On Order 1.23–2.6

So in the morning, when he had come back alone (for both had gone out for the same reason), he came to my bed and said: "Tell me truly, so may what you wish happen to us, what you think of me." And I, taking the young man's right hand, said: "What I think, you sense, believe, and understand. For I do not think you sang so long yesterday in vain, that the God of hosts would show himself to you when you are turned." And he, recalling it with wonder, said: "You speak of something great and true. For it moves me not a little that just now I was called away from those trifles of my poem only with difficulty, and now it irks and shames me to return to them; so wholly am I carried up into certain great and wonderful things. Is this not truly to be turned to God? At the same time I rejoice that the scruple of superstition cast on me was groundless, about my singing such things in such a place." "Nor does this displease me," I said, "and I think it pertains to that order that we should say something on this too. For I see that the very place which offended her, and the night, fit that canticle. For from what do you think we pray to be turned to God and see his face, if not from a kind of mire of the body and its filth, and likewise from the darkness in which error wraps us? Or what else is it to be turned than to be raised up into oneself from the excess of vices by virtue and temperance? Or what else is the face of God than truth itself, for which we sigh and for which, as our beloved, we make ourselves clean and beautiful?" "Nothing could be said better," he exclaimed; and then more quietly, as if into my ear: "See, please, how many things have come together to make me believe that something is now happening to us in a more favorable order."

"If you care for order," I said, "you must go back to those verses. For learning in the liberal disciplines, if modest and concise, produces lovers more eager, more persevering, and more refined to embrace the truth, so that they seek more ardently, pursue more constantly, and finally cling more sweetly to what is called, Licentius, the happy life. When it is named, everyone sits up and, as it were, looks at your hands to see whether you have anything to give to the needy and to those hindered by various diseases. But when wisdom begins to instruct them to endure the doctor and let themselves be cured with some patience, they fall back into their rags, and, wasting away from their warmth, they prefer to scratch the itch of wretched pleasures rather than be restored to the health and light of the healthy by enduring and submitting to the doctor's advice, which is a little harsh and burdensome to the diseases. So, content with the name and sense of the highest God as with an alms, they live wretchedly, but still they live. But other men, or, to speak more truly, other souls, already worthy of his bridal chamber while they live in this body, are sought by that best and most beautiful Bridegroom; for them it is not enough to live, but to live happily. So go meanwhile to those Muses. But do you know what I want you to do?" "Command what you please," he said. "When Pyramus and she," I said, "have killed themselves one over the other, as you are going to sing, in that very grief, by which your poem should be most strongly inflamed, you have a most suitable opportunity. Seize on a curse against that foul lust and the poisoned fires by which those pitiable things happen; then rise wholly into praise of pure and sincere love, by which souls taught by the disciplines and beautiful with virtue are joined to the intellect through philosophy, and not only escape death but also enjoy the most blessed life." Here he went away in silence, long wavering in thought, nodding his head.

Then I too got up, and, having offered our daily prayers to God, we had begun to go to the baths (for that place was suitable and familiar to us for discussion when we could not be in the field because of a gloomy sky), when behold, in front of the doors we noticed some cocks beginning a very fierce fight. We chose to watch. For what do the eyes of lovers not go around, where do they not roam, lest from anywhere the beauty of reason should nod to them, the reason that measures and governs all things, those that know and those that do not, which draws its eager followers to itself wherever and everywhere it bids itself be sought? For from what or where can it not give a sign? As in those very cocks one could see the heads stretched intently forward, the swollen crests, the vigorous blows, the most careful evasions, and in every movement of the animals lacking reason nothing that was not fitting, another reason, of course, governing all things from above; finally the very law of the victor, the proud crowing and the limbs gathered as it were into one circle, as if in the pride of mastery; and the sign of the vanquished, the feathers raised from the neck, and everything ugly in voice and movement, and by that very fact somehow harmonious and beautiful by the laws of nature.

