witness, and knows what have been my desires, that never have I
ceased to love with burning zeal the things eternal. I said--or if,
perchance, I am mistaken, I intended to say--that my wish was to use
mortal things for what they were worth, to do no violence to nature
by bringing to its good things a limitless and immoderate desire, and
so to follow after human fame as knowing that both myself and it will
perish.
_S. Augustine._ There you speak as a wise man. But when you declare you
are willing to rob yourself of the riches that will endure merely for
the sake of what you own is a perishing breath of applause--then you
are a fool indeed.
_Petrarch_. True, I may be postponing those riches, but not
relinquishing them altogether.
_S. Augustine._ But how dangerous is such delay, remembering that
time flies fast and how uncertain our short life is. Let me ask you a
question, and I beg you to answer it. Suppose that He who alone can fix
our time of life and death were this day to assign you one whole year,
and you had the definite certainty of how would you propose to use that
year?
_Petrarch_. Assuredly I should use great economy of time, and be
extremely, careful to employ it on serious things; and I suppose no man
alive would be so insolent or foolish as to answer your question in any
other way.
_S. Augustine._ You have answered rightly. And yet the folly men
display in this case is matter of astonishment, not to me only but to
all those who have ever written on this subject. To set forth what
they feel, they have combined every faculty they possess and employed
all their eloquence, and even then the truth itself will leave their
utmost efforts far behind.
_Petrarch._ I fear I do not understand the motive of so great
astonishment.
_S. Augustine._ It is because you are covetous of uncertain riches and
altogether wasteful of those which are eternal, doing the very contrary
of what you ought to do, if you were not quite devoid of wisdom.
So this space of a year, though short enough indeed, being promised
you by Him who deceives not, neither is deceived, you would partition
out and dissipate on any kind of folly, provided you could keep the
last hour for the care of your salvation! The horrible and hateful
madness of you all is just this, that you waste your time on ridiculous
vanities, as if there were enough and to spare, and though you do not
in the least know if what you have will be long enough for the supreme
necessities of the soul in face of death. The man who has one year of
life possesses something certain though short; whereas he who has no
such promise and lies under the power of death (whose stroke may fall
at any moment), which is the common lot of all men--this man, I say, is
not sure of a year, a day; no, not even of one hour. He who has a year
to live, if six months shall have slipped away, will still have another
half-year left to run; but for you, if you lose the day that now is,
who will promise you to-morrow?[55]
It is Cicero who says: "It is certain that we must die: what is
uncertain is whether it will be to-day; and there is none so young
that-he can be sure he will live until the evening."[56] I ask, then,
of you, and I ask it likewise of all those who stand gaping after the
future and pay no heed to the present, "Who knows if the high gods will
add even one morrow to this your little day of life?"[57]
_Petrarch_. If I am to answer for myself and for all: No one knows, of
a truth. But let us hope for a year at least; on which, if we are still
to follow Cicero, even the most aged reckons!
_S. Augustine._ Yes; and, as he also adds, not old men only but young
ones too are fools in that they cherish false hope, and promise
themselves uncertain goods as though they were certain.[58]
But let us take for granted (what is quite impossible) that the
duration of life will be long and assured: still, do you not find it is
the height of madness to squander the best years and the best parts of
your existence on pleading only the eyes of others and tickling other
men's ears, and to keep the last and worst--the years that are almost
good for nothing--that bring nothing but distaste for life and then its
end--to keep these, I say, for God and yourself, as though the welfare
of your soul were the last thing you cared for?
Even supposing the time were certain, is it not reversing the true
order to put off the best to the last?
_Petrarch._ I do not think my way of looking at it is so unreasonable
as you imagine. My principle in that, as concerning the glory which we
may hope for here below, it is right for us to seek while we are here
below. One may expect to enjoy that other more radiant glory in heaven,
when we shall have there arrived, and when one will have no more care
or wish for the glory of earth. Therefore, as I think, it is in the
true order that mortal men should first care for mortal things; and
that to things transitory things eternal should succeed; because to
pass from those to these is to go forward in most certain accordance
with what is ordained for us, although no way is open for us to pass
back again from eternity to time.
