書信與論戰集（CSEL） 第 8 章

I. AGAINST THE ACADEMICS, THREE BOOKS. BOOK ONE. O Romanianus, would that virtue could in turn wrest from resisting fortune a man suited to itself, just as it suffers itself to be wrested from him by no one! Then indeed it would already have laid hands upon you, and, proclaiming that you are of its own right and leading you into possession of the most certain goods, it would not permit you to be a slave even to prosperous chances.

But since it has been so arranged, whether by our deserts or by the necessity of nature, that the haven of wisdom in no way receives the divine soul while it cleaves to mortal things — where it would be moved neither by the adverse blast of fortune nor by the favouring one — unless either the favourable or the seemingly adverse itself lead it thither: nothing else remains for us on your behalf but prayers, whereby, if we can, we may obtain from that God to whom these things are a care, that he restore you to yourself — for so he will easily restore you to us also — and permit that mind of yours, which has long been labouring to draw breath, at last to emerge into the airs of true liberty.

For perhaps that which is commonly called fortune is governed by some hidden order, and we call nothing else in things 'chance' except that whose reason and cause is secret; and nothing, whether of advantage or of disadvantage, befalls in one part which does not fit and accord with the whole. This opinion, published in the oracles of the most fruitful teachings and set very far from the understanding of the profane, philosophy promises to demonstrate to her true lovers — to which philosophy I am inviting you. Wherefore, when many things unworthy of your spirit befall you, do not despise yourself; for if divine providence extends even to us — which is by no means to be doubted, believe me — it is fitting, so I hold, that it should deal with you as it is dealing.

For when, with that great natural endowment of yours which I always admire, you were entering upon human life — most full of all errors — from your early youth, with reason's step still weak and slipping, a superabundance of riches received you, which had begun to swallow up in its enticing whirlpools that age and spirit of yours, greedily pursuing what seemed beautiful and honourable — had not those blasts of fortune, which are thought adverse, snatched you away as you were all but drowning.

But truly, if the applause of the theatre — always most favourable — had received you as you gave the shows of bears and spectacles never before seen there to our fellow-citizens; if by the combined and consenting voices of foolish men, whose crowd is immense, you were borne to the sky; if no one dared to be your enemy; if the municipal tablets marked you in bronze as patron not only of citizens but even of neighbours; if statues were set up, if honours flowed in, if powers too were added which overtopped the municipal station; if at daily banquets sumptuous tables were laid, so that whatever anyone needed, whatever anyone's delight thirsted for, he might unhesitatingly ask and unhesitatingly quaff, and much be poured out even upon those who did not ask, and the estate itself,

diligently and faithfully administered by your people, showed itself adequate and ready-prepared for such great expenditures; while you meanwhile were living amid the most exquisite piles of buildings, in the splendour of baths, at the dice-tables which honour does not spurn, in hunts, in banquets, on the lips of your clients, on the lips of your fellow-citizens, on the lips finally of whole peoples — and were being flaunted as most humane, most liberal, most refined, most fortunate: would anyone, Romanianus, would anyone, I ask, dare to make mention to you of that other blessed life, which alone is blessed?

Could anyone persuade you that not only are you not happy, but that you are most wretched precisely in that you would least seem so to yourself? But now, indeed, how briefly must you be admonished, seeing that so many and so great the adversities are which you have endured! For you need not be persuaded by others' examples how fleeting and fragile and full of calamities are all those things which mortals reckon goods, since you have so experienced it that from yourself we can persuade the rest.

That therefore, that quality of yours — by which you always desired what is comely and honourable, by which you chose to be liberal rather than rich, by which you never coveted to be more powerful than more just, and never yielded to adversities or to villainies — that very thing, I say, which is divine in you and has been lulled asleep by I know not what slumber and torpor of this life, secret providence has decreed to awaken by those varied and hard buffetings. Awake, awake, I pray you;

much, believe me, will you rejoice that scarcely by any prosperities — by which the incautious are held — have the gifts of this world flattered you; those gifts which were daily contriving to capture me myself as I sang these very songs, had not the pain in my chest compelled me to cast off my windy profession and take refuge in the bosom of philosophy. She now nourishes and cherishes me in the leisure we so vehemently desired; she has utterly freed me from that superstition into which I had cast myself headlong, and you along with me. For she teaches, and teaches truly, that nothing at all is to be worshipped, and that whatever is discerned by mortal eyes, whatever any sense attains, is wholly to be despised.

She promises that she will clearly demonstrate the most true and most hidden God, and now, even now, she deigns as it were through luminous clouds to show him. In this pursuit our friend Licentius lives most zealously with me; wholly turned to it from youthful enticements and pleasures, so that I would not rashly propose him to his father as a model to be imitated. For it is philosophy from whose breasts no age will complain of being shut out. And that I might spur you the more eagerly to lay hold of her and to drink from her — although I well know your thirst — I nevertheless wished to send you a taste; which I beg may prove most sweet to you and, so to speak, an inducement, that I may not have hoped in vain. For I have sent you, set down in writing, the disputation which Trygetius and Licentius held between themselves.

For that young man too, as though to wipe away his distaste for the disciplines, had usurped to himself a little of military service, and thus restored himself to us most ardent and most voracious for the great and honourable arts. When, therefore, a few days had passed, after we had begun to live in the countryside, as I was exhorting and animating them to their studies, and saw them prepared beyond what I had wished and downright gaping for it, I resolved to test, according to their age, what they could do — especially since Cicero's book Hortensius seemed already for the most part to have won them over to philosophy. And so, a shorthand-writer having been brought in, lest the breezes should scatter our labour, I allowed nothing to perish. Indeed, in this book you will read their matter and opinions, but the very words of myself and of Alypius.

When, therefore, at my urging we had all been gathered together into one place for this purpose, where it seemed opportune, I said: 'Do you doubt at all that we ought to know the truth?' — 'By no means,' said Trygetius, and the rest signified by their very countenance that they approved. — 'What,' said I, 'if we can be happy even without truth being comprehended: do you think the comprehension of truth necessary?' — Here Alypius: 'This question,' he said, 'I think it safer for me to be the judge of. For since a journey into the city has been fixed for me, I ought to be relieved of the burden of undertaking any one side; and at the same time because I can more easily delegate to someone the part of judge than the defence of anyone. Wherefore henceforth expect nothing from me on behalf of either side.'

