort to
bar him out. You pretend that by some infraction of the order of
Nature he has come too soon. You are delighted when you come across
some rather elderly person who declares he knew you when you were a
child, especially if, as people generally do, he makes out it was but
yesterday or the day before. You find it convenient to forget that one
can say as much about any old dotard however decrepit. Who was not a
child yesterday, or to-day, as far as that goes?
We can look here and there and find infants of ninety quarrelling about
trifles and even now occupied with infantine toys. The days flee away,
the body decays, the soul is where it was. Though everything is rotten
with age, the soul has never grown up, never come to maturity, and
it is a truth, as the proverb says, "One soul uses up many bodies."
Infancy passes, but, as Seneca remarks, "childishness remains."[47]
And, believe me, perhaps you are not so young as you imagine, for the
greater part of mankind have not yet reached the age which you have.
Blush, therefore, to pass for an aged lover; blush to be so long the
Public's jest; and if true glory has no charm for you and ridicule no
terror, at least let change of heart come to the rescue and save you
from disgrace. For, if I see things at all truly, a man should guard
his reputation, if only to spare his own friends the shameful necessity
of telling lies. All the world owes this to itself, but especially such
a man as yourself, who have so great a public to justify, and one which
is always talking of you.
"Great is the task to guard a great man's name."[48]
If in your poem of _Africa_ you make a truculent enemy tender such
good counsel to your beloved Scipio, you may well allow, for your own
profit, a father, who loves you tenderly, to utter with his lips the
very same monition.
Put away the childish things of infancy; quench the burning desires
of youth; think not all the time of what you are going to be and do
next; look carefully what you are now; do not imagine that the mirror
has been put before your eyes for nothing, but remember that which is
written in the Book of Questions on Nature:--
"Mirrors were invented that men might know themselves. Much profit
comes thereby. First, knowledge of self; second, wise counsel. You are
handsome, then beware of what disfigures: plain, then make up by virtue
what is wanting in good looks. You are young, then remember youth's
springtime is the time for study and for manly work: old, then lay
aside the ugly vices off the flesh and turn your thoughts to what will
be the latter end."[49]
_Petrarch_. It has dwelt in my remembrance always, from the first day
that ever I read it; for the thing itself is worth remembering and its
warning is wise.
_S. Augustine._ Of what profit has it been to you to read and remember?
You had better excused yourself had you pleaded ignorance for your
shield. Knowing what you do, are you not ashamed to see that your grey
hairs have brought no change in you?
_Petrarch._ I am ashamed, I regret it, I repent of it, but as for doing
more, I cannot. Moreover, you know I have this much of consolation,
that she too is growing old with me.
_S. Augustine._ The very word of Julia, Cæsar Augustus' daughter!
Doubtless it has lain fixed in your mind, has it not? When her father
found fault because she would not have older people round her, as did
Livia, she parried the paternal reproof by the neat rejoinder--"They
will be older as soon as I am."[50]
But pray, tell me, do you suppose that at your age it will be more
becoming to doat upon an old woman than to love a young one? On the
contrary, it is the more unbecoming, as the reason for loving is less.
Well may you take shame to yourself never to grow any wiser though you
see your body daily growing older. That is all I can say on the subject
of shame.
But, as Cicero tells us, it is but a poor thing to make shame do the
work of reason; and so to reason, the true source of all remedies, let
us now turn for help. You will assuredly find it through using deep
Reflection--the third of the things that turn the soul away from love.
Remember what you are now called to is that citadel wherein alone you
can be quite safe against the incursions of passion and by which alone
you will deserve the name of Man. Consider, then, first how noble a
thing is the soul, and that so great is it that were I to discourse
as I should wish, I must needs make a whole book thereon. Consider,
again, the frailty and vileness of the body, which would demand no
less full treatment than the other. Think also of the shortness of our
life, concerning which many great men have left their books. Think
of the flight of time, that no one yet has been able to express in
words. Think of Death, the fact so certain, the hour so uncertain, but
everywhere and at all times imminent. Think how men are deceived just
in this one point, that they believe they can put off what in fact
never can be put off: for no one is really such a fool as, supposing
the question is asked him, not to answer that of course some day he
will die. And so let not the hope of longer life mock you, as it mocks
so many others, but rather lay up in your heart the verse that seems as
it were an oracle of heaven--
"Count every day that dawns to be your last,"[51]
For is it not so that to mortal men every day is in truth the last,
or all but the last? Consider, moreover, how shameful it is to have
men point the finger at you, and to become a public laughing-stock;
remember, too, how ill your profession accords with a life like this.
Think how this woman has injured your soul, your body, your fortune.
Remember what you have borne for her, all to no purpose: how many times
you have been mocked, despised, scorned; think what flatteries, what
lamentations, and of all the tears you have cast upon the wind; think
how again and again she has heaped all this on you with an air of
haughty disdain, and how if for a moment she showed herself more kind,
it was but for the passing of a breath and then was gone.
