Produced by David McClamrock
THE LIFE OF SAINT MONICA
BY
F.A. [FRANCES ALICE] FORBES
THIRD EDITION
LONDON
BURNS OATES & WASHBOURNE LTD.
PUBLISHERS TO THE HOLY SEE
1928
Nihil Obstat.
EDWARDUS MYERS,
_Censor Deputatus_.
Imprimatur.
EDM. CAN. SURMONT,
_Vicarius Generalis_.
WESTMONASTERII,
_die 15 Junii, 1915_.
Standard-bearers of the Faith
A SERIES OF LIVES OF THE SAINTS FOR YOUNG AND OLD
SAINT MONICA
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. HOW ST. MONICA WAS BROUGHT UP BY CHRISTIAN PARENTS IN THE CITY
OF TAGASTE
II. HOW ST. MONICA LIVED IN THE PAGAN HOUSEHOLD OF HER HUSBAND
PATRICIUS
III. HOW ST. MONICA BROUGHT UP HER CHILDREN, AND HOW THE LITTLE
AUGUSTINE FELL SICK AND DESIRED BAPTISM
IV. HOW ST. MONICA BY HER GENTLENESS AND CHARITY WON PATRICIUS AND
HIS MOTHER TO CHRIST
V. HOW AUGUSTINE WENT TO CARTHAGE, AND HOW PATRICIUS DIED A
CHRISTIAN DEATH
VI. HOW ST. MONICA LIVED IN THE DAYS OF HER WIDOWHOOD, AND HOW SHE
PUT ALL HER TRUST IN GOD
VII. HOW ST. MONICA'S HEART WAS WELL NIGH BROKEN BY THE NEWS THAT
HER SON HAD ABJURED THE CHRISTIAN FAITH
VIII. HOW AUGUSTINE PLANNED TO GO TO ROME, AND HOW HE CRUELLY
DECEIVED HIS MOTHER
IX. HOW AUGUSTINE CAME TO MILAN, AND HOW HIS TEMPEST-TOSSED SOUL
FOUND LIGHT AND PEACE AT LAST
X. HOW ST. MONICA LIVED AT CASSIACUM WITH AUGUSTINE AND HIS
FRIENDS, AND HOW AUGUSTINE WAS BAPTIZED BY ST. AMBROSE
XI. HOW ST. MONICA SET OUT FOR AFRICA WITH ST. AUGUSTINE, AND HOW
SHE DIED AT OSTIA ON THE TIBER
This book is above all things the story of a mother. But it is also
the story of a noble woman--a woman who was truly great, for the
reason that she never sought to be so. Because she understood the
sphere in which a woman's work in the world must usually lie, and led
her life truly along the lines that God had laid down for her;
because she suffered bravely, forgot herself for others, and remained
faithful to her noble ideals, she ruled as a queen amongst those with
whom her life was cast. Her influence was great and far-reaching, but
she herself was the last to suspect it, the last to desire it, and
that was perhaps the secret of its greatness. The type is rare at the
present day, but, thank God! there are Monicas still in the world. If
there were more, the world would be a better place.
CHAPTER I
HOW ST. MONICA WAS BROUGHT UP BY CHRISTIAN PARENTS IN THE CITY OF
TAGASTE
On the sunny northern coast of Africa in the country which we now
call Algeria stood, in the early days of Christianity, a city called
Tagaste. Not far distant lay the field of Zarna, where the glory of
Hannibal had perished for ever. But Rome had long since avenged the
sufferings of her bitter struggle with Carthage. It was the ambition
of Roman Africa, as the new colony had been called by its conquerors,
to be, if possible, more Roman than Rome. Every town had its baths,
its theatre, its circus, its temples, its aqueducts. It was forbidden
even to exiles as a place of refuge--too much like home, said the
authorities.
It was about the middle of the fourth century. The Church was coming
forth from her long imprisonment into the light of day. The successor
of Constantine, in name a Christian, sat on the Imperial throne. The
old struggle with paganism, which had lasted for four hundred years,
was nearly at an end, but new dangers assailed the Christian world.
Men had found that it was easier to twist the truth than to deny it,
and heresy and schism were abroad.
In the atrium or outer court of a villa on the outskirts of Tagaste
an old woman and a young girl sat together looking out into the dark
shadows of the evening, for the hot African sun had sunk not long
since behind the Numidian Mountains, and the day had gone out like a
lamp.
"And the holy Bishop Cyprian?" asked the girl.
"They sent him into exile," said the old woman, "for his father had
been a Senator, and his family was well known and powerful. At that
time they dared not put him to death, though later he, too, shed his
blood for Christ. It was God's will that he should remain for many
years to strengthen his flock in the trial."
"Did you ever see him, grandmother?" asked the girl.
"No," said the old woman, "it was before my time; but my mother knew
him well. It was when he was a boy in Carthage and still a pagan that
the holy martyrs Perpetua and Felicitas suffered with their
companions. It was not till years after that he became a Christian,
but it may have been their death that sowed the first seed in his
heart."
"Tell me," said the girl softly. It was an oft-told tale of which she
never tired. Her grandmother had lived through those dark days of
persecution, and it was the delight of Monica's girlhood to hear her
tell the stories of those who had borne witness to the Faith in their
own land of Africa.
"Perpetua was not much older than you," said the old woman. "She was
of noble race and born of a Christian mother, though her father was a
pagan. She was married, and had a little infant of a few months' old.
When she was called before the tribunal of Hilarion the Roman
Governor, all were touched by her youth and beauty. Sacrifice to the
gods,' they said, 'and you shall go free.' 'I am a Christian,' she
answered, and nothing more would she say, press her as they might.