When this had been granted him by all, and I had repeated my question, Trygetius said: 'Certainly we wish to be happy, and if we can arrive at this without truth, the truth need not be sought by us.' — 'What of this very thing?' said I; 'do you think we can be happy even without the truth being found?' — Then Licentius: 'We can,' he said, 'if we seek the truth.' — Here, when I demanded the opinion of the others by a nod, Navigius said: 'What Licentius has said moves me. For perhaps this very thing may be to live happily: to live in the inquiry after truth.'

— 'Define, then,' said Trygetius, 'what the happy life is, so that from it I may gather what it is fitting to answer.' — 'What,' said I, 'do you think it is to live happily, other than to live according to that which is best in man?' — 'I will not,' said he, 'pour out words rashly; for what that very best is, I think must be defined for me by you.' — 'Who,' said I, 'would doubt that man's best is nothing other than that part of the soul which, when it rules, it is fitting for all the other things in man to obey? This, moreover — that you may not demand another definition — can be called mind or reason. But if this does not seem so to you, seek how you yourself would define either the happy life or man's best.' — 'I assent,' said he. 'What then?'

'That we may return to our proposition,' said I, 'does it seem to you that one can live happily without truth being found, if only it be sought?' — 'I repeat,' said he, 'that opinion of mine: it does not seem so.' — 'You,' said I, 'what do you think?' — Then Licentius: 'To me it does altogether seem so,' he said. 'For our forefathers, whom we have received as wise and happy, by this alone, that they sought the truth, lived well and happily.' — 'I give thanks,' said I, 'that together with Alypius you have made me the judge — a role which, I confess, I had already begun to envy him.'

'Since, therefore, to one of you it seems that the happy life can be attained by the mere investigation of truth, and to the other only by its discovery, while Navigius a little before showed that he wishes to cross over to your side, Licentius, I greatly look to see what sort of advocates of your opinions you can be. For the matter is great and most worthy of diligent discussion.' — 'If the matter is great,' said Licentius, 'it requires great men.' — 'Do not seek,' said I, 'especially in this country villa, what is hard to find anywhere among the nations; but rather explain why that which was uttered by you not rashly, as I suppose, seems so to you, and on what reasoning. For even the greatest matters, when they are inquired into by small men, are wont to make them great.'

'Since,' said he, 'I see you greatly pressing us to dispute against one another — which I trust you usefully wish — I ask: why cannot he be happy who seeks the truth, even if he does not find it?' — 'Because,' said Trygetius, 'we wish the happy man to be perfect and wise in all things. But he who is still seeking is not perfect. How, then, you can assert this man to be happy, I do not at all see.' — And the other: 'Has the authority of our forefathers,' he said, 'any weight with you?' — 'Not of all,' said Trygetius. — 'Of whom, then?' — He: 'Of those, namely, who were wise.' — Then Licentius: 'Does Carneades,' he said, 'not seem wise to you?' — 'I,' said he, 'am no Greek; I do not know who that Carneades was.'

'What,' said Licentius, 'do you think, then, of that Cicero of ours?' — Here, after he had long kept silent: 'He was wise,' he said. — And the other: 'Therefore his opinion on this matter has some weight with you?' — 'It has,' said he. — 'Receive, then, what it is; for I think it has slipped from your memory. For it pleased our Cicero that he is happy who investigates truth, even if he cannot succeed in attaining to its discovery.' — 'Where,' said he, 'did Cicero say this?' — And Licentius: 'Who does not know that he vehemently affirmed that nothing can be perceived by man, and that nothing remains to the wise man except the most diligent inquiry after truth — for this reason, that if he assented to uncertain things, even though perhaps they were true,

he could not be freed from error, which is the greatest fault of a wise man? Wherefore, if it must be believed both that the wise man is necessarily happy, and that the sole inquiry after truth is the perfect function of wisdom, why do we doubt to reckon that the happy life can be attained even by the very investigation of truth in itself?' Then the other: 'Is it permitted at last to return to those things which were rashly conceded?' — Here I: 'They,' said I, 'are not wont to grant this, whom to disputation not a desire of finding the truth but a childish vaunting of talent impels. And so, before these — especially since you are still to be nourished and educated — it is not only granted but I wish you even to hold it among your precepts, that you ought to return to examining those things which you conceded incautiously.'

— And Licentius: 'I think it no small advance in philosophy,' he said, 'when, in comparison with finding out the right and the true, victory is despised by the disputant. And so I gladly obey your precepts and your judgment, and I permit Trygetius to return to that which he thinks he conceded rashly — for the matter is within my right.' — Then Alypius: 'You yourselves do not yet recognize with me what are the parts of the office I have undertaken. But since the departure long arranged compels me to break off, for my part too, sharing in the judgment, he will not refuse me a doubled power for himself until my return; for I see this contest of yours going to proceed rather far.' — And when he had departed: 'What,' said Licentius, 'had you conceded rashly? Bring it forth.'

— And the other said: 'I rashly granted that Cicero was wise.' — 'Then was not Cicero wise, by whom in the Latin tongue philosophy was both begun and perfected?' — 'Even if I concede,' said he, 'that he is wise, yet I do not approve everything of his.' — 'And yet you ought to refute many other things of his, that you may not seem impudently to disapprove this thing which is under discussion.' — 'What if I am prepared to affirm that in this alone he did not judge rightly? It matters nothing to you, I suppose, except of what weight are the reasons I bring to assert what I wish.' — 'Proceed,' said the other. — 'For what,' said he, 'should I dare against him who professes himself the adversary of Cicero?' Here Trygetius: 'I wish you to attend,' he said, 'you our judge, to how earlier you defined the happy life;

for you said that he is happy who lives according to that part of the soul which it is fitting to command the rest. But you, Licentius, I wish you even now to concede to me — for now, by the liberty into which philosophy chiefly promises she will vindicate us, I have shaken off that yoke of authority — that he is not perfect who still requires the truth.' — Then the other, after a long silence: 'I do not concede it,' he said. — Trygetius: 'Why, pray? Explain. For here I stand and long to hear in what manner a man can both be perfect and still seek the truth.' — Here he: 'He who,' said he, 'has not arrived at the end, I confess, is not perfect.

