HOW ST. MONICA'S HEART WAS WELL NIGH BROKEN BY THE NEWS THAT HER SON
HAD ABJURED THE CHRISTIAN FAITH
Ill news travels fast. Augustine had scarcely joined the Manicheans
before the tidings reached Monica. At first she could hardly believe
it. This was a blow for which she had not been prepared; it crushed
her to the earth. She would have grieved less over the news of her
son's death.
And yet she bent her broken heart to God's will, and hoped on in Him
"Whose Mercy cannot fail." Augustine had renounced the Faith of his
childhood publicly, she heard later; he had been entered by the
Manicheans as an "auditor," the first degree of initiation in their
sect. And with all the zeal and ardour that he carried into
everything he did he was advocating this abominable heresy and
persuading his companions to follow his example.
Her eyes grew dim with weeping for her son. He was dead indeed to
God--that God who was her All in All. The vacation was near, and
Augustine would then return to Tagaste. Perhaps she would find that
it was not so bad as she had thought. It might be only the whim of a
moment; she would wait and see.
Alas! the hope was vain. Augustine had scarcely been a day at home
before he began obstinately to air his new opinions, determined that
she should listen. Then the Christian in Monica rose above the
mother; her horror of heresy was for the moment stronger than her
love for her son. Standing before him, outraged and indignant, she
told him plainly that if he spoke in such a way she could no longer
receive him at her table or in her house.
Augustine was amazed; he had found out at last the limits of his
mother's endurance. With bent head he left the house and sought the
hospitality of Romanianus. No sooner had he gone than Monica's heart
melted, the mother-love surged up again. With bitter tears she cried
on God to help her; her grief seemed greater than she could bear. At
last the night came, and with it peace. As she slept, exhausted with
weeping, she had a dream which brought her a strange sense of hope
and comfort.
It seemed to her that she was standing on a narrow rule or plank of
wood, her heart weighed down with sorrow as it had been all through
the day. Suddenly there came towards her a young man radiant and fair
of face. Smiling at her, he asked the cause of her tears. "I am
weeping," she answered, "for the loss of my son." "Grieve no more,
then," he replied, "for, look, your son is standing there beside
you." Monica turned her head. It was true; Augustine stood at her
side on the plank of wood. "Be of good cheer," continued the
stranger, "for where you are there shall he be also." Then Monica
awoke; the words were ringing in her ears; it seemed to her that God
had spoken. In the morning she went straight to Augustine and told
him of her dream. "Perhaps," suggested her son, anxious to turn it to
his own advantage, "it means that you will come to see things as I
do." "No," said Monica firmly, "for he did not say, 'Where _he_ is
_you_ shall be,' but, 'Where _you_ are there _he_ shall be.'"
Augustine was even more struck by the earnestness of his mother's
answer than by the dream itself, though he pretended to make light of
both.
Not long after Monica went to see a certain holy Bishop, that she
might beg him to use his influence with Augustine to bring him back
to the truth. The wise old man listened attentively to her story.
"Let him alone for the present, but pray much," was his advice, "for
as yet he is obstinate and puffed up with these new ideas. If what
you tell me of your son is true, he will read for himself, and will
find out his error." Then, seeing the anguish of the poor mother, he
told her that he himself in his youth had been led away by the
Manicheans, and had even been employed in transcribing their works.
It was that which had saved him; for, as he wrote, the truth became
clear to him; he had seen how much their doctrines were to be
avoided. Then, as Monica wept for disappointment--for she had counted
greatly on his help--a sudden pity seized him. "Go thy ways, and God
bless thee," he cried. "It is impossible that a son of such tears
should perish."
Monica's dream and the words of the Bishop were like rays of light in
the darkness. She drew fresh hope from them and redoubled her prayers.
The vacation drew to an end, and Augustine returned to Carthage, but
not for long. He was now twenty years old. His friend and patron,
Romanianus, was very anxious that he should open a school in Tagaste
while waiting for something better, and this he resolved to do. A
little circle of pupils soon gathered round him, who were later to
follow their young master in all his wanderings. Amongst these was
Alypius, an old schoolfellow and a devoted friend; the sons of
Romanianus; and another friend of Augustine's childhood whose name we
do not know, but who was dearer to him than all the rest. They were
of the same age, had studied together, had the same tastes, and the
same ambitions.
