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The Confessions of St. Augustin In Thirteen Books

Chapter XVII.--He Continues on the Unhappy Method of Training Youth in Literary Subjects.

27. Bear with me, my God, while I speak a little of those talents Thou hast bestowed upon me, and on what follies I wasted them. For a lesson sufficiently disquieting to my soul was given me, in hope of praise, and fear of shame or stripes, to speak the words of Juno, as she raged and sorrowed that she could not

"Latium bar

From all approaches of the Dardan king," ¹

which I had heard Juno never uttered. Yet were we compelled to stray in the footsteps of these poetic fictions, and to turn that into prose which the poet had said in verse. And his speaking was most applauded in whom, according to the reputation of the persons delineated, the passions of anger and sorrow were most strikingly reproduced, and clothed in the most suitable language. But what is it to me, O my true Life, my God, that my declaiming was applauded above that of many who were my contemporaries and fellow-students? Behold, is not all this smoke and wind? Was there nothing else, too, on which I could exercise my wit and tongue? Thy praise, Lord, Thy praises might have supported the tendrils of my heart by Thy Scriptures; so had it not been dragged away by these empty trifles, a shameful prey of ² the fowls of the air. For there is more than one way in which men sacrifice to the fallen angels.

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Les confessions de Saint Augustin

CHAPITRE XVII. VANITÉ DE SES ÉTUDES.

27. Permettez-moi, mon Dieu, de parler encore de mon intelligence, votre don; en quels délires elle s’abrutissait! Grande affaire, et qui me troublait l’âme par l’appât de la louange, par la crainte de la honte et des châtiments, quand il s’agissait d’exprimer les plaintes amères de Junon, « impuissante à détourner de «l’Italie le chef des Troyens! (Enéide, I, 36-75) » plaintes que je savais imaginaires; mais on nous forçait de nous égarer sur les traces de ces mensonges poétiques, et de dire en libre langage ce que le poète dit en vers. Et celui-là méritait le plus d’éloges qui, fidèle à la dignité du personnage mis en scène, produisait un sentiment plus naïf de colère et de douleur, ajustant à ses pensées un vêtement convenable d’expression.

Eh! à quoi bon, ô ma vraie vie, ô mon Dieu! à quoi bon cet avantage sur la plupart de mes condisciples et rivaux, de voir mes compositions plus applaudies? Vent et fumée que tout cela! N’était-il pas d’autre sujet pour exercer mon intelligence et ma langue? Vos louanges, Seigneur, vos louanges dictées par vos Ecritures mêmes, eussent soutenu le pampre pliant de mon coeur. Il n’eût pas été emporté dans le vague des bagatelles, triste proie des oiseaux sinistres; car il est plus d’une manière de sacrifier aux anges prévaricateurs.