But that truth I think God alone knows, or perhaps the soul of man when it has left this body — that is, this dark prison. But man's end is to seek the truth perfectly; for we seek one perfect, yet still a man. — And Trygetius: 'Then man cannot be happy. For how, when he cannot attain that which he greatly covets? But man can live happily, if indeed he can live according to that part of the soul which it is right should rule in man. He can, therefore, find the truth. Or else let him collect himself and not covet the truth, lest, when he cannot attain it, he be necessarily wretched.' — 'But this very thing is man's blessedness,' said the other, 'to seek the truth perfectly;

for this is to arrive at the end, beyond which one cannot proceed. Whoever, then, seeks the truth less earnestly than he ought, does not arrive at man's end; but whoever gives such effort to finding the truth as a man can and ought, even if he does not find it, is happy; for he does the whole of that for the doing of which he was born. But if the finding be lacking, that will be lacking which nature did not give. Finally, since a man must necessarily be either happy or wretched, is it not the mark of a madman to call him wretched who, day and night, as much as he can, presses on to investigate the truth? He will therefore be happy. And then that definition, as I think, supports me the more richly;

for if he is happy — as indeed he is — who lives according to that part of the soul which it is fitting should reign over the rest, and this part is called reason, I ask whether he does not live according to reason who seeks the truth perfectly. But if that is absurd, why do we doubt to call a man happy by the sole investigation of truth itself?' — 'To me,' said the other, 'whoever errs seems neither to live according to reason nor to be happy at all. But everyone errs who always seeks and does not find. Whence you must show me one of two things: either that one who errs can be happy, or that he who never finds what he seeks does not err.' — Here he: 'A happy man cannot err.' And when he had long been silent: 'But he does not err,' said he, 'while he seeks, because he seeks in order not to err.' — And Trygetius:

'He seeks, indeed, in order not to err,' said he, 'but he errs when he does not find. And so you thought it would profit you that he does not wish to err — as though no one errs unwillingly, or as though anyone at all errs except unwillingly.' — Then I, when the other long delayed as to what he should reply, said: 'You must define what error is; for you will more easily see its bounds, into which you have now deeply entered.' — 'I,' said Licentius, 'am not fit to define anything, although to define error is easier than to set it a limit.' — 'I,' said the other, 'will define it, which is most easy for me — not by talent, but by the best of causes. For to err is assuredly always to seek, never to find.'

— 'I,' said Licentius, 'if I could easily refute even that definition, would long since not have failed my own cause. But since the matter itself is either of itself difficult, or so appears to me, I ask of you that the question be deferred until tomorrow's light, if today I can find nothing to answer, when I turn it over diligently with myself.' — When I thought this must be granted, the others not refusing, we rose to go for a walk; and while we conversed among ourselves on many and various matters, he remained fixed in thought. When he perceived that this was in vain, he chose rather to relax his mind and to mingle himself in our conversation. Afterwards, when it was growing toward evening, they had returned to the same conflict;

but I imposed a limit and persuaded them to suffer it to be deferred to another day. Thence to the baths. But on the next day, when we had sat down: 'Bring forth,' said I, 'what you began yesterday.' — Then Licentius: 'We had deferred the disputation, if I am not mistaken, at my request, since the definition of error was most difficult for me.' — 'Here plainly,' said I, 'you do not err; and that this may be an omen to you for the rest, I would gladly have wished.' — 'Hear then,' said he, 'what yesterday, had you not intervened, I would have brought forth. Error seems to me to be the approval of the false for the true. Into this in no way falls one who always thinks the truth must be sought; for he cannot approve the false who approves nothing; therefore he cannot err. But he can most easily be happy;

for, not to go too far afield, if it were permitted us daily to live as we were permitted yesterday, nothing occurs to me why we should doubt to call ourselves happy. For we lived with great tranquillity of mind, vindicating the soul from every taint of the body and being removed very far from the torches of the lusts, giving effort, as much as is permitted to man, to reason — that is, living according to that divine part of the soul which, by yesterday's definition agreed among us, is the happy life; and yet, as I think, we found nothing, but only sought the truth. Therefore the happy life can befall a man by the sole investigation of truth, even if he can by no means find it. For see with how great ease your definition is excluded by the common notion.'

'For you said that to err is to seek always and never to find. But what if someone were seeking nothing, and, being asked, for example, whether it were now day, should rashly and at once suppose it to be night and answer accordingly — would he not seem to you to be in error? This kind of error, then, and a most monstrous one, your definition has not embraced. And what if it has embraced even those who do not err — can any definition be more faulty? For if someone were seeking Alexandria and were making for it by a straight road, I do not think you could call him one who errs. But what if he should traverse that same road for a long time, hindered by various causes, and were overtaken by death upon it — has he not both sought always and never found, and yet not erred?' 'No,' said he, 'he has not sought always.'

'You speak rightly,' said Licentius, 'and you admonish me well. For from that very point your definition has nothing at all to do with the matter; for I did not say that he is blessed who always seeks the truth. This indeed cannot even happen, first because a man does not always exist, and next because it is not from the time he begins to be a man that he can at once seek the truth, since his age hinders him. Or if you think it must always be said thus — that no portion of the time in which he is already able to seek is allowed to perish — then you must return to Alexandria once more.'

'For suppose someone, from the time when either his age or his affairs permit him to make the journey, begins to set out on that road, and, as I said above, though he nowhere strays from it, yet departs from life before he arrives — you will surely be greatly mistaken if this man shall seem to you to have erred, even though for all the time he could he neither ceased to seek nor was able to find that whither he was going. Wherefore, if my description is true, and according to it he does not err who seeks perfectly, though he does not find the truth, and is blessed for this reason, namely that he lives according to reason — then your definition has both come to nothing; and even if it had not, I ought to give it no heed, if only on the ground of what I have defined.'