Think, moreover, how much you have added to her fame, and of what she
has subtracted from your life: how you have ever been jealous for her
good name, but she has been always regardless of your very self and
condition. Remember how she has turned you aside from loving God, and
into how great miseries you have fallen, known to me, but which I pass
in silence lest the birds of the air carry the matter abroad.
Think, moreover, what tasks on all sides are claiming your attention,
and by which you may do far more good and deserve far more honour: how
many things you have on hand, as yet uncompleted, to which it would
be far better for you to return, and devote more time, instead of
attempting them so perfunctorily as you have en doing lately.
Finally, ponder well what that thing is for which you have such
consuming desire. But think like a man and with your wits about you;
for fear lest while you are in the act of flying you be cunningly
entangled, as not a few have been when Beauty's fascinating charm
steals upon them by some little, unlooked-for channel, and then is fed
and strengthened by evil remedies.
For how be there that have once tasted this seductive pleasure and
can retain enough manliness, not to say courage, to rate at its true
value that poor form of woman of which I speak. Only too easily Man's
strength of mind gives way, and with nature pressing on, he falls
soonest on that side to which he has long leaned. Take most earnest
heed that this happen not to you. Banish every recollection of those
old cares of yours: put far away from you every vision of the past,
and, as one has said in a certain place, "dash the little children
against the stones,"[52] lest if they grow up you yourself be cast into
the mire. And defer not to knock at Heaven's door with prayers; let
your supplications weary the ears of the heavenly King; day and night
lift up your petition with tears and crying, if perchance the Almighty
will take compassion upon you and give an end to your sore trouble and
distress.
These are the things that you must do, these the safeguards you must
employ; if you will observe them faithfully the Divine Help will be at
hand, as I trust; and the right hand of the Deliverer whom none can
resist will succour you.
But albeit I have spoken on this one malady what is too short for your
needs but too long for the briefness of our time, let us pass now to
another matter. One evil still is left, to heal you of which I now will
make a last endeavour.
_Petrarch._ Even so do, most gentle Father. For though I be not yet
wholly set free from my burdens, yet, nevertheless, from great part of
them I do feel in truth a blessed release.
_S. Augustine._ Ambition still has too much hold on you. You seek too
eagerly the praise of men, and to leave behind you an undying name.
_Petrarch._ I freely confess it. I cannot beat down that passion in my
soul. For it, as yet, I have found no cure.
_S. Augustine_. But I greatly fear lest this pursuit of a false
immortality of fame may shut for you the way that leads to the true
immortality of life.
_Petrarch._ That is one of my fears also, but I await your discovering
to me the means to save my life; you, of a truth, will do it, who have
furnished me with means for the healing of evils greater still.
_S. Augustine_. Think not that any of your ills is greater than this
one, though I deny not that some may be more vile.
But tell me, I pray you, what in your opinion is this thing called
glory, that you so ardently covet?
_Petrarch._ I know not if you ask me for a definition. But if so, who
so capable to give one as yourself?
_S. Augustine._ The name of glory is well enough known to you; but to
the real thing, if one may judge by your actions, you are a stranger.
If you had known what it is you would not long for it so eagerly.
Suppose you define glory, with Cicero, as being "the illustrious
and world-wide renown of good services rendered to one's fellow
citizens, to one's country, or to all mankind"; or as he expresses it
elsewhere, "Public opinion uttering its voice about a man in words of
praise."[53] You will notice that in both these cases glory is said to
be reputation. Now, do you know what this reputation is?
_Petrarch._ I cannot say any good description of it occurs to me at the
moment; and I shrink from putting forward things I do not understand. I
think, therefore, the truer and better course is for me to keep silence.
_S. Augustine_. You act like a wise and modest man. In every serious
question, and especially when the matter is ambiguous, one should pay
much less attention to what one will say than to what one will not say,
for the credit of having said well is something much less than the
discredit of having said ill. Now I submit to you that reputation is
nothing but talk about some one, passing from mouth to mouth of many
people.
_Petrarch._ I think your definition, or, if you prefer the word, your
description, is a good one.
_S. Augustine_. It is, then, but a breath, a changing wind; and, what
will disgust you more, it is the breath of a crowd. I know to whom I am
speaking. I have observed that no man more than you abhors the manners
and behaviour of the common herd. Now see what perversity is this! You
let yourself be charmed with the applause of those whose conduct you
abominate; and may Heaven grant you are only charmed, and that you put
not in their power your own everlasting welfare! Why and wherefore,
I ask, this perpetual toil, these ceaseless vigils, and this intense
application to study? You will answer, perhaps, that you seek to find
out what is profitable for life. But you have long since learned what
is needful for life and for death.
