In 415 Augustine wrote a letter to Jerome on the topic of the soul’s origin. In the course of his discussion he proposed that the principles involved in the harmony of the soul are comparable to those operating in the sphere of music (musica). These are governed by the science or sense of good measure (scientia sensusve bene modulandi):
If a man who is skilled in composing a song knows what lengths to assign to what tones, so that the melody flows and progresses with beauty by a succession of slow and rapid tones, how much more true is it that God permits no periods of time in the process of birth and death of his creatures—periods which are like the words and syllables in the measure of this temporal life—to proceed either more quickly or more slowly than the recognized and well-defined law of rhythm requires, in this wonderful song of succeeding events.1
In this statement Augustine is restating in a modified form an ancient Stoic doctrine. Living a happy and virtuous life, in which the soul is at peace with itself, implies that one is “living harmoniously with nature.”2 The link between the Stoic and Augustinian statements of this view arises from the notion of harmony as an element that crosses the boundary between the physical and the psychological dimensions of existence.
In this chapter I explore the meaning of the Augustinian notion of “harmony” in a pair of texts that illustrate different stages of his thinking on the subject. The first is the summary of his views that appears in the prose poem, Sero te amavi, pulchritudo at Confessions 10.27.38–10.29.40, which was presumably written before 400; the other is the lengthier exploration of the theme in book 6 of De Musica, which was begun in 389 and completed, after revisions, in 408 or 409.
Augustine’s formulation of the principle of harmony differs from its distant Stoic predecessor in two respects. He rejects naturalism as the principal creative force in the universe, in favor of God’s will, and he gives a central role in the construction of universal harmony to the factor of time. His best-known discussion of time is at Confessions 11.14.17–11.20.26; however, it is in an alternate version of his views, in book 6 of De Musica, that is found his major statement on musical and mathematical harmony.
Although there may be echoes of Stoic thinking in Augustine’s notion of harmony, his views on time also have a great deal in common with Platonic doctrines. There is a similarity between the theory of time that informs several of his early works and the statement on the subject that is attributed to Parmenides and reported by Plato in the dialogue of the same name at 151e–155c.3 In this section of his lengthy speech, the aging and distinguished Parmenides is elaborating his conception of the One for Socrates and his assembled friends. During the course of his argument he asks whether the One can be said to exist in time and, if so, what relationship the One might have to the three major dimensions of experienced time, namely past, present, and future. I quote a part of his statement, in which it is only necessary to replace the notion of the One with that of God to arrive at an approximation of Augustine’s views in book 10 of the Confessions and in book 6 of De Musica, to be discussed below:
Since the one is one, of course it has being, and to “be” means precisely having existence in conjunction with time present, as “was” or “will be” means having existence in conjunction with past or future time. So if the one is, it is in time. Time, moreover, is advancing. Hence since the one moves forward temporally, it is always becoming older than itself. . . . Also, it is older, when, in this process of becoming, it is at the present time which lies between “was” and “will be,” for of course, as it travels from past to future, it will never overstep the present. So, when it coincides with the present, it stops becoming older: at that time it is not becoming, but already is, older. For if it were getting ahead, it could never be caught up by the present, since to get ahead would mean to be in touch with both the present and the future, leaving the present behind and reaching out to the future, and so passing between the two.
Augustine’s view of time differs from that of Parmenides in one major respect: this concerns the relationship that he envisages between time and memory. Here, in addition to the Stoic background on phantasia mentioned in Chapter 2, the ultimate origin of his thinking may be found in two other Platonic dialogues, in which mention is made of the ancient doctrine of anamnesis. This is the theory that humans possess knowledge from previous incarnations of their souls, and that learning consists of rediscovering that knowledge in the mind.
Anamnesis is briefly discussed by Socrates at Phaedo 72c–73c and Meno 81b–c. In the second of these texts, the sage maintains that anamnesis is not just a theory devised for and by intellectuals but is also looked upon with favor by other types of thinkers, among them priests, priestesses, and poets, all of whom are convinced that
the human soul is immortal; at times it comes to an end, which they call dying, at times it is reborn, but it is never destroyed. . . . As the soul is immortal, has been born often, and has seen all things here and in the underworld, there is nothing which it has not learned; so it is in no way surprising that it can recollect the things it knew before, both about virtue and other things. As the whole of nature is akin, and the soul has learned everything, nothing prevents a man, after recalling one thing only—a process men call learning—discovering everything else for himself . . . , for searching and learning are, as a whole, recollection.4
While Augustine’s views on time are reasonably close to those related in the Parmenides, which he did not know at first hand, those that he expresses on memory differ in important respects from the statements on anamnesis in the Phaedo or Meno, parts of which he may have known, either directly or indirectly, through the philosophical writings of Cicero. One of these differences arises from the connections that he sees between memory and language, which are not foreshadowed in any Platonic texts dealing with the subject. Here, the central influence on Augustine’s thinking appears to be his own personal style of skepticism.
A good example of his approach to the topic of memory in this context is found at the end of De Magistro, where, after a lengthy debate with his gifted son, Adeodatus, the young Augustine comes to the conclusion that we are never taught anything by verbal signs alone, unless we have an antecedent knowledge of the realities for which they stand. On this view, words are just indications of meaning, which ultimately depends on the mind and on memory, and beyond that, on the higher knowledge of God, in whom alone true and complete understanding of things is found.5 Accordingly, the doctrine of anamnesis is expressed in his statement on the theme in a paradoxical form, which can be summed up as follows. Either the person seeking the knowledge of a word’s meaning knows what he is looking for, since the required information is already lodged in his memory, or, alternatively, he does not know what he is looking for, since the information is not located there. In both cases it is memory and not language that is the ultimate source of the knowledge.
In his early writings, Augustine may have entertained the notion that we learn nothing from our teachers that we do not have already in our memories, as he suggests at the end of De Magistro, but he had abandoned any trace of the idea by 397, when he began the Confessions.6 For in books 1–9 he tells the story of a progressive education involving eminent teachers, such as Ambrose of Milan, as he works his way successively through the writings of Cicero, Manichaeism, Neoplatonism, and Paul. He came closer to the negative view expressed in his debate with his son in his last writings on the subject, in particular in the Retractationes, written in 426–27, where, under the influence of his doctrine of grace, he modified the early and rather literary account of his achievements in the dialogues and Confessions. He now offered his readers an edited and altered version of the story of his youthful intellectual enterprises in which there is less emphasis on cumulative learning through established philosophical methods, such as the Socratic elenchus, and more on the insights that were arrived at by means of hermeneutics and the interpretation of passages of scripture. He also downplayed the element of the Bildungsroman that is so evident in the narrative books of the Confessions.
The link with anamnesis was nonetheless maintained through the notion of cultural memory, which informs the early books of The City of God. Another historical context for anamnesis arose from the liturgy, in which those celebrating the divine office or engaged in other forms of devotion were invited to recall an event at which they were not present, the Last Supper. Augustine rethinks this tradition of latent memory along two lines. First, he incorporates into the notion of liturgical anamnesis a literary program of depth and intertextual complexity, as I attempt to show in the first part of this chapter. Also, on a more general level, his poetic evocation of passages of the Bible in the prayers and devotional statements in the Confessions anticipates the early modern notion of reminiscence as a reflective or contemplative form of recall that is largely dependent on personal memory. The classic statement on this type of poetic memory was made centuries later by Wordsworth in the Preface to Lyrical Ballads, where it is described as
the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity: the motion is contemplated till by a species of reaction the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind.7
Needless to say, in the linguistic and liturgical modifications of the ancient doctrine of anamnesis, Augustine moves in a different direction from that taken at Meno 81b ff. and Phaedo 72c–73c. Recall that in the Meno, Socrates provides an illustration of transmigrated memories by means of a slave boy, who, having no training in geometry, is led to the solution of geometrical problems by means of questions and answers alone. The experiment proves to Socrates’s satisfaction that the necessary knowledge could not have arisen from his abilities but represents a kind of inheritance of the required information from a previous soul in which it was lodged. This contrasts with Augustine’s view of retained memories, as expressed, for example, at De Immortalitate Animae 4.6. Here it is argued that an art or discipline (ars) may simply be present in the mind on one occasion and absent on another. In Augustine’s view, this sort of memory lapse is a frequent phenomenon and takes place through forgetfulness or lack of adequate training (quod per oblivionem atque imperitiam). The causes are twofold. Either something is in the mind but is not in present thought (aut est aliquid in animo, quod in praesenti cogitatione non est), or something is in the mind of which the mind itself may not be aware (Potest igitur aliquid est in animo, quod esse in se animus ipse non sentiat). This recalls the paradox concerning memory in De Magistro, in contrast to Socrates, who focuses on a slave boy’s latent or hidden memories.
Augustine’s chief concern lies with the relation of memory to attention. If we know two disciplines, he proposes, let us say music and geometry, and focus on one of them, our understanding is chiefly the result of our mental concentration. Also, because we presumably have some knowledge of these disciplines lodged in our memories, we have a second level of awareness to contend with. For, while we are focusing on one discipline, we are conscious that we are not focusing on the other. In contrast to Plato, therefore, Augustine is interested in the source of our knowledge of a discipline at a given moment in time as well as in a more general problem: this is whether two states of attention are not involved in every situation involving remembered information. This might be termed a problem of the mind’s presence or absence. Augustine allows that music or geometry may have been incompletely or imperfectly learned; however, this does not change the central issue, since, in the cases of such partial mastery, the learner will not have forgotten that he was once aware that he had the knowledge of both disciplines. This means that, in relation to attention, the cases of oblivio and imperitia, which he takes up in his discussion, are essentially the same.