'The case has been sufficiently established. Why then, I ask, is this question between us not yet resolved?' Here Trygetius said: 'Do you grant that wisdom is the straight road of life?' 'I do,' said he, 'without doubt; but nevertheless I want you to define wisdom for me, that I may know whether what seems to me the same seems so to you also.' And the other replied: 'Does it seem too little defined for you by this very thing about which you have just been asked? You have even conceded what I wished. For, if I am not mistaken, the straight road of life is called wisdom.' Then Licentius: 'Nothing,' said he, 'seems to me so ridiculous as that definition.' 'Perhaps so,' said he; 'yet I beg you, step by step, that reason may forestall your laughter; for nothing is more shameful than laughter most worthy of derision.'

'For what?' said he. 'Do you not admit that death is contrary to life?' 'I admit it,' he said. 'To me, then,' said he, 'no road seems more truly the road of life than that by which each one proceeds so as not to fall into death.' Trygetius assented. 'Therefore, if some traveller, avoiding a byway which he had heard was beset by robbers, should proceed to go straight on and thus escape destruction, has he not both followed the road of life and a straight one? And yet no one calls that wisdom. How then is every straight road of life wisdom?' 'I granted that it is such, but not that it alone is.' 'But a definition ought to embrace nothing that is foreign to it. And so define again, if you please: what does wisdom seem to you to be?' For a long while he was silent; then:

'Behold,' said he, 'I define once more, if you have determined never to make an end of this. Wisdom is the straight road which leads to the truth.' 'This too is refuted in like manner,' said he; 'for when in Virgil it was said to Aeneas by his mother, «Only go on, and where the road leads you, direct your step,» he, following this road to that which had been spoken of — that is, to the truth — arrived at it. Contend, if you please, that where he set his advancing foot may be called wisdom — although it is quite foolishly that I try to break down this description of yours; for nothing aids my cause more. For you said that wisdom is not the truth itself, but the road which leads to it. Whoever, then, uses this road, uses wisdom, assuredly; and he who uses wisdom must needs be wise.

Therefore he will be wise who has sought the truth perfectly, even if he has not yet attained it. For the road which leads to the truth, I think, is understood to be nothing better than the diligent search for truth. Using this road alone, then, this man will already be wise. And no one who is wise is wretched; but every man is either wretched or blessed: therefore not only the finding, but the very investigation of truth in and of itself will make a man blessed.' Then the other, smiling: 'Deservedly,' said he, 'do these things befall me, while I confidently assent to my adversary in a matter that is not necessary — as if indeed I were some great definer, or thought anything more superfluous in disputation.'

'For what limit will there be, if I in turn should wish something to be defined by you, and again should demand — feigning that I understand nothing — that the words of the same definition, and likewise every one of its consequences singly, be defined? For why should I compel by my right the plainest thing to be defined, if a definition of wisdom is rightly demanded of me? For of what word did nature wish there to be in our minds a clearer notion than of wisdom? But somehow or other, when the notion has, as it were, left the harbour of our mind and, as it were, spread the sails of words for itself, straightway a thousand shipwrecks of cavils rush upon it. Wherefore, either let no definition of wisdom be required, or let our judge deign to come down to its defence.'

Then I, since night was now hindering my pen and I saw that a great matter seemed to arise, to be discussed as it were afresh, put it off to another day. For we had begun to dispute when the sun was already declining toward its setting, and almost the whole day had been spent partly in ordering matters of the farm, partly in reviewing the first book of Virgil. Then presently, as soon as it grew light — for so matters had been arranged the day before, that there might be ample leisure — straightway the business we had undertaken was taken up to be finished. Then I said: 'Yesterday, Trygetius, you demanded that I come down from the office of judge to the defence of wisdom, as if indeed wisdom would suffer any adversary in your discourse, or, with anyone defending it, laboured so as to have need to implore greater aid.

For neither has anything else arisen to be sought among you than what wisdom is — in which neither of you attacks it, since each of you longs for it — nor, if you think you have failed in defining wisdom, ought you on that account to abandon the rest of the defence of your opinion. And so from me you shall have nothing else than a definition of wisdom, which is neither mine nor new, but both belongs to men of old and one which I marvel that you do not recall. For it is not now for the first time that you hear that wisdom is the knowledge of things human and divine.' Here Licentius, whom after that definition I thought would long ponder what to say, at once put in:

'Why then, I ask, do we not call that most infamous man wise, whom we ourselves know well to be wont to dissipate himself through countless harlots — I mean that Albicerius, who at Carthage for many years gave to those who consulted him certain marvellous and unerring answers? I could recount innumerable things, were it not that I am speaking among those who have themselves had experience, and that for now a few examples suffice for what I intend. Was it not the case that, when a spoon — so he told me — could not be found at home, at your command he, being questioned, most swiftly and most truly answered not only what was being sought, but also by name whose the thing was and where it lay hidden?

Likewise in my presence — I pass over that, that in the thing about which he was asked he was in no way at all mistaken; but when a boy, who was carrying the money, had stolen a certain portion of it as we were on our way to him, he bade that all of it be counted out to himself, and compelled the boy, before our very eyes, to give back what he had taken away — before ever he himself had either seen those same coins or heard from us how much had been brought to him. What of the fact that we have received from you that Flaccianus, a most learned and most distinguished man, was wont to marvel — who, when he had been speaking about buying a farm, so laid the matter before that diviner that the man might declare, if he were able, what he had been doing?

And he at once pronounced not only the kind of business, but also — at which the man cried out vehemently in astonishment — the very name of the farm, though it was so odd that Flaccianus himself scarcely remembered it. And this too I cannot tell without amazement of soul: that to a friend of ours, your pupil, who was insolently wishing to provoke him and demanding that he tell what he himself was silently turning over within, he replied that he was pondering a verse of Virgil. When that man, struck dumb, could not deny it, he went on to ask which verse it was; and Albicerius — who had scarcely, in passing, ever once glanced at a grammarian's school — did not hesitate, unconcerned and voluble, to recite the very verse.