What was now required of you was to try and put in practice what you
know, instead of plunging deeper and deeper into laborious inquiries,
where new problems are always meeting you, and insoluble mysteries,
in which you never reach the end. Add to which the fact that you keep
toiling and toiling to satisfy the public; wearying yourself to please
the very people who, to you, are the most displeasing; gathering now a
flower of poesy, now of history--in a word, employing all your genius
of words to tickle the ears of the listening throng.
_Petrarch_. I beg your pardon, but I cannot let that pass without
saying a word. Never since I was a boy have I pleased myself with
elegant extracts and flowerets of literature. For often have I noted
what neat and excellent things Cicero has uttered against butchers of
books, and especially, also, the phrase of Seneca in which he declares,
"It is a disgrace for a man to keep hunting for flowers and prop
himself up on familiar quotations, and only stand on what he knows by
heart."[54]
_S. Augustine._ In saying what I did, I neither accuse you of idleness
nor scant memory. What I blame you for is that in your reading you have
picked out the more flowery passages for the amusement of your cronies,
and, as it were, packed up boxes of pretty things out of a great heap,
for the benefit of your friends--which is nothing but pandering to a
desire of vainglory; and, moreover, I say that, not being contented
with your duty of every day (which, in spite of great expense of time,
only promised you some celebrity among your contemporaries), you have
let your thoughts run on ages of time and given yourself up to dreams
of fame among those who come after. And in pursuit of this end, putting
your hand to yet greater tasks, you entered on writing a history from
the time of King Romulus to that of the Emperor Titus, an enormous
undertaking that would swallow up an immensity of time and labour.
Then, without waiting till this was finished, goaded by the pricks of
your ambition for glory, you sailed off in your poetical barque towards
Africa; and now on the aforesaid books of your _Africa_ you are hard at
work, without relinquishing the other. And in this way you devote your
whole life to those two absorbing occupations--for I will not stop to
mention the countless others that come in also--and throw utterly away
what is of most concern and which, when lost, cannot be recovered. You
write books on others, but yourself you quite forget. And who knows but
what, before either of your works be finished, Death may snatch the pen
from your tired hand, and while in your insatiable hunt for glory you
hurry on first by one path, then the other, you may find at last that
by neither of them have you reached your goal?
_Petrarch._ Fears of that kind have sometimes come over me, I confess.
And knowing I suffered from grave illness, I was afraid death might
not be far off. Nothing then was more bitter to me than the thought of
leaving my _Africa_ half finished. Unwilling that another hand should
put the finishing touch, I had determined that with my own I would cast
it to the flames, for there was none of my friends whom I could trust
to do me this service after I was gone. I knew that a request like
that was the only one of our Virgil's which the Emperor Cæsar Augustus
declined to grant. To make a long story short, this land of Africa,
burnt already by that fierce sun to which it is for ever exposed,
already three times by the Roman torches devastated far and wide, had
all but yet again, by my hands, been made a prey to the flames.
But of that we will say no more now, for too painful are the
recollections that it brings.
_S. Augustine._ What you have said confirms my opinion. The day of
reckoning is put off for a short time, but the account remains still
to be paid. And what can be more foolish than thus to waste such
enormous labour over a thing of uncertain issue? I know what prevents
you abandoning the work is simply that you still hope you may complete
it. As I see that there will be some difficulty (unless I am mistaken)
in getting you to diminish this hope, I propose we try to magnify it
and so set it out in words that you will see how disproportionate it is
to toils like yours. Suppose, therefore, that you have full abundance
of time, leisure, and freedom of mind; let there be no failure of
intellect, no languor of body, none of those mischances of fortune
which, by checking the first onrush of expression, so often stop the
ready writer's pen; let all things go better even than you had dared to
wish--still, what considerable work do you expect to achieve?
_Petrarch._ Oh, certainly, one of great excellence, quite out of the
common and likely to attract attention.
_S. Augustine._ I have no wish to seem contradictory: let us suppose
it may be a work of great excellence. But if you knew of what greater
excellence still is the work which this will hinder, you would abhor
what you now desire. For I will go so far as to assert that this work
of yours is, to begin with, taking off your attention from cares of a
nobler kind; and, greatly excellent as you think it, has no wide scope
nor long future before it, circumscribed as it must be by time and
space.
_Petrarch._ Well do I know that old story bandied about by the
philosophers, how they declare that all the earth is but a tiny point,
how the soul alone endures for infinite millions of years, how fame
cannot fill either the earth or the soul, and other paltry pleas of
this sort, by which they try to turn minds aside from the love of
glory. But I beg you will produce some more solid arguments than
these, if you know any; for experience has shown me that all this is
more specious than convincing. I do not think to become as God, or to
inhabit eternity, or embrace, heaven and earth. Such glory as belongs
to man is enough for me. That is all I sigh after. Mortal myself, it is
but mortal blessings I desire.
_S. Augustine._ Oh, if that is what you truly mean, how wretched are
you! If you have no desire for things immortal, if no regard for what
is eternal, then you are indeed wholly of the earth earthy: then all is
over for you; no hope at all is left.