To put this point slightly differently, in Socrates’s view one can acquire the knowledge of geometry from scratch, without any previous instruction, by means of questions and answers, since the required information may already be in one’s head, merely awaiting rediscovery. But this argument works only if a figure like the slave boy is totally ignorant of the discipline when the questions begin, and learns everything that he knows through the process of deductive reasoning, in response to logically organized questions. For his part, Augustine is not concerned with this type of instruction, which begins, so to speak, with the assumption of a tabula rasa. He prefers to take up the more normal situation in education in which a hypothetical student has acquired the knowledge of geometry or music, as he notes, partially or completely. What he wants to know is the status in the memory of one of these disciplines, when it is not being thought about, while the other is in the mind and being put to practical use. In principle, he proposes, a person could have access to either form of knowledge, if he simply redirected his attention to it, whereas for Socrates’s slave boy this is not apparently an option. In the end, it is the will that plays a central role in Augustine’s theory. He concludes that
when, either reasoning within ourselves (nos ipsi nobiscum ratiocinantes), or having been asked pertinent questions by someone else concerning any one of the liberal arts (ab alio bene interrogati de quibusdam liberalibus artibus), we find the things that we find nowhere else but in our minds (ea quae invenimus non alibi quam in animo nostro invenimus), a distinction has to be made between discovering (invenire) something and making it (facere) or begetting it (gignere).8
As Augustine views anamnesis, therefore, the issues differ from those that are found in the writings of Plato, and chiefly in two respects. As the quoted passage from De Immortalitate Animae suggests, anamnesis does not involve memories shared by two souls, which are presumably occupying separate zones of time, but those that are retained within the lifetime of a single individual.9 Also, a notion that is employed in classical thought to describe the transfer of information from one soul to another has become the model for a type of literary reminiscence, in which words, phrases, and longer passages are transferred from one self to another through the artificial memory of writing. To put it simply, in the Augustinian interpretation of the idea of anamnesis, the soul is replaced by the text and the notion of transmigration by that of commemorative reflections in the mind of the reader.
As a preface to the main subject of this chapter, which consists in a discussion of this topic in book 6 of De Musica, I would like to provide an illustration of the way the principle of literary anamnesis operates in one Augustinian text. The passage that I have in mind is Confessions 10.27.38–10.29.40, which is usually identified through its incipit, Sero te amaui, pulchritudo. This is a prose poem in which Augustine recapitulates in mystical language a part of the discussion of memory in book 10.
In reading this passage, it should be kept in mind that book 10 comprises an independent treatise within the Confessions, supplementing a good deal of earlier writing on memory in philosophy, including Aristotle’s De Memoria et Reminiscentia, the anonymous Rhetorica ad Herennium (book 3), Cicero’s De Oratore (book 2), and Quintilian’s Institutio Oratoria (book 11). Augustine’s contribution deals at length with the psychological dimension of the subject (10.12.10–10.19.40), as well as with the problem of overcoming negative habits through a combination of ancient spiritual exercises and intellectual discipline (10.30.41–10.43.70).
The literary role for reminiscence appears near the end of the first of these two segments, and is summed up at 10.27.38, which I prefer to present as free verse:
Sero te amaui
pulchritudo tam antiqua et tam noua
sero te amaui.
Et ecce intus erat et ego foris
et ibi te quaerebam
et in ista formosa quae fecisti, deformis inruebam,
Mecum eras, et tecum non eram.
Ea me tenebant longe a te.
Quae si in te non essent, non essent.
Vocasti et clamasti et rupisti surditatem meam,
corucasti, spenduisti et fugasti caecitatem meam,
fragrasti, et duxi spiritum et anhelo tibi
gustaui et esurio et sitio,
tetigisti me, et exarsi in pacem tuam.10
Translation:
Late have I loved you,
beauty so ancient and so new,
late have I loved you.
And see, you were within and I outside
and I was seeking you there.
and upon the beautifully formed things you have made I threw myself, formless.
You were with me but I was not with you.
These things kept me far from you,
things that would have no being, if not existing in you.
You called, cried out, and broke through my deafness,
You glittered, gleamed, and drove out my blindness,
You were fragrant, I drew in my breath, and I pant after you,
I tasted you, and I hunger and thirst for you,
You touched me, and I burned for your peace.11
In a subtle interweaving of scriptural images inspired by the Song of Songs, the Psalms, and a variety of other biblical texts on memory, these lines faithfully echo the penitent words addressed to God in the prayers that open a number of books of the Confessions. Here is an example from 1.1.1:
Magnus es, domine (cf. Ps. 47:2) et laudabilis ualde: (Ps. 95:4; Ps. 144:3) magna virtus tua et sapientiae tuae (Ps. 146:3) non est numerus. Et laudare te uult homo, et homo circumferens mortalitatem suam.12
Translation: “You are great, Lord, and highly to be praised.” “Great is your power and your wisdom is immeasurable.” Man, a little piece of your creation, desires to praise you, a human being “bearing his mortality with him.”13
A comparable effect of layered readings, in which biblical texts are sandwiched between Augustine’s own meditative phrases, is produced in the devotional segment that opens book 10. Here we sense that he is already moving in the direction of the theology of loss and retrieval that is so simply and movingly expressed in Sero te amaui. The use of this technique of internal quotation was widespread among Christian authors in late antiquity. Words, expressions, and on occasion lengthier texts from the pagan classics and/or the Bible were inserted into an author’s compositions on the assumption that they would be recognized immediately by their learned readers.
Both the quoted texts of scripture and the surrounding statements are interpreted as a single integrated piece of writing. Augustine employs this method of intertextual referencing in a manner that is highly developed in the Confessions. He sometimes utilizes as background pagan texts alone, as in Soliloquia 1.1.3–6 or those taken from the Latin classics and the Bible, as in Sero te amaui. Both of these prayers echo in different registers the statement on spiritual ascent at Enneads 1.6.8, where Plotinus asks how one can speaks of
the inconceivable beauty which stays within the holy sanctuary and does not come out where the profane may see it. Let him who can follow and come within, and leave outside the sight of his eyes and not turn back to the bodily splendours which he saw before. When he sees the beauty in bodies he must not run after them; we must know that they are images, traces, shadows, and hurry away to that which they image. For if a man runs to the image and wants to seize it as if it were the reality . . . then this man . . . will sink down into the dark depths where the intellect has no delight.14
Augustine blends this type of thinking with literary and rhetorical texts, as at Confessions 9.3.5, where he describes the pleasures of Cassiciacum by means of an erudite allusion to Aeneid 6.638, thereby intermingling different notions of the “ideal landscape.”15
In the prayer that begins book 1 of the Confessions this method of layered references produces the effect of a pair of texts being read at the same time. One of these is read silently in the reader’s mind, based on memory, while the other is listened to, as an auditory experience in the present, as if the reader’s voice were that of another person. Also, while Augustine is envisaged as reciting his prayer, the reader, who is presumably well acquainted with scripture, is mentally going over the psalms to which allusions are being made. The two texts, the one that is read silently, and the other that is pronounced, come together in their messages as well as in their prose rhythms. In both cases the dominant rhythm is that of the Latin text of the Bible, in particular that of the Psalms.
In bringing about this effect in his readers, Augustine makes simultaneous use of three successive phases of composition. The first consists, as noted, in the oral reading and memorization of the Psalms, the letters of Paul, and other relevant biblical texts. In the second, the expressions taken from these texts are inserted into the prayer, based upon associations of words and images formed in Augustine’s mind. In the third, the stylistic rapports with biblical prayers, in particular those of the Psalms, are reaffirmed, along with the introduction of philosophical and theological themes originating in Augustine’s thinking. During the transition from the first to the second phase, the expressions borrowed from the Bible retain a part of their original content but are transferred to Augustine’s prayer, in which they reappear in a context that is still related to their biblical sources in fundamental ways but nonetheless is distinguishable from them in the mind of the reader of the composite text. In passing from the second to the third phase, the setting is once again changed from the biblical quotations that provide its landscape to the thought and expressions of Augustine himself; and yet, all the while that this is taking place in the reader’s mind, the echo of the Psalms can still be heard by means of the vocal reproduction of their poetic rhythms. It is possible to see this literary method in action at Confessions 9.4.7–11, in which Augustine describes an emotionally charged reading of Psalm 4 in the presence of his mother, Monica, during their stay together at Cassiciacum.16
A variant of the scheme is employed in Sero te amaui; however, here Augustine goes beyond its applications in the prayers that begin books 1, 5, and 10 as well as other texts of this type earlier in the Confessions. The poetic rhythms that one encounters on reading the text are in this case at a high level of detachment from the content of the biblical quotations from which they are taken. As a consequence, the reader’s mental record of these texts is constituted almost exclusively from the flow of auditory rhythms that takes place in the preceding prayers, which thereby act as the model and spiritual guide. For the attentive reader, the text of these prayers is not completely forgotten and continues to echo in his or her mind. But the content of these texts is not recorded in the text of Sero te amaui.