We asked many things: why all do so, why for mastery over the hens subject to them, why then the very sight of the fight drew us somewhat, even apart from that higher consideration, into the pleasure of the spectacle; what there was in us that sought many things removed from the senses, and what again that was captured by the invitation of the senses themselves. We said to ourselves: Where is there not law? Where is there not rule owed to the better? Where is there not a shadow of constancy? Where is there not imitation of that most true beauty? Where is there not measure? And, warned by this that there should be measure in watching, we went on to where we had intended, and there, as well as we could, and quite carefully (for the things were fresh, and when could such striking things escape the memory of three students?), we put all the little works of our night study into this part of the book. And I did nothing else that day, to spare my health, except that before supper I listened with them to half a book of Vergil, as I was accustomed daily; we considered nothing anywhere but the measure of things, which no one can fail to approve, but which it is very difficult and very rare to perceive when one is doing something eagerly.

Then, very early the next morning, we eagerly met at the usual place and sat down there. And, with both attending to me, I said: "Be here, Licentius, as much as you can, and you too, Trygetius; for no small matter is in hand: we are inquiring about order. Why should I now, as if set in that school from which I rejoice to have escaped in whatever way, praise order to you copiously and in order? Take, if you will (rather, make yourselves willing), something than which nothing shorter, and, as it seems to me, nothing truer can be said in its praise. Order is that which, if we hold to it in life, will lead us to God, and which, unless we hold to it in life, we shall not reach God. And we presume and hope, unless my mind deceives me about us, that we shall reach him. So this question must be turned over and resolved most carefully between us. I would like the others to be present who usually take part with us in these pursuits; I would like, if it were possible, to have with me now as attentive as you are not only these but at least all our friends, whose talent I always admire, or at least Zenobius alone, whom, though he was working hard on this matter, I never received with leisure worthy of its greatness. But since that has not happened, they will read our writings, since we have already resolved not to waste words on these things, and to bind the things themselves, which flee from memory, with the chain of writing, as it were, by which they may be brought back. And perhaps order itself required this, which arranged their absence. For you too surely rise to so great a matter with a more uplifted mind because it is placed on us alone to bear; and when those who are our greatest concern read it, if anything moves them to contradict, this discussion will produce other discussions for us, and the very succession of conversations will insert itself into the order of learning. But now, as I promised, I will oppose Licentius, as far as the matter allows, who has almost completed the whole case, if he can surround it firmly and steadily with a wall of defense."

Here, when I saw by their silence, faces, eyes, suspense, and stillness of limbs that they were sufficiently moved by the greatness of the matter and inflamed with desire to hear, I said: "So, Licentius, if you agree, gather in yourself whatever strength you can, sharpen whatever keenness you have, and embrace in a definition what this order is." Then, when he heard that he was being forced to define, he shuddered as if sprinkled with cold water, and, looking at me with a rather troubled face and, as happens, smiling from very nervousness, he said: "What is this? What, do I seem to you as if nodding assent? I do not know with what foreign spirit you believe me inspired." And at once, encouraging himself: "Or perhaps," he said, "something is with me?" And he was silent a little, so that whatever notion he had of order might be brought together into a definition; then, more confidently: "Order," he said, "is that through which all things are done that God has established."

"What?" I said. "Does God himself not seem to you to be moved by order?" "Certainly he seems so," he said. "So God is moved?" said Trygetius. And Licentius said: "Why not? Do you deny that Christ is God, who both came to us by order and says that he was sent by God the Father? If, then, God sent Christ to us by order, and we do not deny that Christ is God, God not only does all things but is also moved by order." Here Trygetius, hesitating, said: "I do not know how to take that. For when we name God, it is not, as it were, Christ himself who comes to our minds, but the Father. Christ comes to mind when we name the Son of God." "A fine thing you are doing," said Licentius. "Shall we then deny that the Son of God is God?" Here Trygetius, though it seemed dangerous to him to answer, still forced himself and said: "He too is God, but still we call the Father God in the proper sense." I said to him: "Restrain yourself rather; for the Son is not called God improperly." And he, moved by religious scruple, did not want even his words to be written down; Licentius urged that they should remain, in the manner of boys, of course, or rather (alas!) of almost all men, as though this were being done among us for the sake of glory. When I rebuked this impulse of his mind with rather severe words, he blushed. Noticing that Trygetius was laughing and rejoicing at his embarrassment, I said to both: "Is this how you act? Are you not moved by the masses of vices and the darkness of ignorance by which we are pressed down and covered? Is this that attention of yours a little while ago, at which I foolishly rejoiced, and that rising up toward God and truth? O, if you could see, even with eyes as bleary as mine, in what dangers we lie, of what disease that laughter shows the madness! O, if you could see it! How quickly, how immediately, and for how much longer you would turn it into weeping! Wretched ones, do you not know where we are? It is common to all fools and the unlearned that their minds are sunk; but wisdom does not stretch out her help and hand to all the sunk in one and the same way. There are some, believe me, there are some who are called upward, and others who are let down into the depths. Do not, I beg you, double my miseries for me. Let my own wounds be enough for me; praying to God with almost daily tears that they may be healed, I still often convince myself that I am less worthy to be healed as quickly as I wish. Do not, I beg you, if you owe me any love, any bond of friendship, if you understand how much I love you, how highly I value you, how much care for your morals troubles me, if I am worthy not to be neglected by you, if finally, with God as witness, I do not lie that I wish nothing more for myself than for you: repay me this kindness, and if you willingly call me teacher, give me my fee: be good!"