"Her old father hastened to her side with the baby, and laid it in
her arms. 'Will you leave your infant motherless?' he asked, 'and
bring your old father's hairs in sorrow to the grave?'
"'Have pity on the child!' cried the bystanders. 'Have pity on your
father!'
"Perpetua clasped her baby to her breast, and her eyes filled with
tears. They thought she had yielded, and brought her the incense.
"'Just one little grain on the brazier,' they said, 'and you are
free-for the child's sake and your old father's.'
"She pushed it from her. 'I am a Christian,' she said. 'God will keep
my child.'
"She was condemned with her companions to be thrown to the wild
beasts in the amphitheatre, and they were taken away and cast into a
dark dungeon. Every day they were tempted with promises of freedom to
renounce the Truth. The little babe of Felicitas was born in the
prison where they lay awaiting death. A Christian woman took the
infant to bring it up in the Faith. The young mother never saw the
face of her child in this world. One word, one little motion of the
hand, and they were free, restored again to their happy life of old
and the homes that were so dear. There were many, alas! in those
cruel days who had not courage for the fight, who sacrificed, and
went their way. Not so these weak women.
"Once again they brought Perpetua her little child to try to shake
her constancy. 'The prison was like a palace,' she said, while its
little downy head lay on her breast. Her father wept, and even struck
her in his grief and anger. 'I am a Christian,' she said, and gave
him back the babe.
"They were thrown to the wild beasts. Felicitas and Perpetua, who had
been tossed by a wild cow, though horribly gored, were still alive.
Gladiators were summoned to behead them. Felicitas died at the first
stroke, but the man's hand trembled, and he struck at Perpetua again
and again, wounding her, but not mortally. 'You are more afraid than
I,' she said gently, and taking the point of the sword held it to her
throat.
"'Strike now,' she said, and so passed into the presence of her God."
Monica drew a long breath.
"So weak and yet so strong," she said.
"So it is, my child," said the old woman. "It is those who are strong
and true in the little things of life who are strong and true in the
great trials."
"It is hard to be always strong and true," said the girl.
"Not if God's love comes always first," answered the old woman.
Monica was silent. She was thinking of her own young life, and how,
with all the safeguards of a Christian home about her, she had
narrowly escaped a great danger. From her babyhood she had been
brought up by her father's old nurse--not over-tenderly perhaps, but
wisely, for the city of Tagaste was largely pagan in its habits, and
the faithful old servant knew well what temptations would surround
her nursling in later years. Monica, though full of life and spirit,
had common sense and judgment beyond her years. She had also a great
love of God and of all that belonged to His holy service, and would
spend hours kneeling in the church in a quiet corner. It was there
she brought all her childish troubles and her childish hopes; it was
to the invisible Friend in the sanctuary that she confided all the
secrets of her young heart, and, above all, that desire to suffer for
Him and for His Church with which the stories of the martyrs had
inspired her. When the time slipped away too fast, and she returned
home late, she accepted humbly the correction that awaited her, for
she knew that she had disobeyed--although unintentionally--her
nurse's orders.
Monica had been wilfully disobedient once, and all her life long she
would never forget the lesson her disobedience had taught her. It was
a rule of her old nurse that she should take nothing to drink between
meals, even in the hot days of summer in that sultry climate. If she
had not courage to bear so slight a mortification as that, the old
woman would argue, it would go ill with her in the greater trials of
life. Monica had become used to the habit, but when she was old
enough to begin to learn the duties of housekeeping her mother had
desired that she should go every day to the cellar to draw the wine
for the midday meal. A maid-servant went with her to carry the
flagon, and the child, feeling delightfully important, filled and
refilled the little cup which was used to draw the wine from the cask
and emptied it carefully into the wine-jar. When all was finished, a
few drops remaining in the cup, a spirit of mischief took sudden
possession of Monica, and she drained it off, making a wry face as
she did so at the strange taste. The maid-servant laughed, and
continued to laugh when the performance was repeated the next day and
the day after. The strange taste became gradually less strange and
less unpleasant to the young girl; daily a few drops were added,
until at last, scarcely thinking what she did, she would drink nearly
the fill of the little cup, while the servant laughed as of old. But
Monica was quick and intelligent, and was learning her household
duties well. Finding one day that a piece of work which fell to the
lot of the maid who went with her to the wine-cellar was very badly
done, she reproved her severely. The woman turned on her young
mistress angrily.
"It is not for a wine-bibber like you to find fault with me," she
retorted.
Monica stood horrified. The woman's insolent word had torn the veil
from her eyes. Whither was she drifting? Into what depths might that
one act of disobedience so lightly committed have led her had not God
in His mercy intervened? She never touched wine for the rest of her
life unless largely diluted with water. God had taught her that "he
who despises small things shall fall by little and little," and
Monica had learnt her lesson. She had learnt to distrust herself, and
self-distrust makes one marvellously gentle with others; she had
learnt, too, to put her trust in God, and trust in God makes one
marvellously strong. She had been taught to love the poor and the
suffering, and to serve them at her own expense and inconvenience,
and the service of others makes one unselfish. God had work for
Monica to do in His world, as He has for us all if we will only do
it, and He had given her what was needful for her task.
That night on the way to her chamber, as the young girl passed the
place where she had sat with her grandmother earlier in the day, she
paused a moment and looked out between the tall pillars into the
starlit night, where the palm-trees stood like dark shadows against
the deep, deep blue of the sky. She clasped her hands, and her lips
moved in prayer. "Oh God," she murmured, "to suffer for Thee and for
Thy Faith!" God heard the whispered prayer, and answered it later.
There is a living martyrdom as painful and as bitter as death, and
Monica was called to taste it.