In this way, Augustine adapts the notion of anamnesis to literary ends that are possibly related in his mind to liturgical devotions. He rejects the ancient doctrine of the reincarnation of souls; however, by means of his theory of signs he retains one of the principal characteristics of this theory: this is the Platonic doctrine according to which the knowledge that one has acquired is reactivated through a type of remembering. As noted, he introduces into this doctrine a type of transmigration that does not imply the presence of souls, which in Plato retain the knowledge that they have acquired from a previous life, but of texts, which retain the memory of the pagan or Christian works that have been previously read. Augustine assumes that, although souls do not migrate, rhythmical patterns in sacred texts, being divine in origin, have the capacity to do so, and, insofar as they are patterns, they acquire, as a by-product of this capacity, a type of preexistence, to the degree that they were in place before the invention of the diverse literary situations in which they subsequently appear. In book 6 of De Musica, to be taken up in the second part of this chapter, Augustine argues that the memory of a pleasant and fitting prose rhythm is derived ultimately from the imitation of eternal harmonies, which are transmitted to mortals through the medium of sound.17 Sero te amaui is an illustration of this phenomenon: what we remember, when we hear the passage recited, is the reiteration of the poetic prose in the preceding prayers, which preface other books of the Confessions and in doing so act as staged introductions to Augustine’s spiritual progress. The message that is conveyed in these prayers is hidden in memory, in the sense that it does not function as working or conscious knowledge; it therefore may be said to consist of a latent memory, which may be brought back to mind by comparable prose rhythms.
At the moment in which he has an auditory perception of Sero te amaui, pulchritudo, the reader therefore has a simultaneous experience of presence and absence, of sound and silence, which recalls the use of comparable ideas in Augustine’s philosophy of language and attention, as well as in his interpretation of Plotinian texts on the notion of spiritual ascent. He thinks of the preceding prayers, which are based on biblical passages and resound silently in his mind. With these echoes in his thoughts, he may likewise recall parts of the narrative of books 1 to 9 (parts, I would suggest, rather than the whole, although, within Augustine’s developing hermeneutics, the whole may be recognized through its parts). For, just as the biblical references in Sero te amaui are rendered subtle to the point of barely being perceived, so there is little or no precise recollection of the events which are recounted in these books—aside from a single reference to Augustine’s conversion at 10.29.40. The earlier events are present in the reader’s mind as a silent narrative, and it is in this unexpressed manner that they act as a powerful statement of regret in Sero te amaui. In reiterating the sound patterns of the preceding prayers, Augustine thus recalls his own narrative and announces to his readers the central lesson in the latter part of book 10. This concerns the reform of habitual patterns of thought and action by which memory has become enslaved.
The recitation of this prose poem thereby becomes the point of departure for a new mental habit which incites the individual toward self-direction and reform. At the same time the pronouncing of these lines is an attempt to recall something that has been forgotten, that is, the biblical texts which are not evoked directly in the spoken passages. Forgetting and remembering thus form a pair of consolidated activities which rest on the rules of composition. As such, they draw attention to a fundamental feature of Augustine’s theory of signs: as noted, when we hear a word that represents a thing, we understand the signification through an act of memory. To return to the lesson of the Meno, we seem to recognize an object of knowledge of which we are unaware: the words teach us how to recall the things that are hidden in our memories up to the point at which we bring them into our conscious thoughts. For Plato, we relearn things that we know, since we have learned them in another life; for Augustine, we recognize what we know as a result of our innate faculty for transforming thoughts into language. We thereby utilize memory in order to cross the frontier between the unconscious, in which thoughts are inaccessible, and the conscious, in which they are configured as words.
In order to remember one text, therefore, it is necessary to forget another. But the former text is not entirely forgotten. Sero te amaui is an expression of regret for an occasion in which love has failed, as well as a wish to revisit that occasion again by means of memory, to relive and transform it through reinterpretation, into a more positive experience. As a consequence, we can say that it is in the act of forgetting that we find the genesis of Augustine’s poetic and theological desire, to which he refers on numerous occasions in the Confessions, as his chief source of motivation. The text that is rediscovered and rehearsed in memory is an act of regret towards both an actual occasion and an implied text of that occasion that has somehow been lost. All poetry in this genre becomes a lamentation on poetry that is not present within the interior of poetry that is present. In a symbolic sense, writing poetry or poetic prose resembles the narrative of the fall: there is something forgotten that is potentially recoverable, which is life before the fall, and there is anxiety in the act of remembering what once was but no longer exists.
The decisive moment in book 10 of the Confessions is the mention of Luke 15:8–10 at 10.18.27, the parable of the woman who lost one of her ten pieces of silver. This reference precedes the story of the prodigal son (Lk. 15:11–18), one of Augustine’s preferred biblical accounts of alienation from God and eventual return.18 It is not the theological utilization Augustine makes of the prodigal son that is unusual in comparison to other references to this text in patristic thought, but the idea according to which the relation between Old and New Testament, Jews and Christians, can be modeled on the basis of auditory poetic patterns, and placed in an order in which a later motif resembles a preceding one by means of its musical rhythms, while containing a different message. The author thereby becomes the agency of a type of creation in which poetic rhythms are adjusted to the music of more noble biblical passages, which are, in Augustine’s view, their eternal source, in the same way as he asks God to adjust his soul to its divine exemplar at the beginning of book 10.
One memory takes the place of another, and a new life takes form from a former life. The text of Sero te amaui combines the thought of Paul and Plotinus, insofar as it speaks of the paradox of a beauty which is at once old and new: tam antiqua et tam noua. Poetry represents an experience in which the individual life is absorbed in a much larger configuration, just as the rhythms of Sero te amaui reflect the rhythms of biblical prose, thereby becoming a canonical text which serves as an intermediary between the unpronounceable Word of God and the words spoken or written by man. With Sero te amaui, Augustine deliberately creates a pause in book 10, which is the first of the nonnarrative books in the Confessions, and he does so by introducing a highly subjective narrative interlude, which is based on the principle of regret. The narrative element suggests more than it says. Although, as noted, we do not hear Augustine speaking of specific events, we are presented with a synthetic declaration on their significance. This is expressed through the Pauline notion of renewal, which is combined with the Augustinian notion of grace, consisting in a decision by God that we cannot anticipate, as was the moment of his conversion to the religious life in book 8.
This narrative declaration is interpreted in the interior of the nonnarrative context of book 10, which concerns the concept of memory. It must be understood as a reaffirmation of the possibility of personal and autobiographical memory functioning as an ethical element in our lives. Augustine seems to be telling us that what inspires us to reform is not only an abstract theory of memory or a program of improvement but a perpetual rhythm of sorrow and regret: this is a type of remembering, personalized through the sense of hearing, concerning something forgotten that has been reactivated in the mind by means of the poetry of the Psalms. It is a utopian theme expressed in terms of an ideal musical harmony. Although we cannot force our natures to utilize memory to reach God (10.8.12), this type of memory is nonetheless critical in our ascent, since it makes us conscious of our need for harmony, and from the awareness of this need we can make some degree of progress. We cannot prepare ourselves intellectually for grace. Yet we have the possibility of expressing our regret for our failings and thereby laying the foundation for our renewal.
In this respect, Sero te amaui is both a turning point in the discussion of memory in book 10 of the Confessions and a preface to the discussion of time in book 11. The proof for the existence of present time enters Augustine’s thoughts by means of the recitation from memory of the first line of the Ambrosian hymn, Deus creator omnium. Here again, it is the poetic rhythm of the text that provides Augustine with the solution, for which Sero te amaui can be considered a model text, composed along the same principles by himself. It is at the end of this prose poem (10.27.38) that Augustine begins his ascent toward God by means of the five senses, hearing, sight, smell, taste, and touch. These are the sources of his former enslavement through habitual memory,19 and it is by means of the echo of eternal harmonies in this text, acting sensorially, that he is set free. In this sense, as noted, we may think of Sero te amaui as an example of a technique employed by Augustine in order to replace classical anamnesis with a personal style of literary reminiscence. It works by means of an alternation of forgetting and remembering, in which the prose rhythms of the Latin Bible, which are present in the reader’s memory, are reutilized in the context of the personal life of the text’s author, namely Augustine. This method has evident implications for his notion of the self; these are spelled out in De Musica, book 6, to which I now turn.
I begin this part of the chapter with a brief reflection on De Ordine, book 2, where Augustine puts the types of question asked in De Musica in context by observing that an adequate foundation for a Christian philosophy and for harmony in life can only be laid by means of training in the liberal arts. In the spring of 387, awaiting baptism, he had planned a group of studies in these disciplines in order to give substance to this program, which was intended to lead students towards God per corporalia . . . ad incorporalia.20 Like the conversations with his junior associates that took place at Cassiciacum, these treatises were conceived as a set of Socratic dialogues between a master and students, which were to be taken down, revised, and subsequently published.
The tentative and incomplete nature of some of these writings has to be taken into account in evaluating Augustine’s early statements on memory, which are considerably revised and extended in book 10 of the Confessions. He had worked on drafts of two of the disciplinarum libri before returning to Africa in 388, namely De Grammatica and De Musica,21 the latter of which he regretted not finishing at the time he relocated, owing to his ecclesiastical duties.22 He also took back with him the introductions that he had composed to the books on dialectic, rhetoric, geometry, arithmetic, and philosophy. These manuscripts appear to have been lost in the move, as was the unfinished study of grammar; however, in his later reflections on this period of transition, he did not rule out the possibility that these works, or parts of them, had been preserved by others.23 This may have been the fate of De Dialectica, which has survived in a fragmentary and incomplete form but nonetheless with a good deal of its argument intact.