Here, when tears had put an end to my saying more, Licentius, very much annoyed that everything was being written down, said: "What have we done, I ask you?" "Do you not even confess your sin yet?" I said. "Do you not know that in that school I used to be gravely angered that boys were led not by the usefulness and beauty of the disciplines but by love of the emptiest praise, so much that some were not even ashamed to recite others' words and received applause (O evil to be groaned over!) from the very people whose words they were reciting? So you, although you have never, I think, done anything like that, are still trying to bring in and sow, both into philosophy and into that life which I rejoice at last to have taken up, the last but more harmful plague of all, wasting rivalry and empty boasting; and perhaps, because I frighten you away from this vanity and disease, you will be lazier in the study of learning, and, driven back from the ardor of windy fame, will freeze into the torpor of idleness. Woe is me, if I must still endure such as these, from whom vices cannot depart without other vices succeeding!" "You will see," said Licentius, "how much more purified we shall be. Only we beg you by all you love to pardon us and order all that to be deleted; and at the same time to spare the tablets, which we no longer have. For none of the many things we discussed has been transferred into the books." "No," said Trygetius, "let our punishment stand, so that the very fame that lures us may frighten us from love of it by its own lash. For we will sweat not a little to make these writings known only to our friends and intimates." Licentius agreed.

Meanwhile our mother came in and asked us what progress we had made; for she too knew the question. When I had ordered her entrance and question to be written down, as was our custom, she said: "What are you doing? Have I ever heard, in those books you read, of women being brought into discussions of this kind?" I said to her: "I do not care much for the judgments of the proud and ignorant, who rush into reading books just as into greeting people. For they think not of what sort they themselves are, but of what clothes they wear and with how much pomp of possessions and fortune they shine. In literature they do not pay much attention to where the question comes from, or where the disputants are trying to arrive, or what has been explained and settled by them. Yet since among them are found some whose minds are not to be despised (for they are sprinkled with certain seasonings of humanity and are easily led through golden and painted doors into the sacred inner chambers of philosophy), both our ancestors, whose books I see are known to you through our reading, have satisfied them, and in our times (to pass over others) a man most outstanding in talent, eloquence, the very marks and gifts of fortune, and, what is above all, in mind, Theodorus, whom you yourself know well, is working so that no class of men, now or among posterity, may rightly complain about the literature of our times. But if my books should happen to come into anyone's hands, and, having read my name, they do not say, 'Who is this?' and throw the book away, but, either curious or very studious, despise the meanness of the threshold and go on to enter, they will not be annoyed that I do philosophy with you, nor perhaps will they despise any of those whose conversation is mingled in my writings. For they are not only free men, which is enough for any liberal discipline, let alone philosophy, but born to the highest rank among their own people. And the writings of the most learned men contain even shoemakers who did philosophy, and far meaner kinds of fortune, who nevertheless shone with such light of talent and virtue that they would by no means have wished, even if they could, to exchange their goods on any terms for any nobility of this kind. Nor, believe me, will there be lacking such a kind of men as will be more pleased by this very thing, that you do philosophy with me, than by anything else of either charm or seriousness they find here. For women too did philosophy among the ancients, and your philosophy pleases me very much."

