TO Carthage I came, where there sang all around me in my ears
a cauldron of unholy loves. I loved not yet, yet I loved to love,
and out of a deep-seated want, I hated myself for wanting not.
I sought what I might love, in love with loving, and safety I
hated, and a way without snares. For within me was a famine of
that inward food, Thyself, my God; yet, through that famine I
was not hungered; but was without all longing for incorruptible
sustenance, not because filled therewith, but the more empty,
the more I loathed it. For this cause my soul was sickly and full
of sores, it miserably cast itself forth, desiring to be scraped
by the touch of objects of sense. Yet if these had not a soul,
they would not be objects of love. To love then, and to be beloved,
was sweet to me; but more, when I obtained to enjoy the person
I loved. I defiled, therefore, the spring of friendship with the
filth of concupiscence, and I beclouded its brightness with the
hell of lustfulness; and thus foul and unseemly, I would fain,
through exceeding vanity, be fine and courtly. I fell headlong
then into the love wherein I longed to be ensnared. My God, my
Mercy, with how much gall didst Thou out of Thy great goodness
besprinkle for me that sweetness? For I was both beloved, and
secretly arrived at the bond of enjoying; and was with joy fettered
with sorrow-bringing bonds, that I might be scourged with the
iron burning rods of jealousy, and suspicions, and fears, and
angers, and quarrels.
Stage-plays also carried me away, full of images of my miseries,
and of fuel to my fire. Why is it, that man desires to be made
sad, beholding doleful and tragical things, which yet himself
would by no means suffer? yet he desires as a spectator to feel
sorrow at them, and this very sorrow is his pleasure. What is
this but a miserable madness? For a man is the more affected with
these actions, the less free he is from such affections. Howsoever,
when he suffers in his own person, it uses to be styled misery:
when he compassionates others, then it is mercy. But what sort
of compassion is this for feigned and scenical passions? For the
auditor is not called on to relieve, but only to grieve: and he
applauds the actor of these fictions the more, the more he grieves.
And if the calamities of those persons (whether of old times,
or mere fiction) be so acted, that the spectator is not moved
to tears, he goes away disgusted and criticising; but if he be
moved to passion, he stays intent, and weeps for joy.
Are griefs then too loved? Verily all desire joy. Or whereas no
man likes to be miserable, is he yet pleased to be merciful? Which
because it cannot be without passion, for this reason alone are
passions loved? This also springs from that vein of friendship.
But whither goes that vein? Whither flows it? Wherefore runs it
into that torrent of pitch bubbling forth those monstrous tides
of foul lustfulness, into which it is wilfully changed and transformed,
being of its own will precipitated and corrupted from its heavenly
clearness? Shall compassion then be put away? By no means. Be
griefs then sometimes loved. But beware of uncleanness, O my soul,
under the guardianship of my God, the God of our fathers, who
is to be praised and exalted above all for ever, beware of uncleanness.
For I have not now ceased to pity; but then in the theatres I
rejoiced with lovers when they wickedly enjoyed one another, although
this was imaginary only in the play. And when they lost one another,
as if very compassionate, I sorrowed with them, yet had my delight
in both. But now I much more pity him that rejoiceth in his wickedness,
than him who is thought to suffer hardship, by missing some pernicious
pleasure, and the loss of some miserable felicity. This certainly
is the truer mercy, but in it grief delights not. For though he
that grieves for the miserable, be commended for his office of
charity; yet had he, who is genuinely compassionate, rather there
were nothing for him to grieve for. For if good will be ill willed
(which can never be), then may he, who truly and sincerely commiserates,
wish there might be some miserable, that he might commiserate.
Some sorrow may then be allowed, none loved. For thus dost Thou,
O Lord God, who lovest souls far more purely than we, and hast
more incorruptibly pity on them, yet are wounded with no sorrowfulness.
And who is sufficient for these things?
But I, miserable, then loved to grieve, and sought out what to
grieve at, when in another's and that feigned and personated misery,
that acting best pleased me, and attracted me the most vehemently,
which drew tears from me. What marvel that an unhappy sheep, straying
from Thy flock, and impatient of Thy keeping, I became infected
with a foul disease? And hence the love of griefs; not such as
should sink deep into me; for I loved not to suffer, what I loved
to look on; but such as upon hearing their fictions should lightly
scratch the surface; upon which, as on envenomed nails, followed
inflamed swelling, impostumes, and a putrified sore. My life being
such, was it life, O my God?