In this cycle of studies, which is unique among educational writings in late antiquity,24 Augustine restored to the study of philosophy the range of subjects associated much earlier with Stoicism, which included grammar, rhetoric, ethics, semantics, and epistemology, as well as selected topics in natural science. An introduction to these projected works is found in the speech that he conceived for the allegorical figure of Reason in book 2 of De Ordine. In this lengthy discourse, Reason witnesses the birth of the liberal arts, which are viewed within a hierarchy of disciplines, all of which are based on the type of rationality she herself represents (2.11–2.20). Reason first describes the functions of grammar, dividing the subject into copying, calculating, and literary composition; she then turns to the sounds of animate and inanimate beings, as well as percussion instruments, passing to rhythm and harmony and concluding with geometry, astronomy, and mathematics. In the last phase of her presentation she takes up the concept of number, which is envisaged as the integrating principle behind these diverse illustrations of God’s eternal wisdom. When the exposition is concluded, Augustine’s friend, Alypius, expresses his admiration for the role given to the mathematical component in the organization of the liberal arts.25 He traces this approach to the venerable figure of Pythagoras, but Augustine acknowledges that its true source is Varro.26
There is a comparable but much briefer account of Reason’s upward movement in book 6 of De Musica, which likewise focuses on her ascent from the sensory to the nonsensory realm (6.10.25–6.10.26). In addition to recapitulating this and other doctrines found in earlier writings, this dialogue contains a lengthy account of a subject that is touched upon but not discussed in detail in De Ordine or elsewhere: this is the rationale for rhythm and harmony in quantitative verse, and its relationship to the temporal and eternal. The important phases of Augustine’s exposition on these themes in De Musica take place in books 1 and 6.27 Book 1 attempts to distinguish arts that utilize a knowledge of harmony, both theoretically and practically, from those whose rhythms depend on motions that are instinctive, habitual, or mimetic. Book 6 divides this musical knowledge into the sensory, mental, and spiritual, and discusses the manner in which one ascends through each level toward God. The orientations of books 1 to 5 and of book 6 are reflected in their respective sources: in the earlier books these are drawn principally from pagan verse and ancient treatises on metrics, whereas in the final book Augustine analyzes a single line of Christian verse, Deus creator omnium, from Ambrose’s evening hymn,28 in the context of his own reflections on theological themes.
Within the variety of discussions that make up book 6, Augustine devotes particular attention to the topics of time, memory images, and the soul’s equilibrium, including within the last subject an original excursus on the emotions. His position is a union of neo-Pythagorean and Platonic views in which mathematical conceptions provide the foundation for a philosophical doctrine that continually reasserts the contrast between the sensible and the intelligible.29 While advocating the view that the greatest hindrance to the ascent of the soul derives from the body, from which the soul can be freed through the use of reason, Augustine nonetheless proposes the view that, because harmonies are sensed before they are understood, it is from the body that the process of ascent must begin. The connection between the sensible and the intelligible is provided by the analysis of the temporal aspects of meter, in particular, by the treatment of duration in book 1. This segment of the discussion is based on the distinction between simultaneous and successive sounds as they impinge on the sense of hearing: the one produces harmony, the other, melody.
Augustine suggests, in effect, that the methods used to write quantitative poetry in order to create an aesthetically pleasing auditory effect can tell us something about the emotional and cognitive makeup of the soul, whose purpose is the establishment of well-being in the individual. This relationship rests on the assumption that the harmonic rhythms that make up the norms of acceptable verse and the forces at work in creating the soul’s equilibrium share a common mathematical principle. In Augustine’s view, this principle can be grasped at a certain level through sense perceptions, but a fuller understanding depends on the mind, especially on the faculty of aesthetic judgment in concert with will and reason. It is through the cooperation of these cognitive activities that musica comes to be a branch of knowledge, a scientia.30
In relating poetry and music by means of these principles, Augustine was preceded by Plato, who saw this as training for the young and as a preparation for a reasoned understanding of virtue in adulthood, whereas Augustine analyzes the problem of the soul’s harmony uniquely in relation to the adult listener to performances of harmonious music or quantitative verse, asking whether the appreciation of their inherent beauty is the result of nature or reason. In focusing on an adult audience, De Musica thus differs not only from Plato but from Augustine’s other dialogues, in which there is frequently envisaged an educational progress from a real or symbolic youth to adulthood, in what may be described as a shadowy anticipation of books 1–9 of the Confessions. And although Augustine echoes Plato’s three criteria for musical art, namely the moral, the pleasurable, and the artistic, he does not argue on behalf of the individual’s ability to “gauge the correctness of the composition” and thereby “judge its moral goodness or badness,”31 but proposes instead that there is a relationship between poetic or musical composition and the principles of mathematical harmony. These in turn, in combination, reflect the ideal equilibrium of the human mind.
De Musica is unique among treatises on music and poetry in late antiquity in incorporating into a Platonic scheme some central principles of Stoic views on poetry, in particular, the notion that problems in poetics are inseparable from those of the study of language.32 Among the elements that are possibly Stoic in origin that are found in books 1 and 6 are the general distinction between signs and their signification, as well as the notion that a poem is a composition that may exist simultaneously in speech and thought. The three central elements associated with the Stoic approach to language, namely phone, lexis, and logos, reappear, although somewhat transformed, in Augustine’s discussion of quantitative verse from the viewpoint of its acoustical impression, its disposition or arrangement, and the significance of the verses. Augustine was convinced that philosophy can be taught in either well-composed verse or prose: the first operation is explored in De Musica, book 6, while the second is found in De Doctrina Christiana, books 2–4.
In both approaches, the auditor or reader is attracted by the beauty of the literary creations, which rest on eternal principles, and at the same time convinced by their truths, which are logically defensible. Literature and philosophy can thus work together in the teaching of wisdom, as Reason suggests toward the end of De Ordine, book 2. As noted, Augustine absorbed some of the criticisms of literary studies that he found in his sources, in particular in Plato and Cicero, but he likewise brought about an advance in thinking on the subject. This consists in uniting ancient views on quantitative verse with the notion of the soul’s moral education by means of narrative. Literature is thus viewed as a bridge between the harmonies of nature and the potential harmony of lived experience, the latter depending on the individual’s discipline and judgment. Just as we enjoy the sensory effects of a well-balanced line of verse, then reflect on the principles of harmony involved, we can appreciate the manner in which sense data impinge successively on our lives, detaching us from the temporal process and permitting us to profit from harmonies that have a beneficial effect on the soul. Humans, therefore, who are doomed to perish in time, can thereby be taught to appreciate the nature of God’s intelligible beauty by means of the existential perfection and harmony of his eternal forms.33
Augustine conceives this complex exercise in meditation as a method for promoting and for sometimes achieving self-understanding. It is perhaps for this reason that he takes relatively little interest in the dramatic qualities of the exterior dialogue in De Musica. With the exception of some light moments in book 1, we do not find the thrusts and parries that enliven the philosophical discussions in De Beata Vita, Contra Academicos, and De Ordine. Also, in contrast to the mise en scène in these dialogues, we are given no indication of where they take place or their intellectual background. The “master” and “disciple” lead the reader forward directly to the center of the dialogue’s subject, as do, on a different topic, Augustine and his partner, Evodius, in De Libero Arbitrio. Even in comparison to other dialogues that are conceived along the lines of a spontaneous associations of ideas, such as Contra Academicos or De Ordine, De Musica appears to be rather loosely organized (or not to have benefited from a final phase of revision and reorganization). There is no dedicatory epistle, as in other Cassiciacum dialogues, which, in the case of De Ordine 1.1, introduces the major lines of the argument. The work’s preface is found at the beginning of book 6; its purpose is to summarize the material covered in books 1 to 5 and to categorize the types of readers whom Augustine has in mind as the dialogue’s potential recipients. These are readers, he assumes, who, like his students, are capable of following the stages of the discussion as it proceeds from corporeal to spiritual matters.
These generalized readers take the place of the patrons and friends mentioned in the prefaces to other dialogues. They also replace the living audiences of his classes in Milan and at Cassiciacum, and, in a larger context, the potential or implied readership of his cycle of works on the liberal arts, as originally conceived. In contrast to earlier dialogues, he takes pains not to identify the parties in the debate, even though it is clear that he is the master, leading the discussion, and that the student is a member of his inner circle in Milan and at Cassiciacum, one, in fact, who has much in common with the young poet Licentius.34 This undramatic way of framing the argument can be looked upon in one perspective as a stylistic defect; however, indirectly, it serves one of Augustine’s purposes in book 6, namely, the deemphasizing of sensory phenomena, as represented by the unnecessary verbiage that often characterizes the open dialogue. This type of discussion is replaced, deliberately, it would seem, by the type of discourse in which one finds an analysis of the interior movements of the soul, as, in dialogue with itself, it struggles to understand the principles by which it can achieve a harmonious balance.35 Through the manner in which the dialogue takes place, therefore, as well as by means of its argument, Augustine suggests in book 6 of De Musica that there is an art of living, revealed in narratives, just as there is an art of musical harmony, revealed in well-composed verse. He is also convinced of the opposite, namely that disharmony, like falsehood in one’s outward life, can produce instability in the soul by means of negative emotions and actions.36 Harmony can result from opposites, of course, in life as in rhetoric, and in the former producing a kind of eloquence and beauty that depends on events rather than on words.37
The skills Augustine has in mind in this type of ascent depend on relationships that arise both in language and in mathematics. He is convinced that it is from a combination of the two that the abstract or organizing principles of harmony are established. How this comes about is the subject of the initial conversation between the master and the student in book 1, where Augustine invites the reader to consider two ways in which the meaning of a word can be made clear by means of its sound, that is, by its quantity and accent.