_S. Augustine._ O man, little in yourself, and of little wisdom! Do
you, then, dream that you shall enjoy every pleasure in heaven and
earth, and everything will turn out fortunate and prosperous for you
always and everywhere? But that delusion has betrayed thousands of
men thousands of times, and has sunk into hell a countless host of
souls. Thinking to have one foot on earth and one in heaven, they
could neither stand here below nor mount on high. Therefore they fell
miserably, and the moving breeze swept them suddenly away, some in the
flower of their age, and some when they were in midst of their years
and all their business.
And do you suppose what has befallen so many others may not befall you?
Alas! if (which may God forefend!) in the midst of all your plans and
projects you should be cut off--what grief, what shame, what remorse
(then too late!) that you should have grasped at all and lost all!
_Petrarch._ May the Most High in His mercy save me from that misery!
_S. Augustine._ Though Divine Mercy may deliver a man from his folly,
yet it will not excuse it. Presume not upon this mercy overmuch. For
if God abhors those who lose hope, He also laughs at those who in
false hope put their trust. I was sorry when I heard fall from your
lips that phrase about despising what you called the old story of
the philosophers on this matter. Is it, then, an old story, pray, by
figures of geometry, to show how small is all the earth, and to prove
it but an island of little length and width? Is it an old story to
divide the earth into five zones, the largest of which, lying in the
centre, is burned by the heat of the sun, and the two utmost, to right
and left, are a prey to binding frost and eternal snow, which leave
not a corner where man can dwell; but those other two, between the
middle and two utmost zones, are inhabited by man? Is it an old story
that this habitable part is divided again into two parts, whereof one
is placed under your feet, guarded by a vast sea, and the other is
left you to inhabit everywhere, or, according to some authorities, is
again in two parts subdivided, with but one part habitable and the
other surrounded by the winding intricacies of the Northern Ocean,
preventing all access to it? As to that part under your feet, called
the antipodes, you are aware that for a long time the most learned men
have been of two opinions whether it is inhabited or not: for myself, I
have set forth my opinion in the book called _The City of God_, which
you have doubtless read. Is it also an old story that your habitable
part, already so restricted, is yet further diminished to such an
extent by seas, marshes, forests, sand and deserts, that the little
corner left you, of which you are so proud, is brought down to almost
nothing? And, finally, is it an old story to point out to you that on
this narrow strip, where you dwell, there are divers kinds of life,
different religions which oppose one another, different languages and
customs, which render it impossible to make the fame of your name go
far?
But if these things are to you nought but fables, so, to me, all I had
promised myself of your future greatness must be a fable also; for I
had thought, hitherto, that no man had more knowledge of these things
than you yourself To say nothing of the conceptions of Cicero and
Virgil and other systems of knowledge, physical or poetic, of which you
seemed to have a competent knowledge, I knew that not long since, in
your _Africa,_ you had expressed the very same opinions in these pretty
lines--
"The Universe itself is but an isle
Confined in narrow bounds, small, and begirt
By Ocean's flowing waves."[59]
You have added other developments later on, and now that I know you
think them all fables, I am astonished you have put them forth with
such hardihood.
What shall I say now of the brief existence of human fame, the short,
short span of time, when you know too well how small and recent even
the oldest memory of man is if compared to eternity? I spare to call to
your mind those opinions of the men of old, laid up in Plato's _Timæus_
and in the sixth book of Cicero's _Republic,_ where it is foretold what
floods and conflagrations shall be coming not seldom on the earth. To
many men such things have seemed probable; but they wear a different
aspect to those who, like yourself, have come to know the true religion.