'Were they, then, not human affairs about which he was being consulted, or did he answer those who consulted him with things so certain and true without a knowledge of divine matters? But both are absurd. For human affairs are nothing else than the affairs of men — such as silver, coins, a farm, and finally even thought itself; and who would not rightly judge those to be divine matters through which divination itself falls to a man's lot? Albicerius therefore was wise, if by that definition we concede that wisdom is the knowledge of things human and divine.' Here the other said: 'In the first place, I do not call it knowledge, in which he who professes it is sometimes deceived.'

'For knowledge consists not only in things comprehended, but in things so comprehended that no one may err in it, nor be made to waver, driven by any opposing forces whatever. Whence it is most truly said by certain philosophers that it can be found in no one save in the wise man, who ought not only to have that which he guards and follows in perfect form, but also to hold it unshaken. But we know that the man you have mentioned often said many false things, which I have found out not only from others reporting it to me, but which I have myself sometimes perceived when present. Shall I then call him one who knows, when he has often spoken falsehoods — a man I would not call so even had he spoken truths hesitantly?

You are to suppose that I have said this concerning soothsayers and augurs and all those who consult the stars, and concerning interpreters of dreams; or else produce someone of this class of men, if you can, who, when consulted, has never doubted about his own responses, and who, finally, has never given false answers. For about prophets I think I need take no trouble, who speak with a mind not their own. Next, that I may grant human affairs to be the affairs of men — do you reckon anything to be ours which chance can either give or snatch away? Or when the knowledge of human affairs is spoken of, is that meant by which each one knows how many or what sort of farms we have, how much gold, how much silver, or, finally, what verses of others we are pondering?

That is the knowledge of human affairs which knows the light of prudence, the grace of temperance, the strength of fortitude, the sanctity of justice. For these are the things which, fearing no fortune, we dare truly to call our own; and if that Albicerius had learned these, never, believe me, would he have lived so luxuriously and so basely. But as for his saying which verse the man by whom he was consulted was turning over in his mind, I do not think that this either should be reckoned among our own affairs — not that I would deny that the most honourable disciplines pertain to a certain possession of our soul, but because to recite and pronounce another man's verse is granted even to the most unlearned.

Therefore, when such things come into our memory, it is no wonder if they can be sensed by certain most vile animals of this air, whom men call demons — by whom I concede that we can be surpassed in the keenness and subtlety of the senses, but in reason I deny it; and this comes about in some way most secret and most remote from our senses. For if we marvel that the little bee, by some sagacity whereby it surpasses man, flies from wheresoever to the honey set out, we ought not on that account to prefer it to ourselves, or even to compare it with us. And so I would rather that this Albicerius, being questioned by one who desired to learn, had taught the very metres themselves, or, compelled by some one of those consulting him, had sung his own verses on a subject at once proposed to him.

For you are wont to relate that the same Flaccianus often said — when he was deriding and despising that kind of divination with great loftiness of mind, and attributing it to some most abject little soul (for so he used to speak), by which that man, as if admonished or inflated by a spirit, was wont to give these answers — for that most learned man used to ask of those who marvelled at such things whether Albicerius could teach grammar or music or geometry. And who that knew him would not confess him to be the most unskilled of all these?

For which reason, in the end, he used to exhort that those who had learned such things should without hesitation prefer their own minds to that divination, and should give their effort to instructing and strengthening their mind with these disciplines, by which it might befall them to leap over and fly above that airy nature of invisible living creatures. And now, since divine things, by the concession of all, are far better and more august than human, in what way could that man attain them, who did not know what he himself was — unless perhaps reckoning the stars, which we daily contemplate, to be something great in comparison with the most true and most secret God, whom rarely perhaps the intellect, but no sense at all, reaches? These things, however, are present to our eyes.

Neither, then, are these the divine things which wisdom professes that it alone knows; and the rest, which those diviners — whoever they are — abuse either for empty boasting or for gain, are surely more worthless than the stars. Albicerius therefore did not partake of the knowledge of things human and divine, and in vain has our definition been assailed by you in this manner. Finally, since it behoves us to reckon as most worthless, and altogether to despise, whatever is beside things human and divine, I ask: in what things does that wise man of yours seek the truth?' 'In divine things,' said he; 'for virtue too, even in a man, is without doubt divine.' 'These, then, did Albicerius already know, which your wise man will always seek?' Then Licentius:

'He too had known divine things,' said he, 'but not those which are to be sought by the wise man. For who would not overturn every custom of speaking, if he should concede divination to that man, while taking away divine things, from which divination is named? Wherefore that definition of yours, unless I am mistaken, included I know not what other thing that did not pertain to wisdom.' Then Trygetius: 'That definition,' said he, 'let the man who put it forward defend, if he pleases. Now do you answer me, that we may at last come to the point at issue.' 'Here I am,' said he. 'Do you grant,' said he, 'that Albicerius knew the truth?' 'I grant it,' he said. 'Better, then, than your wise man.' 'By no means,' said he;

'for that kind of truth which the wise man seeks, not only that raving soothsayer, but not even the wise man himself, so long as he lives in this body, attains. Yet it is so great that it is far more excellent always to seek this than at some time to find that. 'It is necessary,' said Trygetius, 'that that definition come to my aid in my straits. If it seemed faulty to you for this reason, that it embraced one whom we cannot call wise, I ask whether you approve it if we call wisdom the knowledge of things human and divine — but of those things which pertain to the blessed life.' 'That too is wisdom,' said he, 'and not it alone. Whence the former definition invaded what is foreign, but this one has deserted what is proper to it;

'wherefore the former can be convicted of avarice, the latter of folly. And so, that I may now myself unfold in a definition what I feel: wisdom seems to me to be, of things human and divine which pertain to the blessed life, not knowledge alone, but also diligent inquiry. If you should wish to divide this description, the first part, which holds knowledge, is God's; but this part, which is content with inquiry, is man's. By the former, therefore, God is blessed, but by this latter, man.' Then the other: 'I marvel,' said he, 'how you assert that your wise man spends his labour in vain.' 'How,' said Licentius, 'in vain does he spend his labour, when he searches with so great a reward?