His examples are the words modus, bonus, and pone. Modus and bonus differ in sound and spelling but represent the same metrical foot (the pyrrhic, composed of two short syllables). By contrast, pone can be a verb or an adverb, depending on whether the accent is placed on the first or the second syllable, póne or poné. This is an illustration of the fact that words with different meanings can be spelled in the same way. In both examples it is by means of the sound (sonus) that the hearer of the word establishes its meaning (significatio).38
Do these topics fall within the discipline of grammar?39 It does not appear so,40 since it is possible to represent a pyrrhic foot by physical means, for example by striking a drum or plucking a string.41 Moreover, by employing other ways of counting, one can create a greater number of types of feet than are found in the writings of the established authorities on the subject, the grammarians (cf., 5.1.1). In order to do this it is necessary to distinguish between the name traditionally given to a foot (uocabulum), which arises in grammar, and a foot’s temporal dimension (temporum dimensio),42 which concerns relations of number. The latter belongs to another discipline,43 which Augustine calls musica.
But how is music in this sense to be defined? What is the force and rationale of this discipline (disciplinae vis et ratio, 1.2.2)? Augustine’s answer is that musica, which, throughout De Musica, refers to both music and to metrical poetry, depends on scientia bene modulandi, a knowledge of measurement or mensuration, through which its harmony is produced.44 Of course, it is possible to have harmony where such knowledge is not involved; examples include song, dance, and the sounds made by percussion instruments.45 These are arts that can be described as modulans, that is, possessing regular or rhythmical measures, and, as Augustine will later demonstrate, they require knowledge; however, they do not necessarily depend on formal knowledge,46 and as a consequence differ from musica.
The student agrees: modulor is derived from modus; this connection suggests that even popular art, to the degree that it reflects measurement, displays a certain orderliness. The master responds to this assertion with the analogy of “speaking” and “oratory.’47 An uneducated person may be asked a question, and, if he answers, even with a single word, he is doubtless speaking; however, he cannot be called an orator, since there is no evidence of training in eloquence in what he says. In a comparable manner, we can refer to measure (modus) in relation to many things, but regularity of measure (modulatio) relates only to musica.
At the root of this distinction lie different senses of the verb modulor in relation to the harmonies of any musical discipline: these pertain respectively to the measuring of the temporal intervals of rhythms by means of voiced accents (or their substitutes, e.g., drum beats), which constitute mere sounds, and the rules for regulating such sounds in accordance with melody, pitch, and rhythm, which are a type of organized knowledge.48 Augustine effectively combines these senses into a single concept of rhythmical movement, which appears to be applicable to spoken words as well as to poetry, chanting, and dance.49 As he notes in De Ordine, these disciplines, like music, are not merely arts, which can be learned through memory and practice, but branches of knowledge in themselves, since they are based on inherent regularities that can be modeled by means of mathematics.50 Accordingly, De Musica extends the meaning of numerus from number itself to a variety of numerical relationships, as well as to the theory of harmony and proportion on which they are based. Augustine likewise adds a dimension of meaning to the noun numerositas;51 this refers to the harmoniousness resulting from the interaction of diverse parts, units, or divisions in a “mensurable” work of art.
In the light of these considerations, the master offers the view that a comprehensive definition of music would have to address these questions: (1) What is meant by the measurement of rhythm (quid sit modulari)? (2) What is implied in measuring rhythms well (quid sit bene modulari)? and (3) Why do considerations of this type make music a branch of knowledge (scientia, 1.2.3)?
He is convinced that he has answered questions one and two by arguing that modulari implies bene modulari, since, in regulated measurement (modulatio), the measure (modus) consists in a movement (motus) that is adapted to regular temporal requirements. Modulatio can be defined as skill or experience in moving: modulatio . . . dicitur movendi quaedam peritia (1.2.3). This skill has two characteristics. First, we recognize through our sense of aesthetic judgment that such movement takes place as it should; otherwise it does not fall within the category bene moveri.52 Also, this aesthetically pleasing movement takes place in and for itself, as if the work of art in question expressed a desire for completion, rather like the ordered unfolding of a genetic code.53 The pair agree that some sort of knowledge is involved in such motions, whether these consist in playing an instrument or fashioning an object from wood or silver, since, in all cases, the artisan or artist gives evidence of his knowledge through the plan of the work in question, which clearly exists in his mind before it results in the exterior movement that creates the work.
But at what point does musica cease to be scientia? This is the point of question three. Augustine has a longer reply to this query, in which he utilizes a hierarchy of artistic harmonies consisting in those of bird songs, instrumentalists, and rational harmonic principles.54
A bird is able to sing a song that is well modulated, but it evidently has not acquired this skill by means of a liberalis disciplina.55 A similar skill is possessed by some animals, for example, by bears and elephants, both of whom can be taught to dance. These are performances that involve an appreciation of music but not an understanding of music as a branch of knowledge. In a comparable way humans sometimes listen to popular songs, just to relax. In this case, the pleasure (libido) arises through a certain sense (sensu quodam) of music rather than through an understanding of musical harmony (de ipsis numeris).56 Neither in animals, therefore, which lack reason, nor in humans, who possess it, can this type of music be called a branch of knowledge (1.4.5).
The case of instrumentalists is more complicated, since their skill is the product of art (ars) rather than nature (natura).57 The master asks whether such skill can truly be called an art, since playing an instrument also involves imitation (imitatio). The student points out that most art, including, of course, the performances of birds and animals, is understood in this perspective.58 The question is whether any of these arts, insofar as they are merely imitative, can be said to make use of knowledge. After a discussion of the alternatives, the pair conclude that birds, being nonrational animals, lack reason: they are capable of imitation, and this is doubtless a type of art, but it is not art that involves knowledge, since no rational thinking takes place. By contrast, humans possess reason. Yet some forms of art practiced by humans require only imitation, that is, the training of limbs of the body. Master and student agree that, if all imitation were art and all art used reason, then every artistic effort, including the songs of birds, could be said to be based on knowledge. But that is not the case; therefore, some way has to be found to distinguish art that utilizes knowledge from mere imitation.59
The student sees a flaw in this reasoning, which involves the roles of memory and habit in one art form, the playing of an instrument. Clearly performers rely on these capacities. Where then, within their skill, can we locate scientia?60 The relevant question is whether hearing and memory, on which their ability to perform depends, are associated with the body or the mind. The pair agree that hearing involves both, while memory is chiefly mental, since memories, although originating in sense impressions, are subsequently transferred to the mind, where they are stored as images.61 But this argument loses its force when it is recognized that, in playing a musical instrument, it is habitual memory that is chiefly involved, and this requires training a part of the body. Moreover, the capacity for memory training is shared by nonhuman animals, even though they lack reason, for example, by the swallow, which finds its way back to its abandoned nest each year. As a consequence, the pair may have been too hasty in relegating bird songs to the domain of mere imitation. For if memory is used in finding a nest, it is surely involved in repeating a song.
It would be more accurate to say that when a piece of music is played the performers are guided by what gives them pleasure through their senses, that is, by what they hear; afterward, they commit to memory the movements of their fingers through which these sensory effects are produced. They practice those movements, thereby engaging in a type of imitation. In performance they give the appearance of possessing both technical skill and knowledge. However, if true modulatio exists in and for itself, as argued earlier (1.2.3), instrumentalists, even if they have knowhow, cannot be said to possess the type of knowledge that pertains to music, unless it can be shown that they have in their minds beforehand the information that enables them to play in an acceptable fashion. If not, we can say that their skillfulness is the product of practice (usus) rather than scientia bene modulandi (1.4.8).
The student protests that even this skill is mental, not corporeal. But the master reminds him that there is no necessary connection between the capacity to think and to play. If a good mind were all that performers needed, every intellectual would be a good instrumentalist. In music, as in other arts, the problem is not knowing what to do but knowing how it is done.62 A person who plays an instrument skillfully, therefore, displays manual dexterity that results from practice informed by theory rather than from theory alone, and this skillfulness is the result of the combined activity of his sense of hearing and his memory,63 that is, both body and mind. An individual may know music but not know how to play an instrument, but anyone who plays an instrument has to possess an implicit knowledge of music. Something similar can be said of audiences: the listeners may have no formal training in music, but they are able to distinguish between a good and a bad performance. Their response is evidently based not on an understanding of musical theory64 but on their natural capacity for musical judgment, which operates in the first instance by means of their sense of hearing.65
This discussion provides an introduction to Augustine’s solution to the problem of the soul’s equilibrium. This arises from the connection between the principles of rhythm and the subjective experience of time. This topic occupies the remainder of book 1, is taken up again in book 6,66 and in the latter texts moves Augustine from his earlier Platonic assumption of a division of the work of the mind and the body in music toward a view of the manner in which they are interrelated. This, in turn, becomes his basis for the integrated view of the self, which is among the subjects to which he turns in book 6.
This phase of the dialogue returns to the subject of time measurement at 1.1.1 and attempts to distinguish two features of temporal experience, duration and nonduration (diu et non diu; diuturno et non diuturno, 1.7.13). The master argues that the length or shortness of a period of time can be calculated by humans provided that there is an agreed unit of measurement.67 Movement B can be said to be twice as long as A, if we know beforehand the length of time of A. If we do not, then the space of time between A and B is indefinita et indeterminata (1.8.14).