And besides these, how many other things there are that militate
against, I do not say the eternity, but even the survival of one's
name. First there is the death of those with whom one has passed
one's life; and that forgetfulness which is the common bane of old
age: then there is the rising fame, ever growing greater, of new men;
which always, by its freshness, is somewhat derogatory to that of those
who went before, and seems to mount up higher just in so far as it
can depress this other down. Then you must add, also, that persistent
envy which ever dogs the steps of those who embark on any glorious
enterprise; and the hatred of Truth itself, and the fact that the very
life of men of genius is odious to the crowd. Think, too, how fickle is
the judgment of the multitude. And alas for the sepulchres of the dead!
to shatter which--
"The wild fig's barren branch is strong enough,"[60]
as Juvenal has told us.
In your own _Africa_ you call this, elegantly enough, "a second death";
and if I may here address to you the same words you have put in the
mouth of another--
"The animated bust and storied urn
Shall fall, and with them fall thy memory,
And thou, my son, thus taste a second death."[61]
Lo, then, how excellent, how undying that glory must be which the fall
of one poor stone can bring to nought!
And, then, consider the perishing of books wherein your name has
been written, either by your own hand or another's. Even though that
perishing may appear so much more delayed as books outlast monuments,
nevertheless it is sooner or later inevitable; for, as is the case with
everything else, there are countless natural or fortuitous calamities
to which books are ever exposed. And even if they escape all these,
they, like us, grow old and die--
"For whatsoever mortal hand has made,
With its vain labour, shall be mortal too,"[62]
if one may be allowed, for choice, to refute your childish error by
your own words.
What need to say more? I shall never cease to bring to your
recollection lines of your own making which only too truly fit the case.
"When your books perish you shall perish too;
This is the third death, still to be endured."[63]
And now you know what I think about glory.
Perhaps I have used more words in expressing it than was needful for
you or me; and yet fewer, I believe, than the importance of the subject
demands--unless perchance you still think all these things only an old
story?
_Petrarch_. No indeed. What you have been saying--so far from seeming
to me like old stories--has stirred in me a new desire to get rid of
my old delusions. For albeit that these things were known to me long
ago, and that I have heard them oftentimes repeated, since, as Terence
puts it--
"Everything that one can say
Has all been said before,"[64]
nevertheless the stateliness of phrase, the orderly narration, the
authority of him who speaks, cannot but move me deeply.
But I have yet a last request to make, which is that you will give me
your definite judgment on this point. Is it your wish that I should put
all my studies on one side and renounce every ambition, or would you
advise some middle course?
_S. Augustine._ I will never advise you to live without ambition; but
I would always urge you to put virtue before glory. You know that
glory is in a sense the shadow of virtue. And therefore, just as it
is impossible that your body should not cast a shadow if the sun is
shining, so it is impossible also in the light of God Himself that
virtues should exist and not make their glory to appear. Whoever, then,
would take true glory away must of necessity take away virtue also; and
when that is gone man's life is left bare, and only resembles that of
the brute beasts that follow headlong their appetite, which to them is
their only law. Here, therefore, is the rule for you to live by--follow
after virtue and let glory take care of itself; and as for this, as
some one said of Cato, the less you seek it the more you will find it.
I must once more allow myself to invoke your own witness--
"Thou shalt do well from Honour's self to flee,
For then shell Honour follow after thee."[65]
Do you not recognise the verse? It is your own. One would surely think
that man a fool who at midday should run here and there in the blaze
of the sun, wearing himself out to see his shadow and point it out
to others; now the man shows no more sense or reason who, amid the
anxieties of life, takes huge trouble, first one way, then another, to
spread his own glory abroad.
What then? Let a man march steadily to the goal set before him, his
shadow will follow him step by step: let him so act that he shall make
virtue his prize, and lo! glory also shall be found at his side. I
speak of that glory which is virtue's true companion; as for that which
comes by other means, whether from bodily grace or mere cleverness, in
the countless ways men have invented, it does not seem to me worthy of
the name. And so, in regard to yourself, while you are wearing your
strength out by such great labours in writing books, if you will allow
me to say so, you are shooting wide of the mark. For you are spending
all your efforts on things that concern others, and neglecting those
that are your own; and so, through this vain hope of glory, the time,
so precious, though you know it not, is passing away.