"For, mother, so that you are not unaware of anything, this Greek word by which philosophy is named is called in Latin the love of wisdom. Hence the divine Scriptures too, which you embrace so ardently, command that not philosophers altogether, but the philosophers of this world, are to be avoided and laughed at. And that there is another world, very far removed from these eyes, which the intellect of a few sound men beholds, Christ himself signifies clearly enough, who does not say, 'My kingdom is not of the world,' but 'My kingdom is not of this world.' For whoever thinks all philosophy is to be avoided wants nothing else than that we should not love wisdom. So I would despise you in these writings of mine if you did not love wisdom; but I would not despise you if you loved it moderately, much less if you loved wisdom as much as I do. But now, since you love it much more than you love me, and I know how much you love me, and since you have made such progress in it that you are no longer terrified by fear of any chance misfortune or even of death itself, which is very difficult for the most learned men, and which all confess is the highest citadel of philosophy, shall I not gladly give myself to you even as a pupil?"

Here, when she had said charmingly and piously that I had never told so great a lie, and I saw that we had poured out so many words that they had to be written down, and the book was already of due length, and no tablets were left, we decided to put off the question, and at the same time to spare my stomach. For the things that seemed necessary for me to pour out against those young men had upset it more than I wished. But as we began to leave, Licentius said: "Remember how many and how necessary things are supplied to us, to be received from you, through that most hidden and divine order, even without your knowing it." "I see it," I said, "and I am not ungrateful to God, and I presume that you yourselves, who notice these things, will be better for that very reason." This was all my business that day.

Then, after a few days had passed, Alypius came, and when the sun rose very bright, the clearness of the sky and a mildness as pleasant as was possible in winter in those parts invited us to go down to the meadow, which we used very often and familiarly. Our mother was also with us. I had perceived her talent and her mind inflamed toward divine things before, through long living together and careful consideration; but especially in a certain discussion of no small matter, which I held with my guests on my birthday and put into a little book, her mind had appeared so great to me that nothing seemed more suited to true philosophy. So I had decided, since she had abundant leisure, to arrange that she should not be absent from our conversation. This you have also learned in the first book of this work.

So when we had sat down in that place, as comfortably as we could, I said to those two young men: "Although I was angry with you for behaving like boys about great things, still it seems to me to have happened not without order, by God's favor, that in the conversation in which I was drawing you away from that levity the time was so used up that so great a matter seems to have been put off until Alypius's arrival. Therefore, since I have now made the question well known to him and shown how far we have advanced in it, are you ready, Licentius, to defend the case you undertook from that definition of yours? For I think I remember that you said order is that through which God does all things." "I am ready," he said, "as far as I can." "How then," I said, "does God do all things by order? So as to move even himself by order? Or are other things besides him governed by him by order?" "Where all things are good," he said, "there is no order. For there is supreme equality, which needs no order." "Do you deny," I said, "that with God all things are good?" "I do not deny it," he said. "It follows," I said, "that neither God nor the things that are with God are administered by order." He granted it. "Do all good things seem to you to be nothing?" I said. "On the contrary," he said, "they truly are." "Where then," I said, "is that statement of yours, that all things that exist are administered by order and that there is nothing at all separated from order?" "But there are also evils," he said, "through which it has come about that order includes good things too; for good things alone are not ruled by order, but good and evil together. And when we say 'all things that exist,' we certainly do not mean only good things. Hence it follows that all things together that God administers are administered by order."

I said to him: "Do the things that are administered and done seem to you to be moved, or do you think they are immovable?" "These things that happen in this world," he said, "I admit are moved." "Do you deny it of the rest?" I said. "The things that are with God," he said, "are not moved; I think all the rest are moved." "Since, then," I said, "you think that the things that are with God are not moved, but grant that the others are moved, you show that all things that are moved are not with God." "Repeat that a little more plainly," he said. This he seemed to me to want not from difficulty in understanding but to gain room to find what to answer. "You said," I said, "that the things that are with God are not moved, but the others are. So if these things that are moved would not be moved if they were with God, since you deny that anything with God is moved, it remains that the things that are moved are apart from God." When this had been said he was still silent, until at last he said: "It seems to me that if there are any things in this world that are not moved, they are with God." "That is nothing to me," I said; "for you admit, I think, that not all things in this world are unmoved. From this it follows that not all things of this world are with God." "I admit," he said, "not all." "So there is something without God?" "No," he said. "Then all things are with God." Here, hesitating, he said: "Please, I would not have said that nothing is without God; for all things that are moved certainly do not seem to me to be with God." "Then this heaven," I said, "which no one doubts is moved, is without God." "Heaven is not without God," he said. "So there is something with God that is moved?" "I cannot explain what I think as I wish," he said; "but I ask you, without waiting for my words, to understand as shrewdly as you can what I am trying to say. For it seems to me both that nothing is without God and that what is with God remains unshaken; but I cannot say that heaven is without God, not only because I think nothing is without God, but because I think heaven has something that is not moved, which either is God or is with God, although I do not doubt that heaven itself turns and is moved."