He then distinguishes different types of numerical sequences, using as his point of departure the concepts of equality and inequality.68 First come rational and irrational (rationales, irrationales, 1.9.15): the one is represented by the sequence 2, 4, 6, 8, the other by 3, 10 or 4, 11. The numbers in these sequences are termed connumerate and dinumerate respectively, depending on whether they are inclusive or exclusive in relation to their base quantity (connumerati, dinumerati, 1.9.16). Connumerate numbers are subsequently divided into two types, that is, sequences like 2, 4, 6, 8, and 6, 8, 10, and so on. In the one, the sequence is composed of 2 + 2, 4 + 2, 6 + 2, etc., in the other, of 2 X 3, 2 X 4, 2 X 5, etc. The master calls the first set of numbers complicate (complicati), the second, sesquate (sesquati, from sesque 1.10.17).69 He points out that in the case of rational motions (rationales motus), the sequence would be infinite unless a fixed ratio (certa ratio) imposed measure on form (1.11.18).
The master is not only proposing a set of relations that will be transformed in book 6 into the principles of harmony by which the soul maintains internal equilibrium: these relationships equally underlie Augustine’s theory of narrative, in which they appear as three distinct components, the beginnings, the stages of development, and the understanding of narrative time. His thinking on these questions can be summarized as follows.
1. A narrative, like a numerical sequence, begins at an arbitrarily chosen point in time. The question of beginnings (principia) in the numerical sequence is taken up at De Musica 1.11.19. The parallel in narrative theory is found at Confessions 11.3.5–11.6.8, where the topic is the creation of the universe in Genesis 1:1: In principio.
2. The stages of a sequence consist in a beginning, middle, and end: Ergo ut totum aliquid sit, principio et medio et fine constat (1.12.21). In Augustine’s interpretation of this principle within numerical theory, the whole cannot be understood without the parts and the parts cannot be understood except in the relation to the whole. Thus, the sequence 1, 2, 3 consists in three discrete numbers; however, for the series to be understood as a mathematical sequence, each number has to be conceived in relation to the one that comes before and after. Also, it is evident that memory plays a role in reconstructing meaning.
Augustine justifies these components of his theory by arguing that the number one represents a beginning, but has no middle or end; the number two is a second beginning, whose relationship to the number one is created only in sequence; the number three is the sum of one and two and thus holds third place in the series. The situation of the number three, which is both temporal and spatial, does not occur in the case of any subsequent number, for example, four; and, as three is the combination of the two principia, that is, one and two, four may be said to be a whole and perfect number, inasmuch as it embodies both:70 magna haec ergo concordia est in prioribus tribus numeris (1.12.22). All subsequent numbers, such as four, are related to the series 1, 2, 3 by means of proportion (analogia). The theory thus proceeds from small units to the consideration of a higher unity,71 and this unity is understood through memory, once the physical sequence has ended.
3. The third component concerns the intervals themselves. This topic is not fully explored in book 1: it is the subject of a technical discussion in books 2 to 5, and a theoretical synthesis in book 6. Introducing the theme at 1.13.26–27, the master recalls that the discussion has been concerned principally with a problem in counting. He asks why it is acceptable to introduce intervals of ten between one and infinity (i.e., 1–10, 10–20, etc.). The pair agree that after 1, 2, 3 the nature of numerical progression changes with 4; but the master points out that the sum of 1, 2, 3, and 4 is 10, thereby providing a clever if unconvincing solution to the problem of numerical units.
Both parties agree to revisit the description of movements that can properly be attributed to the discipline of music. Mathematics has clarified the issues, but the pair have not solved the problem of quantities when these are not specifically concerned with numbers. As a consequence, Augustine returns to grammar in search of an alternative approach. His example on this occasion is the iambic foot (composed of a short and a long syllable in sequence). He first considers the problem from a mathematical standpoint, proposing a thought experiment in which two periods of time that have the ratio 1:2 are measured by means of our observation of two individuals who are asked to run respectively for one and two hours.72 The problem with this method is that we would require the presence of a timekeeping device, since our personal estimates of the two periods of time would doubtless vary. We could not be sure that the ratio 1:2 was established, and as a consequence we would be unable to derive an agreed aesthetic pleasure from a certain knowledge of mathematical harmony.
As an alternative, let us say that a person creates the impression of an iambic foot by clapping his hands, dancing in rhythm, or moving his limbs in some other way, as suggested earlier.73 In this case, it might be possible to determine the measure of time, since it is short, or, if not, to observe that there are alternating intervals in which the second period doubles the length of the first. This determination would be made by the senses, that is, by the ears or the eyes, when the clapping is heard or the movements are seen. Needless to say, this level of aesthetic pleasure does not require a previous knowledge of the type of rhythm in question. It is comparable to the appreciation of a performance displayed by listeners who have no knowledge of music, inasmuch as it indicates that they have an implicit understanding of musical harmonies.
The purpose of the master’s comparison between these two types of measurement is to locate the source of this pleasure (delectari, voluptas) and to suggest that it is somehow connected with the scientia bene modulandi, that is, with the knowledge that pertains to the well measured movements that comprise the inner logic of music’s discipline (ad ipsam rationem disciplinae): movements, let us recall, which are not made in the service of a principle that lies outside the work of art but are experienced and enjoyed entirely within it (e.g., dance, 1.2.3). True, these movements, as they pass from the senses to the mind, leave traces of their presence in our senses; yet, despite this transitory phenomenon, the principles involved remain unchanged in their internal mathematical relations. In order to find the source of these regularities, it is necessary to follow those traces from the senses to the mind, and from the mind to the “abode” of the ratio disciplinae.
Augustine lays the foundation for this discussion at the beginning of book 2, where he again takes up the contrast between the mathematical and grammatical approaches to meter and accent introduced at 1.1.1. He has already proposed that grammatical knowledge of musical harmony is limited, because it consists chiefly in imposing names, whereas mathematical descriptions are much greater in number, since they arise from many permutations and combinations. These perspectives have to be combined if the pair are to achieve a full understanding of musical harmony in poetry.
This question is associated in the master’s mind with another issue: this is the relevance of the open dialogue to the method by which they are attacking the issues. Toward the end of book 1, the student criticizes the dialogue, which, owing to digressions, has not advanced beyond the mathematical understanding of harmonics (1.12.26). In book 2 the master returns to this question. If they agree that there are different approaches to the issues based on authority and reason, is the student prepared to accept what has been established on the topic of metrics through long-standing custom? Or would he prefer to carry out the inquiry by means of reason alone, as if they were previously uninstructed on the issues?74
The student, opting for the open dialogue, draws attention to the fact that the field of knowledge that is called grammar in Greek and litteratura in Latin claims to be the custodian of traditional learning on this question. But a subtle (if cynical) wit could demonstrate that this knowledge only reflects what has been previously thought: for dull minds this is its charm.75 Revisiting an earlier example, the pair examine the verb cano (I sing), from Aeneid 1.1: Arma virumque cano, Troiae qui primus ab oris. There are two possible pronunciations, depending on whether one follows grammatica or musicae ratio. According to grammar, the first syllable has to be short. As custos historiae, the grammarian bases his argument on the writings of those who have come before, which is the source of his auctoritas.76 But according to the discipline of music, which takes account of a word’s rationalis dimensio et numerositas, the sole criterion for deciding whether the first syllable is short or long in various contexts is the ratio mensurarum, the rationale of its measurements. If the context calls for two long syllables in ca/no, the pronunciation will offend grammar but not musical logic, in which the time values of the words that enter the ears are determined numerically by means of the rhythm.77 However, it is clear to a lover of poetry like Augustine’s student, especially if it is Licentius, that the enjoyment of Virgil’s opening hexameter results from a plan of composition, the ratio versus, that unites the two disciplines harmoniously. The pleasure of the line would be greatly reduced, for example, if primus were replaced by primis, thus changing a short syllable to long, altering the musical rhythm. But Augustine leaves for book 6 an explanation of the difference, which involves the psychological experience of time: id est . . . quod ad diu et non diu pertinet (2.2.2).
Book 6, to which I now turn, represents the culmination of Augustine’s thinking on these questions involving harmony.78 Up to this point, the master observes, the pair have been traveling in the company of grammarians and poets by necessity rather than by choice,79 since this was the only route that lay open to them in their attempts to exhaust the discussion of the physical properties of verse. In book 6, pagan poetry is abandoned in favor of a single line of a Christian hymn, just as the variety of literary topics in books 1 to 5 is superseded by reflection on a single theological doctrine, namely the conception of God as the principle of creation. Both aims, the grammatical and the theological, are neatly incorporated in the phrase Deus creator omnium, as well as Augustine’s perhaps less well articulated desire to write another commentary on the opening chapters of the book of Genesis.
With the discussion of duration in book 1 as his point of departure, he subsequently analyzes this single line of liturgical verse in a variety of contexts. He pays special attention to the phenomenon of silence: this is expressed metrically through pauses between syllables and cognitively by means of a progression from the senses to the mind, where the understanding of the line takes place.80 Recall that his argument, which is reiterated with minor changes throughout book 6, provides the foundation for the theory of subjective time that is reproduced in book 11 of the Confessions.81 As Deus creator omnium is read aloud, the sound of the syllables marks the passage of time in accordance with the rules for scientia bene modulandi. However, when the physical sound has ceased, the meaning of the line as a whole is constituted in the mind with the aid of memory. It is by using memory as a connective between the senses and the mind, therefore, that the hearer realizes the meaning of the words as they were intended to be understood by the speaker. In book 6 of De Musica, Augustine is concerned with the manner in which this transition takes place and what it signifies for our comprehension of time. In order to achieve this end, he tackles issues that are not raised in the Confessions, where his analysis of the same line is more centrally concerned with the experience of time itself.