_Petrarch._ What must I do, then? Abandon my unfinished works? Or would
it be better to hasten them on, and, if God gives me grace, put the
finishing touch to them? If I were once rid of these cares I would go
forward, with a mind more free, to greater things; for hardly could I
bear the thought of leaving half completed a work so fine and rich in
promise of success.
_S. Augustine._ Which foot you mean to hobble on, I do not know. You
seem inclined to leave yourself derelict, rather than your books.
As for me, I shall do my duty, with what success depends on you; but
at least I shall have satisfied my conscience. Throw to the winds
those great loads of histories; the deeds of the Romans have been
celebrated quite enough by others, and are known by their own fame.
Get out of Africa and leave it to its possessors. You will add nothing
to the glory of your Scipio or to your own. He can be exalted to no
higher pinnacle, but you may bring down his reputation, and with it
your own. Therefore leave all this on one side, and now at length take
possession of yourself; and to come back to our starting-point, let me
urge you to enter upon the meditation of your last end, which comes
on step by step without your being aware. Tear off the veil; disperse
the shadows; look only on that which is coming; with eyes and mind
give all your attention there: let nought else distract you. Heaven,
Earth, the Sea--these all suffer change. What can man, the frailest of
all creatures, hope for? The seasons fulfil their courses and change;
nothing remains as it was. If you think you shall remain, you are
deceived. For, Horace beautifully says--
"The losses of the changing Heaven,
The changing moons repair;
But we, when we have gone below,
And our rich land no longer know,
And hear no more its rivers flow,
Are nought but dust and air."[66]
Therefore, as often as you watch the fruits of summer follow the
flowers of spring, and the pleasant cool of autumn succeed the summer
heat, and winter's snow come after autumn's vintage, say to yourself:
"The seasons pass, yet they will come again; but I am going, never
again to return." As often as you behold at sunset the shadows of
the mountains lengthening on the plain, say to yourself: "Now life
is sinking fast; the shadow of death begins to overspread the scene;
yonder sun to-morrow will again be rising the same, but this day of
mine will never come back."
Who shall count the glories of the midnight sky, which, though it be
the time that men of evil heart choose for their misdoing, yet is it
to men of good heart the holiest of all times? Well, take care you be
not less watchful than that admiral of the Trojan fleet;[67] for the
seas you sail upon are no more safe than his; rise up at the mid hour
of night, and
"All the stars, that in the silent sky
Roll on their way, observe with careful heed."[68]
As you see them hasten to their setting in the west, think how you
also are moving with them; and that as for your abiding you have no
hope, saving only in Him who knows no change and suffers no decline.
Moreover, when you meet with those whom you knew but yesterday as
children, and see them now growing up in stature to their manhood,
stage by stage, remember how you in like manner, in the same lapse of
time, are going down the hill, and at greater speed, by that law in
nature under which things that are heavy tend to fall.
When your eyes behold some ancient building, let your first thought
be, Where are those who wrought it with their hands? and when you see
new ones, ask, Where, soon, the builders of them will be also? If you
chance to see the trees of some orchard, remember how often it falls
out that one plants it and another plucks the fruit; for many a time
the saying in the _Georgics_ comes to pass--
"One plants the tree, but eh, the slow-grown shade
His grandchild will enjoy."[69]
And when you look with pleased wonder at some swiftly flowing stream,
then, that I bring no other poet's thought, keep ever in mind this one
of your own--
"No river harries with more rapid flight
Than Life's swift current."[70]
Neither let multitude of days or the artificial divisions of time
deceive your judgment; for man's whole existence, let it be never so
prolonged, Is but as one day, and that not a day entire.