Influenced by Augustine, still warm in the praise of the Manicheans,
he, as well as the rest, had abjured the Catholic faith to join their
heresy.
Augustine had been about a year at Tagaste when this friend was taken
suddenly ill. He lay unconscious in a burning fever; there seemed to
be no hope of recovery. He had been a catechumen before he had joined
the Manicheans. His parents, who were Christians, having begged that
he might be baptized before he died, the life-giving waters were
poured on him as he lay between life and death. Augustine made no
protest, so sure was he that what he himself had taught him before he
was taken ill would have more influence than a rite administered
without his knowledge or consent. To everybody's surprise the young
man recovered his senses and began to mend.
Augustine then laughingly told him what they had been doing, and went
on to make fun of the whole proceeding, never doubting but that the
sick man would enjoy the joke as much as he did. To his great
surprise his friend turned from him in horror.
"Never speak to me in such a way again if you wish to keep my
affection," he said.
"We will talk this matter out when you are stronger," thought
Augustine. But a few days later the invalid had a relapse, and died
with the white robe of his Baptism still unstained.
Augustine was inconsolable. Everything in Tagaste reminded him of the
dear companion of his boyhood. "My own country became a punishment to
me," he writes, "and my father's house a misery, and all places or
things in which I had communicated with him were turned into a bitter
torment to me, being now without him. My eyes sought him everywhere,
and I hated all things because they had him not." The thought of
death was full of horror to him, and he gave way to a deep
depression. His health, never very robust, began to suffer.
Romanianus, much as he wished to keep him at Tagaste, realized that a
change of scene would be the best thing for him, and agreed to his
proposal to return to Carthage and open a school of rhetoric. Alypius
and his other disciples followed him, and in the rush of the great
city Augustine regained, to some extent, his peace of mind. While
teaching, he continued his own studies, and competed for the public
prizes. Many men of note joined his school, and his name began to be
famous.
He greatly desired honour, he tells us, but only if honourably won.
One day a certain magician paid him a visit. He had heard, he said,
that Augustine was about to compete for one of the State prizes in
rhetoric. What would he be ready to give if he could insure him the
victory? It was only necessary to offer some living creatures in
sacrifice to the demons whom he worshipped and success would be
certain. Augustine turned from him in horror and disgust. He had not
yet fallen so low as this.
"I would not sacrifice a fly," he retorted hotly, "to win a crown of
gold!"
The magician retired in haste, and Augustine, who succeeded in
carrying off the prize without the help of the demons, was publicly
crowned by the Pro-Consul Vindicius, who from thenceforth joined the
circle of his friends.
The news of his success reached Monica. Her mother's heart rejoiced
in his triumph, but her joy was tempered with sorrow. Carthage had
taken more from her son than it could ever give him, and her thoughts
were of other victories and other crowns. During his stay in Tagaste,
although Augustine had not lived under the same roof with his mother,
he had been continually with her. Her tender affection had been his
greatest comfort in the deep sorrow after his friend's death. He
spoke no more to her of religion, and she, mindful of the old
Bishop's words, was also silent.
"While I was struggling in the mire and in the darkness of error,"
writes Augustine, "that holy, chaste, devout, and sober widow (such
as Thou lovest) ceased not in all the hours of her prayers to bewail
me in Thy sight. And her prayers were admitted into Thy Presence, and
yet Thou sufferedst me to go on still, and to be involved in that
darkness."
The darkness was indeed great, but the fires were still smouldering
beneath the ashes. Love, honour, and success were all his, and yet he
was not content. There was something in his soul that none of these
things could satisfy. "After Thee, O Truth," he cries, "I hungered
and thirsted!" His heart still ached for the loss of his friend, he
turned everywhere for comfort and found none. He sought forgetfulness
in study. He wrote two books on the "Beautiful" and the "Apt," and
dedicated them to Hierus, a famous Roman orator. "It seemed to me a
great thing," he tells us, "that my style and my studies should be
known to such a man."
Monica drew fresh hope from her son's writings. They were full of
noble thoughts and high aspirations. Such a mind could not remain in
error. Some day, surely, in God's good time, he would come to know
the truth.