The relevant discussion in De Musica begins in book 1, where it is suggested that verse, dance, and artistic activities leave traces of an ideal scheme of harmony in the senses.82 There Augustine is interested in the origin of these traces, whereas in book 6 he turns to the ways they are reflected in the audience. In the earlier books he likewise argues that verse rhythms are not understood in increments of sound but as a harmonic whole. In book 6, he develops this argument considerably, proposing that the upward movement of the mind from sensory to nonsensory levels can be considered a disciplined activity, even a type of spiritual practice, which attempts to integrate the ascending harmonies arising in the human soul with those descending from God. He thus provides a set of footnotes to his notion of Pauline and Plotinian ascent, as outlined in book 12 of De Genesi ad Litteram.
What is new in his account of this exercise, in comparison with what is found in the other dialogues written in Milan or at Cassiciacum, is the emphasis placed on the theological component, in particular, on the doctrines of original sin and the incarnation. Augustine traces the source of human disharmony to the disobedience of the first couple in the garden of Eden (cf. 1.6.13) and the implications of this event. He is convinced that there is a relationship between the experience of time in the reading of a line of verse and the cosmic process by which God became man. Just as the eternal rules for harmony exist temporarily in the senses, when a line of verse is read, so the incarnate God passed from the divine to the human level, existing impermanently in time. And just as Christ moved downward toward humans, thereby transforming his eternity into life in a temporal mode, so humans, by directing their thoughts upward and engaging in contemplative practices, are able to move from sensory toward nonsensory experience. Thus mortals, who are, so to speak, trapped in history, are temporarily released from time during the period of their meditative withdrawal. As Augustine illustrates in the vision at Ostia, this is an anticipation of everlasting timelessness after death, when the elect will rejoin their maker, and the sensory rhythms that mark the aesthetic shape of their lives will be reabsorbed into a single, eternal principle of harmony.
Augustine’s consideration of this relationship holds an important implication for his subsequent understanding of spiritual practices, especially in the Confessions. In his early writings, these exercises are usually conceived as atemporal forms of thought, such as the dialogue, the soliloquy, and the thought experiment. In this type of presentation the passage of time is suspended in the hypothetical present in which the mental exercises themselves take place, as a kind of epochē. However, in book 6, the theoretical groundwork is laid for a type of contemplative practice in which the factor of time is critical for the realization of the desired state of mind. The models for this exercise are a line of verse and a theological doctrine, both of which involve a relationship between the temporal and the eternal. In each case, this relationship depends on memory; as a consequence, memory becomes a central element in Augustine’s conception of spiritual practice itself. In De Musica, this memory concerns verse; in books 1–9 of the Confessions, it records an entire life; and in book 10, it attempts to reform habitual conduct around a new narrative pattern. In each of these phases of Augustine’s thinking the passage of time is utilized as a means of superseding its own temporal limitations, since, in the absence of the awareness of time’s passage, the subject has an impermanent experience of the timeless.
In addition to deepening the theological context of De Musica in this manner, and suggesting, between the lines, that the question of harmony, inasmuch as it is historically grounded, involves both the self, over time, and the soul, out of time, book 6 makes an attempt to alter the relationship between Augustine and his readers, in comparison to the way it is framed in his other dialogues. Unlike books 1 to 5, book 6 is not addressed to students, as a manual on rhythm, harmony, and proportion, but, as noted, to a more general audience of docti, periti, and even semidocti, who presumably have been instructed in the doctrines of the earlier books. In Augustine’s view, these readers can proceed to a more advanced level of understanding in which authority is not identified with handbooks of grammar but with theological truth. This introduces the notion of progressive learning, which is a major theme of books 1 to 9 of the Confessions.
In order to clarify the nature of the ascent from the earlier books of De Musica, the master employs a metaphor utilized in other dialogues. This concerns the passage of the potential reader/participant from adolescence (adolescentes) to mature benevolence (benevoli homines). As in the Confessions, he uses the life cycle to describe the reader’s self-education, which begins with the liberal arts and is completed by interior instruction, occasionally complemented by direct illumination. At the beginning of book 6 he likewise offers his readers one of the numerous criticisms of the open dialogue that are found in his early writings: master and student, he notes, have spent too much time in a patently puerile type of discussion (plane pueriliter); readers are once again to pardon his apparent lightheartedness (nugacitas) in view of the deep obligations (officiosus labor) of the present endeavor. One new idea is introduced: open discussion is viewed as a constraint on spiritual ascent, which is envisaged, as in the last segment of De Magistro, in a hermeneutic manner: it begins with carnal matters and literal understanding: quibusdam gradibus a sensibus carnis atque carnalibus litteris;83 and it finishes with divine instruction in which no natural intermediary is needed (nulla natura interposita). In this process the notion of number acquires a connotative field that moves from what is countable to the rhythm, harmony, and plenitude of God.84
Augustine’s design for this ascent is presented in book 6 in a pair of lessons in reading: in chapter 1, this appears as an outline of the potential readers of De Musica;85 later, a second lesson takes place in the reading of the line Deus creator omnium.
In his discussion of readership, as noted, the chief distinction in types of audience is between persons with a genuinely spiritual outlook, to whom the book is dedicated, and the majority of students, who are incapable of proceeding beyond the physical aspects of rhythm, as outlined in books 1 to 5.86 Augustine encourages readers strong in faith but weak in erudition, whose love of God, he is convinced, will eventually triumph over ignorance.87 However, book 6 is not written for (1) lower levels of readers, those, for instance, who are weak in spirit, or (2) for those who entertain the hope of inward tranquility without labor or hardship,88 or (3) for devotees of secular literature (like the poet, Licentius) who are unaware of its potential snares.89
In justification of these divisions, he asks his readers a question, which is based on a consideration of Deus creator omnium. When the line is read, the reader is aware that there are four iambic feet and twelve intervals of time. How do these produce the resulting harmony? In response, he proposes to discuss four aspects of sound (genera). These consist in sound considered in itself (in sono), in the sense of hearing (in sensu audientis), in the act of being pronounced (in actu pronuntiantis), and in memory (in memoria).90 The notable feature of this enumeration is the emphasis on reception. This represents a shift from an objective to a subjective set of issues. In books 1 to 5, the awareness of a perceiver of a line of verse is occasionally discussed, but what is chiefly under scrutiny is the numerical relationships arising in harmonies themselves. By contrast, in book 6, Augustine makes subjective understanding his major concern and considers its problems from different angles.
First of all, whereas the divisions of meter in books 1 to 5 are taken up independently of each other, the four genera of book 6 can be considered individually or cumulatively. This means that the harmony of Deus creator omnium could be recreated in the listener’s mind in the form 1, 1 + 2, 1 + 2 + 3 or 1 + 2 + 3 + 4.91 Second, the problem of communication is considered from a number of vantage points: genera 1 and 2 concern the hearer, 3 pertains to the speaker, and 4 applies to both parties. Finally, the later scheme, in contrast to earlier discussions, proposes a hierarchical arrangement, inasmuch as relationships 1, 2, and 3 deal chiefly with the physical properties of sound, while 4 is concerned with a mental activity in the reader. In proceeding from books 1 to 5 to book 6, therefore, Augustine advances, as he has said, from the corporeal to the incorporeal (a corporeis ad incorporea, 6.2.2; cf. Retr. 1.6).
In the light of these schemes, the four possibilities are distinguished in the following ways:
1. In sono. This is the type of sound that is created by bodies of some sort when they strike the air, such as drops of water (as in the opening chapters of De Ordine, from which a lengthy discussion of order ensues). This beating results in brief intervals of time within a measured rhythm, and, inasmuch as this rhythm is produced by physical means, it can be assumed to continue even if no one is present to hear it.92 As noted, this beating can reproduce the equivalent of poetic meters (1.1.1;1.13.27).
2. In sensu audientis. This is the type of sound that creates the impression of rhythmic patterns in the listener’s ears. Augustine asks whether those patterns arise in the source of the sound, in the ears, or in a combination of both. It is granted that the ears have a power of perception (vis percipiendi). This is proven by the fact that those who can hear have a different sensory experience from those who are deaf, even during periods of silence.93 But do the ears have this inherent capacity to perceive harmonies, as contrasted with their capacity to perceive what is harmonious based on their reception of sense impressions?94 If so, do other senses work this way (e.g., touch)?
If the capacity for aesthetic judgment did not exist in the ears, the student notes, we would be unable to say whether a given sound was harmonious or not. As a consequence, whatever it is that permits us to express our approval or disapproval when a sound is heard can be called the rhythm or harmony that exists in the sense itself, and this capacity arises by nature rather than by reason.95 For his part, the master shifts the responsibility for such judgments from a shared relationship between performers and audiences to the recipients of sounds alone.96 The student’s reply (6.2.3) likewise deals principally with the receiver’s vis approbandi et improbandi. Augustine has in mind something that takes place after the initial aural experience of a text, as if, in the absence of the sounds, the listener or reader based his aesthetic judgments on what he has already perceived. The first distinction in 6.2.2 between genera 1 and 2–4, which in principle applies to sounds, is thus turned into a means of establishing ethical and aesthetic judgments within the more restricted medium of the received text.