'for by this very thing, in that he seeks, he is wise, and in that he is wise, thereby is he blessed — since he unwinds his mind, as far as he can, from all the wrappings of the body, and gathers himself into himself; since he does not permit himself to be torn by desires, but, ever tranquil, strains toward himself and toward God — so that both here he may enjoy through reason that which we agreed above to be blessed, and on the last day of life may be found ready to attain that which he has desired, and may deservedly enjoy the divine beatitude, having first enjoyed the human.' Then I, while Trygetius was long seeking what he should answer, said: 'I do not think, Licentius, that arguments will be lacking to this man either, if we allow him to inquire at leisure. For what, in any place, has he lacked wherewith to answer?

For first he himself brought in that, since the question of the blessed life had arisen, and it is necessary that the wise man alone be blessed — inasmuch as folly, even by the judgement of fools, is wretched — the wise man ought to be perfect; but that he is not perfect who is still inquiring what the truth may be, whence he is not even blessed.

To which point, when you cast up the mass of authority against him, being somewhat modestly disturbed by the name of Cicero, he nevertheless at once raised himself up and, with a certain noble defiance, leapt to the summit of liberty and again snatched up what had been violently shaken from his hands, and asked of you whether one who was still inquiring seemed to you to be perfect — so that, if you should admit that he was not perfect, he might run back to the head of the matter and show, if he could, through that definition, that a man who governed his life according to the law of the mind was perfect, and that through this a man could not be blessed unless perfect.

From which snare when you had extricated yourself more warily than I thought, and said that the perfect man is the most diligent inquirer of truth, and had fought more confidently and more openly by that very definition — by which we had said that that alone is the blessed life which is conducted according to reason — he plainly countered you; for he seized upon your defence, whence, once driven off, you had utterly lost the sum of things, had not a truce restored you. For where have the Academics, whose opinion you defend, placed their citadel, save in the definition of error? And unless perhaps by night, through a dream, this returned into your mind, you now had nothing to answer, since in setting forth Cicero's opinion you yourself had beforehand mentioned that very thing.

Then it came to the definition of wisdom, which, when you were trying with such cunning to undermine it — so that not even your helper Albicerius could perhaps have detected your thefts — with what vigilance, with what strength did he resist you, how nearly did he entangle and press you down, had you not at the last protected yourself by your new definition and said that human wisdom is the inquiry of truth, from which, on account of the tranquillity of the soul, the blessed life results! To this opinion this man will not reply, especially if, in the prolonging of the day, or the part of it that remains, he demands that the favour be returned to him. But, that we may not make this long, now, if it please you, let this discourse be brought to a close, in which I think it superfluous even to linger.

For the matter has been treated enough for the business undertaken; and it could altogether be finished after a few words — did I not wish to exercise you, and to explore your sinews and your zeal, which is a great care to me. For when I had determined earnestly to exhort you to the seeking of truth, I had begun to ask of you how much weight you placed upon it; and you all placed so much that I could desire no more. For since we desire to be blessed, whether that cannot come to pass except when the truth has been found, or only when it has been diligently sought, the truth is to be sought out by us above all other things set aside, if we wish to be blessed. Wherefore let us now, as I said, bring this disputation to an end, and, committed to writing, send it, Licentius, above all to your father.'

For his mind, as regards philosophy, I now altogether hold; but I am still asking what fortune may admit of. He can, however, be kindled more vehemently into these studies, when he learns that you yourself now live with me in this way — not only by hearing, but also by reading these things. But as for you, if, as I perceive, the Academics please you, prepare stronger forces to defend them; for them I have resolved to accuse.' When these things had been said, we rose. BOOK TWO.

If it were as necessary that wisdom be found while it is sought, as it is necessary that no man be wise who is void of the discipline and knowledge of wisdom, then assuredly all the calumny of the Academics, or their obstinacy, or their stubbornness, or — as I sometimes think — the reasoning suited to that time, would together with that time itself, and with the very bodies of Carneades and Cicero, have been buried.

But because — whether through the many and various tossings of this life (that you may prove yourself to be, as it were, in Rome amid the very same), or through a certain stupor of minds, or through sloth, or through the torpor of dullness, or through despair of finding — since not so easily does the star of wisdom rise upon our minds as this light upon our eyes — or even (which is altogether the error of the peoples) through a false opinion that they have themselves found the truth, men do not diligently seek, and, if any do seek, they are turned aside from the will of seeking: it comes to pass that knowledge falls to few and seldom; and hence it results that the arms of the Academics, when it comes to close quarters with them, seem to men — not to mediocre men, but to acute and well-instructed ones — unconquered and, as it were, forged by Vulcan.

Wherefore, against those waves and storms of fortune, both must one strive with the oars of virtues of whatever kind, and above all must the divine help be implored with all devotion and piety, so that the most constant intention of good studies may hold its course, from which no chance may dash it, so that the safest and most delightful harbour of philosophy may receive it. This is your first cause; from this I fear for you, from this I desire that you be delivered, from this — if only I am worthy to obtain it — I cease not with daily vows to pray for prosperous breezes for you; and I pray to the very Virtue and Wisdom of the most high God. For what else is he whom the mysteries deliver to us as the Son of God?

But you will greatly help me as I intercede for you, if you do not despair that we can be heard, and if you strive together with us, and not only with vows but also with your will and with that natural loftiness of mind of yours — on account of which I seek you, in which I am singularly delighted, which I ever admire, which in you — oh, the shame! — is wrapped, as it were like lightning, in those clouds of domestic affairs, and lies hidden from many and almost all; but from me, and from one or a second of your most intimate friends, it cannot lie hidden — we who have often not only attentively heard your murmurings, but have also beheld some flashes nearer to lightning-bolts.

