HOW AUGUSTINE WENT TO CARTHAGE, AND HOW PATRICIUS DIED A CHRISTIAN
DEATH
Augustine's year at home did not do for him what Monica had hoped.
His old pagan schoolfellows gathered round him; he was always with
them; the happy home-life seemed to have lost its charm. The want of
principle and of honour in most of them disgusted him in his better
moments; nevertheless he was content to enjoy himself in their
company. He was even ashamed, when they boasted of their misdoings,
to seem more innocent than they, and would pretend to be worse than
he really was, lest his prestige should suffer in their eyes. There
were moments when he loathed it all, and longed for the old life,
with its innocent pleasures; but it is hard to turn back on the
downhill road.
He tells us how he went one night with a band of these wild
companions to rob the fruit-tree of a poor neighbour. It was laden
with pears, but they were not very good; they did not care to eat
them, and threw them to the pigs. It was not schoolboy greed that
prompted the theft, but the pure delight of doing evil, of tricking
the owner of the garden. There was the wild excitement, too, of the
daring; the fear that they might be caught in the act. He was careful
to keep such escapades a secret from his mother, but Monica was
uneasy, knowing what might be expected from the companions her son
had chosen.
Patricius was altogether unable to give Augustine the help that he
needed. The Christian ideals of life and conduct were new to him as
yet; the old pagan ways seemed only natural. He was scarcely likely
to be astonished at the fact that his son's boyhood was rather like
what his own had been. He was standing, it is true, on the threshold
of the Church, but her teaching was not yet clear to him. His own
feet were not firm enough in the ways of Christ to enable him to
stretch a steadying hand to another.
His mother was failing fast; the end could not be far off. Monica was
devoting herself heart and soul to the old woman, who clung to her
with tender affection, and was never happy in her absence.
Patricius watched them together, and marvelled at the effects of the
grace of Baptism. Was that indeed his mother, he asked himself, that
gentle, patient old woman, so thoughtful for others, so ready to give
up her own will? She had used to be violent and headstrong like
himself, resentful and implacable in her dislikes, but now she was
more like Monica than like him. That was Monica's way, though; her
sweetness and patience seemed to be catching. She was like the
sunshine, penetrating everywhere with its light and warmth. He, alas!
was far behind his mother. Catechumen though he was, the old temper
would often flash out still. Self-conquest was the hardest task that
he had ever undertaken, and sometimes he almost lost heart, and was
inclined to give it up altogether. Then Monica would gently remind
him that with God's help the hardest things were possible, and they
would kneel and pray together, and Patricius would take heart again
for the fight. She had a wonderful gift for giving people courage;
Patricius had noticed that before. He supposed it was because she was
so full of sympathy, and always made allowances. And then she seemed
to think--to be sure, even--that if one went on trying, failures did
not matter, God did not mind them; and that was a very comforting
reflection for poor weak people like himself. To go on trying was
possible even for him, although he knew he could not always promise
himself success.
Patricius was anxious about Augustine's future. All his efforts had
not succeeded in saving the sum required for his first year at
Carthage. He had discovered that it would cost a good deal more than
he had at first supposed, and it was difficult to see where the money
was to come from.
It was at this moment that Romanianus, a wealthy and honourable
citizen of Tagaste, who knew the poverty of his friend, came forward
generously and put his purse at Patricius's disposal. The sum
required was offered with such delicacy that it could not be
declined. Augustine was sure to bring glory on his native town, said
Romanianus; it was an honour to be allowed to help in his education.
Monica was almost glad to see her son depart. The old boyish laziness
had given way to a real zeal for learning and thirst after knowledge.
The idle life at home was certainly the worst thing for him. Hard
work and the pursuit of wisdom might steady his wild nature and bring
him back to God. It was her only hope now, as with prayers and tears
she besought of Him to watch over her son.
But Monica did not know Carthage. If it was second only to Rome for
its culture and its schools, it almost rivalled Rome in its
corruption. There all that was worst in the civilization of the East
and of the West met and mingled. The bloody combats between men and
beasts, the gladiatorial shows that delighted the Romans, were free
to all who chose to frequent the amphitheatre of Carthage. Such plays
as the Romans delighted in, impossible to describe, were acted in the
theatre. The horrible rites of the Eastern religions were practised
openly.
There was neither discipline nor order in the schools. The wealthier
students gloried in their bad reputation. They were young men of
fashion who were capable of anything, and who were careful to let
others know it. They went by the name of "smashers" or "upsetters,"
from their habit of raiding the schools of professors whose teaching
they did not approve, and breaking everything on which they could lay
hands. They treated new-comers with coarse brutality, but Augustine
seems in some manner to have escaped their enmity. Perhaps a certain
dignity in the young man's bearing, or perhaps his brilliant gifts,
won their respect, for he surpassed them all in intelligence, and
speedily outstripped them in class.
Augustine was eager for knowledge and eager for enjoyment. He
frequented the theatre; his pleasure-loving nature snatched at
everything that life could give; yet he was not happy. "My God," he
cried in later years, "with what bitter gall didst Thou in Thy great
mercy sprinkle those pleasures of mine!" He could not forget; and at
Tagaste his mother was weeping and praying for her son.
Patricius prayed with her; he understood at last. Every day the germs
of a noble nature that had lain so long dormant within him were
gaining strength and life. Every day his soul was opening more and
more to the understanding of spiritual things, while Monica watched
the transformation with a heart that overflowed with gratitude and
love. The sorrows of the past were all forgotten in the joy of the
present, that happy union at the feet of Christ. There was but one
cause for sadness--Patricius's health was failing. His mother had
already shown him the joys of a Christian deathbed. She had passed
away smiling, with their hands in hers, and the name of Jesus on her
lips. The beautiful prayers of the Church had gone down with the
departing soul to the threshold of the new life, and had followed it
into eternity. She seemed close to them still in the light of that
wonderful new Faith, and to be waiting for them in their everlasting
home.
But Monica's happiness was to be short-lived, for it seemed that
Patricius would soon rejoin his mother. He did not deceive himself.
He spoke of his approaching death to Monica, and asked her to help
him to make a worthy preparation for Baptism, which he desired to
receive as soon as possible. With the simplicity and trustfulness of
a child, he looked to her for guidance, and did all that she desired.
The ceremony over, he turned to his wife and smiled. A wonderful
peace possessed him. The old life, with all its stains, had passed
from him in those cleansing waters; the new life was at hand. Once
more he asked her to forgive him all the pain he had caused her, all
that he had made her suffer. No, she must not grieve, he told her;
the parting would be but for a little while, the meeting for all
eternity. She had been his angel, he said; he owed all his joy to
her. It was her love, her patience, that had done it all. She had
shown him the beauty of goodness and made him love it. He thanked her
for all that she had been to him, all that she had shown him, all
that she had done for him. Her tears fell on his face, her loving
arms supported him; her sweet voice, broken with weeping, spoke words
of hope and comfort.
On the threshold of that other world Monica bade farewell to her
husband, and one more soul that she had won for Christ went out into
a glorious eternity.