'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.