For who — to pass over other things according to the occasion and to recall but one — who, I say, ever thundered so suddenly and so greatly, and flashed forth with so great a light of mind, that under one roar of reason and a certain coruscation of temperance, in a single day that lust, most savage the day before, should utterly die? Shall not, then, this virtue at some time burst forth, and turn the laughter of many who despair into horror and stupor, and, having spoken on earth as it were certain signs of things to come, cast off again the burden of the whole body and hasten back to heaven? Has, then, Augustine said these things of Romanianus in vain? He will not suffer it — he to whom I have given myself wholly, whom I have now begun somewhat to recognize. Therefore, take up philosophy with me;

here is whatever is wont marvellously to move you, often anxious and doubting. For I fear nothing from any sloth of character or from any dullness in your talent. Who, when you have been granted a little breathing-space, has appeared more vigilant, who more acute, in our discussions? Shall I not repay you the favour? Or do I perhaps owe but a little? You received me, a poor young man setting out for my studies, with your home, and your expense, and — what is more — with your heart; when I was orphaned of my father, you consoled me with friendship, animated me with exhortation, aided me with your means; in our own township you made me, by your favour, your familiarity, the sharing of your house, almost as illustrious and eminent as yourself.

When I was returning to Carthage for the sake of a more illustrious profession, since I had disclosed my plan and my hope to you and to none of my own — although, through that love of your native place implanted in you (because I was already teaching there), you hesitated somewhat — yet, when you were unable to overcome the young man's eager desire, striving toward what seemed the better things, you were changed, with wonderful moderation of goodwill, from a dissuader into a helper. You furnished my journey with all things needful; you there again, who had cherished the cradle and, as it were, the nest of my studies, sustained the first efforts of one now daring to fly;

you too, when I had sailed away in your absence and without your knowledge, being somewhat displeased that I had not shared it with you as I was wont, and suspecting anything rather than obstinacy, remained unshaken in friendship; nor was there more before your eyes a pupil deserted by his master than the inmost recesses and purity of our mind. Finally, whatever I now rejoice in concerning my leisure — that I have flown away from the bonds of superfluous desires, that, having laid aside the burdens of dead cares, I breathe again, come to my senses, return to myself; that I most intently seek the truth, that I am now beginning to find it, that I trust I shall arrive at the very highest measure itself — you animated, you impelled, you brought it about.

But whose minister you have been, I have as yet conceived by faith more than comprehended by reason. For when, present to you present, I had set forth the inner fears of my soul, and vehemently and repeatedly asserted that no fortune seemed to me prosperous save that which gave the leisure for philosophizing, and no life blessed save that in which one lived in philosophy — but that I was held back by so great a burden of my dependents, upon whose life my duty hung, and by many necessities either of shame or of the foolish misery of my kin — you were lifted up with so great a joy, so inflamed with a holy ardour for this life, that you said that, if you could in any way be freed from the bonds of those troublesome lawsuits, you would break all my bonds too, sharing with me even your patrimony.

And so, once you had departed after applying a kindling-brand to us, we never ceased to gaze longingly toward philosophy and toward that manner of life which we had agreed and resolved upon among ourselves; and we thought of nothing else at all, and pursued it indeed steadily, though with too little intensity. Yet we supposed we were pursuing it enough. And since that flame had not yet come which was to seize us at its highest, we imagined that the one by which we were kindled was the greatest there could be. When behold, certain books, full — as Celsinus says — of good things from Arabia, breathed their fragrance upon us, and dripped upon that little flame the very few drops of a most precious ointment; and — incredible, Romanianus, incredible, and beyond what perhaps even you believe of me — what more shall I say?

— they kindled within me, even for myself concerning myself, an incredible blaze. What honour then moved me, what human pomp, what desire for empty fame, what comfort or restraint of this mortal life? Utterly and wholly I was returning at a run into myself. Yet I looked back, I confess, as if from the road, upon that religion which was implanted in us as children and interwoven into our very marrow; but she herself was drawing me, unknowing, toward herself. And so, tottering, hastening, hesitating, I snatched up the Apostle Paul. For truly, said I, these men could never have had such power, nor lived as it is manifest that they lived, if their writings and their teachings were opposed to so great a good. I read the whole through, most attentively and most reverently.

But then, with even so slight a light sprinkled upon me, so great a countenance of philosophy opened itself to me that — I will not say to you, who have ever burned with hunger for her though you never knew her, but even to your own adversary (by whom I know not whether you are more exercised than hindered) — if I could but have displayed her, then indeed, casting off and abandoning Baiae, and pleasant orchards, and dainty and gleaming banquets, and household actors, and finally whatever keenly stirs him toward any delights whatsoever, he would fly to the beauty of this one, a tender lover and a holy one, marvelling, panting, aflame.

For he too has — this must be confessed — a certain grace of soul, or rather as it were the seed of grace, which, striving to burst forth into true beauty, sprouts crookedly and misshapenly amid the brambles of vices and the thickets of false opinions; yet it does not cease to sprout, and to a few who look keenly and carefully into the dense growth it stands out, as far as is permitted. Thence comes that hospitality of his; thence, at banquets, the many seasonings of courtesy; thence the very elegance, the polish, the most spotless appearance of all things, and that urbanity of a shadowed grace which pours itself over everything on every side. This is commonly called philocalia. Do not despise this name because it comes from the name of the common crowd.

For philocalia and philosophy are named almost alike, and wish to seem — and truly are — as it were of one kindred. For what is philosophy? The love of wisdom. What is philocalia? The love of beauty. Inquire of the Greeks. What then is wisdom? Is she not the very true beauty? These two, therefore, are utterly sisters, born of the same parent; but the one, dragged down by the birdlime of lust from her own heaven and shut in a common cage, has nonetheless kept the neighbourliness of her name, to warn the fowler not to despise her. This one, then — wingless, soiled, and destitute — her sister, flitting freely, often recognizes, but rarely sets free; for this philocalia does not recognize whence she draws her lineage, except through philosophy.

This whole fable — for suddenly I have turned into Aesop — Licentius will set forth to you in verse more sweetly; for he is a poet almost perfect. Therefore that man, if he could with eyes healed and a little unveiled gaze upon true beauty, of whose false likeness he is a lover, with what pleasure would he wrap himself in the bosom of philosophy? How there would he embrace you, recognized as a true brother? You marvel at these things, and perhaps you laugh. What if I unfolded them as I wished? What if at least the voice, if the face of philosophy herself cannot yet be seen by you, could be heard? You would surely marvel, but you would not laugh, you would not despair. Believe me, no one is to be despaired of, and least of all such men; there are examples in every case.