Have oftentimes before your eyes one similitude of Aristotle's, whom
I know to be a favourite of yours; and his words I am sure you never
read or hear without feeling them deeply. You will find it reported
by Cicero in the _Tusculan Orations_, and in words possibly even more
clear and impressive than the original. Here is what he says, or very
nearly so, for at the moment I have not his book at hand:--
"Aristotle tells us that on the banks of the river Hypanis, which on
one side of Europe empties itself into the Euxine Sea, there exists a
race of little animals who only live one day. Any one of them that dies
at sunrise dies young; he that dies at noon is middle-aged; and should
one live till sunset, he dies in old age: and especially is this so
about the time of the solstice. If you compare the time of man's life
with eternity, it will seem no longer than theirs."[71] So far I give
you Cicero; but what he says seems to me so beyond all cavil that now
for a long time the saying has passed from the tongue of philosophers
into common speech. Every day you hear even ignorant and unlearned men,
if they chance to see a little child, make use of some expression like
this--"Well, well, it's early morning with him yet"; if they see a
man they will say, "Oh, it's high noon with him now," or "He's well in
the middle of his day"; if they see one old and broken down they will
remark, "Ah! he's getting toward evening and the going down of the sun."
Ponder well on these things, my very dear son, and on others akin
to them, which will, I doubt not, flock into your thoughts, as
these on the spur of the moment have come into mine. And one more
thing I beseech you to have in mind: look at the graves of those
older, perhaps, than you, but whom nevertheless you have known; look
diligently, and then rest assured that the same dwelling-place,
the same house, is for you also made ready. Thither are all of us
travelling on; that is our last home. You who now, perchance, are proud
and think that your springtime has not quite departed, and are for
trampling others underfoot, you in turn shall underfoot be trampled.
Think over all this; consider it by day and by night; not merely as a
man of sober mind and remembering what nature he is of, but as becomes
a man of wisdom, and so holding it all fast, as one who remembers it is
written
"A wise man's life is all one preparation for death."[72]
This saying will teach you to think little of what concerns earthly
things, and set before your eyes a better path of life on which to
enter. You will be asking me what is that kind of life, and by what
ways you can approach it? And I shall reply that now you have no need
of long advice or counsel. Listen only to that Holy Spirit who is ever
calling, and in urgent words saying, "Here is the way to your native
country, your true home."
You know what He would bring to mind; what paths for your feet, what
dangers to avoid. If you would be safe and free obey His voice. There
is no need for long deliberations. The nature of your danger calls
for action, not words. The enemy is pressing you from behind, and
hastening to the charge in front; the walls of the citadel, where you
are besieged, already tremble. There is no time for hesitation. Of what
use is it to make sweet songs for the ears of others, if you listen not
to them yourself?
I must draw to an end. Shun the rocks ahead, at all costs; drop anchor
in a place of safety; follow the lead which the inspirations of your
own soul give you. They may, on the side of what is evil, be evil; but
towards that which is good they are themselves of the very best.
_Petrarch_. Ah! would that you had told me all this before I had
surrendered myself over to these studies!
_S. Augustine._ I have told you, many a time and oft. From the moment
when I saw you first take up your pen, I foresaw how short life would
be, and how uncertain: how certain, too, and how long the toil. I
saw the work would be great and the fruit little, and I warned you
of all these things. But your ears were filled with the plaudits of
the public, which, to my astonishment, took you captive, although you
talked as if you despised them. But as we have now been conferring
together long enough, I beg that if any of my counsels have seemed good
to you, you will not allow them to come to nothing for want of energy
or recollection; and if, on the other hand, I have sometimes been too
rough, I pray you take it not amiss.
_Petrarch_. Indeed I owe you a deep debt of gratitude, as for many
other things, so, especially, for this three days' colloquy; for you
have cleansed my darkened sight and scattered the thick clouds of error
in which I was involved. And how shall I express my thankfulness to
Her also, the Spirit of Truth, who, unwearied by our much talking,
has waited upon us to the end? Had She turned away her face from us we
should have wandered in darkness: your discourse had then contained no
sure truth, neither would my understanding have embraced it. And now,
as She and you have your dwelling-place in heaven, and I must still
abide on earth, and, as you see, am greatly perplexed and troubled, not
knowing for how long this must be, I implore you, of your goodness, not
to forsake me, in spite of that great distance which separates me from
such as you; for without you, O best of fathers, my life would be but
one long sadness, and without Her I could not live at all.