"Then define, if you please," I said, "what it is to be with God and what it is not to be without God. For if the controversy between us is about words, it will easily be dismissed, provided we see the thing itself you have conceived in your mind." "I hate defining," he said. "What then shall we do?" I said. "You define, please," he said. "For it is easier for me to see in another's definition what I do not approve than to explain anything by defining well." "I will humor you," I said. "Does that seem to you to be with God which is ruled and administered by him?" "No," he said, "that is not what I had in mind when I said that the things that are not moved are with God." "Then see," I said, "whether at least this definition pleases you: whatever understands God is with God." "I grant it," he said. "What then?" I said. "Does the wise man not seem to you to understand God?" "He does," he said. "Since, then, wise men are moved not only in one house or city but also by traveling and sailing through immense regions, how will it be true that whatever is with God is not moved?" "You have made me laugh," he said, "as if I had said that what the wise man does is with God. It is with God, but that which he knows." "Does the wise man not know," I said, "his book, his cloak, his tunic, his furniture, if he has any, and other things of that kind, which even fools know well?" "I admit," he said, "that knowing a tunic and knowing a cloak is not being with God."

"So you say this," I said: "not everything the wise man knows is with God, but whatever of the wise man is with God, that the wise man knows." "Excellent," he said; "for whatever he knows by this bodily sense is not with God, but what he perceives by the mind. I dare to say even more, perhaps, but I will say it; for with you as judges I may either confirm it or learn. Whoever knows only what the sense of the body touches seems to me not only not to be with God but not even with himself." Here, when I noticed Trygetius with a face as if he wanted to say something in reply, but was held back by modesty from rushing, as it were, into another's place, I gave him leave to bring out what he wanted, Licentius now being silent. And he said: "No one seems to me to know at all the things that pertain to the senses of the body. For to sense is one thing, to know another. So if we know anything, I think it is contained in the intellect alone and can be grasped by it alone. From this it follows that, if what the wise man knows by understanding is with God, all that the wise man knows can be with God." When Licentius had approved this, he added something else which I could by no means despise. For he said: "The wise man himself is certainly with God; for the wise man also understands himself. This follows both from what I received from you, that whatever understands God is with God, and from what was said by us, that whatever is understood by the wise man is with God. But that part of him by which he uses these senses (for I do not think it should be counted when we call him wise) I admit I do not know, nor can I at all guess what sort it is."

"So you deny," I said, "that the wise man consists not only of body and soul but even of the whole soul, since it would be madness to deny that the part by which he uses the senses belongs to the soul. For it is not the eyes or ears themselves but something else that senses through the eyes. And if we do not give sensing itself to the intellect, we do not give it to any part of the soul. It remains that it be attributed to the body, than which nothing more absurd seems to me for the present to be said." "The soul of the wise man," said Licentius, "thoroughly purified by the virtues and already clinging to God, is worthy even of the name of wise, and nothing else of him is it right to call wise; but still certain things, like filth, so to speak, and cast-off skins, from which he has cleansed himself and as it were withdrawn into himself, serve that soul; or, if all this is to be called soul, they certainly serve and are subject to that part of the soul which alone should be called wise. In this subject part I think memory itself also dwells. So the wise man uses this part as a slave, so that he may command it and, now that it is tamed and subdued, set it the bounds of law; so that, while he uses these senses for the sake of those things which are necessary not to the wise man but to itself, it may not dare to exalt itself or be proud toward its master or use the very things that belong to it indiscriminately and immoderately. For the things that pass away can belong to that most worthless part. And to what is memory necessary except to passing and as it were fleeing things? So that wise man embraces God and enjoys him, who always remains and is not waited for in order to be, nor feared lest he fail, but by the very fact that he truly is, is always present. But he cares, unmoved and remaining in himself, in a certain way for the private property of his slave, so that the slave may use it well and keep it sparingly, as a thrifty and diligent servant."