Easily does this kind of bird escape, easily does it fly back, though many are shut in and many marvel. But let me return to us. Let us, I say, Romanianus, do philosophy; I shall repay you thanks — your son has begun to philosophize. I hold him back, so that, first cultivated in the necessary disciplines, he may rise up more vigorous and more firm. And that you may not fear yourself to be a stranger to these disciplines — if I know you well — I wish for you only free breezes. For as to your natural gifts, what shall I say? Would that it were not so rare in men as it is certain in you! There remain two vices and hindrances to finding the truth, from which I do not much fear for you; yet I do fear, lest you despise yourself and despair of ever finding, or else lest you believe you have already found.

Of these, if the first is nonetheless present in you, perhaps this disputation will strip it away from you. For you have often grown angry at the Academics — the more heavily, the less learned you were; the more gladly, because you were enticed by love of the truth. And so now, with Alypius as your supporter, I shall contend with you, and shall easily persuade you of what I wish — probably, at least; for you will not see the truth itself unless you have entered wholly into philosophy. But that other vice, that perhaps you presume you have found something — although you departed from us already inquiring and doubting — nonetheless, if any superstition has rolled back into your mind, it will surely be cast out, either when I send you some disputation of ours about religion, or when, being present, I confer many things with you.

For I now do nothing else than cleanse myself from vain and pernicious opinions. And so I do not doubt that I am better off than you. There is only one thing for which I envy your fortune: that you alone enjoy my Lucilianus. Or do you too envy, because I said 'my'? But what did I say other than 'yours,' and everyone's, whoever we are who are one? Yet, that you may come to the aid of this desire of mine, what shall I ask of you? Or do I of myself deserve it? You only know that you owe it. But now I say to both of you: beware lest you think you know anything, except what you have at least learned in such a way as you know that one, two, three, four gathered together make ten in sum. But likewise beware lest you think, through philosophy, either that you will not come to know the truth, or that it can in no way be so known.

For believe me, or rather believe Him who said, 'Seek and you shall find,' that knowledge is not to be despaired of, and that it will become more manifest than those numbers are. Now let us come to the matter proposed. For already, late as it is, I have begun to fear lest this preface exceed due measure. And it is no light thing — for measure is beyond doubt divine, but it can deceive when it leads us sweetly along. I shall be more cautious — when I am wise. After the earlier discourse, which we gathered into the first book, we rested from disputing for about seven days, during which, however, we went over three books of Virgil after the first, and discussed them as seemed to suit the occasion. Yet by that work Licentius was so inflamed with zeal for poetry that I thought he even needed somewhat to be restrained by me.

For now he could not gladly bear to be recalled from this pursuit to any other matter. Yet at last, to take up again the question about the Academics which we had postponed, he came not unwillingly, once the light of philosophy had been praised by me as far as I could. And by chance the day had dawned so bright that it seemed to suit nothing more than the clearing of our minds. And so, rising earlier than usual, we left our beds and dealt a little with the country folk, as the season pressed us to do. Then Alypius said: 'Before I hear you disputing about the Academics, I want that discourse of yours read to me, which you say was completed in my absence;'

'for I cannot do otherwise, since from that place the occasion of this debate arose, than either err in listening to you, or at least labour twice over.' When this had been done, and we saw that almost the whole forenoon had been consumed in it, we resolved to return home from the field, which had received us as we walked about. And Licentius said: 'I beg you, before lunch, do not be reluctant to run through and repeat for me briefly the whole opinion of the Academics, lest anything in it escape me which might be on the side of my party.' 'I shall do so,' I said, 'and the more gladly, since by thinking about this matter you will eat but little lunch.' 'Do not,' said he, 'be secure on that score; for I have often observed many men, and especially my father, to be the more voracious the more they are stuffed with cares.'

'Besides, you yourself have experienced that a man thinking about those metres of yours is not such that my care makes his table free of care. Indeed, I am often wont to marvel at this within myself; for what does it mean, that we then most stubbornly crave food precisely when we bend our mind to something else? Or who is he that, when our hands and teeth are already busy, becomes too imperious a master over us?' 'Rather listen,' I said, 'to what you had asked about the Academics, lest, while you turn over those metres, I should endure you not only in your food without metre but even in our questions. But if I conceal anything on my side, Alypius will betray it.' 'Your good faith is needed,' said Alypius;

'for if it is to be feared that you conceal something, I judge it hard for it to be detected by me — from whom no one who knows me is ignorant that I learned these very things — especially since, in bringing forth the truth, you will be consulting no more for victory than for your own conscience.' 'I shall proceed,' I said, 'in good faith, since you prescribe by the rule of right. For the Academics held both that knowledge cannot fall to a man — of those matters at least which pertain to philosophy (for Carneades denied that he cared for the rest) — and yet that a man can be wise, and that the whole task of the wise man, as was set forth by you too, Licentius, in that discourse, is unfolded in the search for truth: from which it follows that the wise man assents to nothing at all;

'for he must err — which is a sin in the wise man — if he assents to uncertain things. And they not only said that all things are uncertain, but affirmed it with the most abundant arguments. But that the truth cannot be comprehended they seemed to have seized upon from that definition of the Stoic Zeno, who says that this can be perceived as true which is so impressed upon the mind from that whence it is, that it could not be from that whence it is not. Which is said more briefly and plainly thus: the truth can be comprehended by these signs which those things cannot have that are false. That this can in no way be found, they laboured most vehemently to prove. Thence the disagreements of the philosophers.'

'Thence the deceptions of the senses; thence dreams and frenzies; thence the liar-paradox and the sorites flourished in defence of that cause. And since they had received from the same Zeno that nothing is baser than to hold mere opinion, they concluded most cunningly that, if nothing can be perceived and opinion is the basest thing, the wise man will never approve anything. Hence great ill-will was stirred up against them; for it seemed to follow that a man who approved nothing would do nothing. Whence the Academics seemed to describe your wise man as ever sleeping and a deserter of all duties, whom they judged to approve of nothing.'