The master responds to the student’s observation by introducing another theme from book 1. This concerns the difference between the physical and the psychological measurement of time,97 which is later discussed in greater detail. At the physical level, a line of verse can be read at different speeds: each reading occupies a separate interval of time (spatium temporis), although both lines have been composed in the same metrical feet (ratio pedum, 6.2.3; cf. 2.2.2). The effect in the ears is produced only in reaction to the physical presence of sound, and, needless to say, if there is no sensory stimulus, there is no reaction.98 Furthermore, hearing one voice (vox) differs from hearing another, just as hearing differs from not hearing: the effect (affectio) cannot be extended or shortened, since it is measured by the sound that produces it, not the type of foot. If the source of this sound is a harmonious voice (numerosa vox), then the effect has to be harmonious (numerosa). In this respect, waves of sound are like tracings on water, which do not exist until the impressions from corporeal sources are formed and then cease to exist when they disappear.99 The psychological effect is brought about differently by the natural power which is, as it were, adjudicating (naturalis . . . vis quasi judiciaria). This is present in the ears and remains there, whether there is sound or silence. When there is no sound, we cannot speak of a harmony in the ears brought about by physical means.100 Yet, even in the absence of an external cause, the mind is capable of appreciating harmonic order.
3. In actu pronuntiantis. The third genus consists in the effort, practice, and action of the person who pronounces the line of verse.101 The master points out that when we are silent, we are nonetheless capable of producing certain rhythmic harmonies in our minds, and these appear to possess the same duration in time as they would if they were produced by means of the voice.102 It is evident that these rhythms owe their existence to an operation of the mind, since they produce no sound and have no effect on the ears.103 They therefore constitute a third type of rhythmical pattern, in addition to those in sono and in audiente.
4. In memoria. The consideration of the fourth genus, that is, harmonies preserved in the memory, arises out of a question concerning the third type of sound. The master again asks whether harmonies that are produced in the mind alone can exist without the help of memory. He considers the possibility that their source is physiological, like pulsations in the veins; alternatively, they can be said to be regulated by the soul, like our breathing. But in neither case would memory be required. Yet rhythmical harmonies are clearly able to be lodged in the memory; the proof is that, once we have heard them or thought of them, we can recall them whenever we wish.104 These harmonies can be said to exist without the support of other types of rhythm, since they are retained in the memory after the latter have disappeared.
5. Quintum genus. Augustine also introduces a fifth genus at 6.2.2, which is identified with the natural judgment found in the sense of hearing when pleasure arises from the balanced effect of numerical harmonies (or, alternatively, from displeasure at their absence).105 The presence of this faculty, noted at 1.13.27, is thereby reaffirmed.
We have, then, a fivefold rather than fourfold scheme of harmony, which, as modified in presentation, consists in (1) making a sound, which is attributed to a body; (2) hearing, which affects the soul by means of the body; (3) the production of rhythm, which has greater or lesser duration; (4) the remembering of harmonic patterns; and (5) judgments about such harmonies.
The master now turns to the second theme of book 6, namely the aesthetic hierarchy of types of rhythm. It is here that he will transfer his attention from the soul, about which his remarks have hitherto been concerned, to a combination of soul and self.
He begins this phase of the discussion by asking which of the harmonies that they have analyzed excels the others. The student selects the fifth, arguing that it is this that judges those that have come before. The master then asks a further question, namely, which of the other four in his view is the best; that is, which is most helpful in the individual’s attempt to ascend from the corporeal to the incorporeal. The student chooses rhythms in the memory, since they last longer than those sounded, heard, or produced.106
This is an important move, which has to do with more than duration. The student has effectively opted for things made over those being made107—a view he will later modify. The master draws attention to an unexamined assumption in his thinking: this concerns the impermanence of all the harmonies under consideration. When he or the student speaks of a rhythm of “greater” or “lesser” duration, they are referring to relative lengths of time. This is like saying that a day in good health is preferable to many in illness, or that one can read more than one can write in one’s waking hours.108 True, a sound that is retained in the memory lasts longer than one that is heard, but this is because the images of the sounds in question outlast their physical sources. These sounds are nonetheless corporeal in origin, and cannot be given preference over rhythms that arise in the soul. For both the sounds that created them and their images in the memory disappear over time, the one by cessation, the other by being forgotten.109
The master has in fact returned to the problem of narrative introduced in book 1 through the notions of cessatio and oblivio, which deal with the same topic but approach it from different directions. In the case of cessatio, the rhythms proceed in a sequence in which one image is replaced by another, even before the sequence is terminated. The preceding images yield to the succeeding ones until they all disappear and the rhythm ceases to exist. In oblivio the whole is likewise effaced, but little by little, and this takes place while several other rhythms may be maintained in the memory. Some memories vanish after a day, others after a year or more.
In all cases, the disappearance takes place in imperceptible steps.110 But there is a difference in the way in which it occurs. In cessatio the end is perceived all at once, whereas in oblivio the individual is able to configure the rhythm in question without error, since the entire unit does not vanish in an instant. Also, in oblivio the strength of an image begins to weaken from the moment that it is lodged in the memory; by contrast, in cessatio the passage more closely resembles the way in which one year ends and another begins at a precise moment in time. Accordingly, when we speak of oblivio, we use expressions like, “I scarcely remember,” which means that we have a vague recollection along with the awareness that our memory has partly been effaced. For this reason the master finds it necessary to conclude that every type of harmonic rhythm, including the genus in memory, is transient, but in different ways.111
In 6.4.6, Augustine thus suggests that time and our awareness of time are alike in a fundamental respect—their impermanence. Moreover, he has now affirmed the thesis, announced earlier, by which the key to the psychological understanding of time is memory. Two examples of this idea are presented, namely reading and writing (lectio, scriptio) and good health and its opposite, physical infirmity (sanitas, imbecillitas). The first example is in his opinion easy to deal with, since it is clear that more information can be covered in one day of reading than in several days of writing. He grants that the question of well-being is more complicated. As noted, in an objective sense, one day of health is preferable to many days of illness; however, from the subjective viewpoint of the person who is contrasting the two, the possibility of illness may be present in his mind while he is experiencing a period of good health. What the individual is thinking about at this moment, therefore, is not health alone, but health and nonhealth, which exist in two parallel and potentially livable narratives, one of which prevails over the other because of external circumstances. In this manner of thinking on the part of the subject, the present is colored by a past event that may or may not have taken place, that is, a period of illness, and this event acquires the mental status of a memory image, whether or not this image refers to a reality. As this pair of scenarios is enacted in thought, the passage of psychological time is presented to the subject as an alternative to physical time: the many days of illness actually take up more time than the one day of health, but, because health is preferable to illness, the single day of health is given a higher psychological value. This is essentially what Augustine says about the interpretation of time in two different readings of the same line of verse. And this is the method of interconnected recollections which, somewhat transformed, he will recreate brilliantly in books 1 to 9 of the Confessions.
Having discussed the fourth and fifth genera, the master turns to the first three in his earlier classification (in sono, in sensu audientis, and in actu pronuntiantis), asking the student for the second time which of these in his view is to be preferred over the others (6.4.7). The student shifts his position and opts for a combination of sensus and memoria, thereby uniting elements of types 1–3 with those of 4 and possibly 5. He recalls that the first genre consists in sounding numbers (sonantes numeri); on hearing them, he now argues, we sense them, and when this takes place, we feel their effects. As a consequence, they can be said to be the original source of the harmonies experienced in the ears; however, these in turn are the source of harmonies in the memory, to which, he now proposes, they should be preferred, since they are their cause.112 The student has effectively argued for the primacy of the sensory impressions in creating mental images, a view that harmonizes with what Augustine argues elsewhere regarding the notion of phantasia.
The student nonetheless recognizes a problem in this way of approaching the issues. How is it that sonantes numeri, which are corporeal or incorporated, can be considered more praiseworthy than those numeri which, while they are being sensed, are discovered to exist in the soul?113 Furthermore, why is the corporeal placed above the spiritual, as if the former gave rise to the latter?114 The master replies to these questions by means of an excursus, which presents a summary of Augustine’s views on the manner in which the body can be rehabilitated within a theology that favors the superiority of the soul. This discussion, which begins at 6.4.7–6.5.10 and continues after an interruption at 6.5.13–6.5.15, once again places the relationship between body and soul in the context of the fall and the incarnation.115 It also introduces to book 6 important considerations involving the relationship of soul to self.
Before the events in the garden of Eden, Augustine proposes, the soul governed the body in harmony. Even after original sin, the body retains something of its prelapsarian state of beauty and harmony, and this preserved integrity acts as a potential influence on the workings of the soul,116 now governed, however, by freedom of choice. Later, in the incarnation, divine wisdom humbled itself by taking a human form, and, by suffering and dying, offered mortals an alternative to the pride that was the original cause of their downfall. By framing his statements about the body within these two interlocking narratives, Augustine devalues the body but does not rule it out of consideration in the problem of ascent from sin to salvation, as in the case of Platonism and Neoplatonism. One can sum up his thinking on this topic, as expressed in De Musica 6, as stating that, while the soul remains superior to the body, all that takes place in the soul is not considered superior to all that takes place in the body.117
His case is strengthened in his view by the fact that the initial fault in universal history, that is, original sin, did not arise from an event that occurred before the union of body and soul but afterward, and took place as the result of a willful decision, in which, according to Christian commentary, there was an awareness of the potentially harmful consequences of disobedience to a divine command. It is the will, therefore, that ultimately determines our state of spiritual health or illness, depending on whether, so to speak, the soul turns its attention towards its master, the soul, which lies above, or its slave, the body, which is below.118 Only through a conversion upward does the soul attain at length what Augustine calls otium liberum intrinsecum, a kind of sabbath for itself, free from all constraint, which arises from within (6.5.14).
A number of traditional philosophical issues have to be reconsidered in the light of these views, the first of which, the master argues, is the question of how we judge truth or falsity in a world that has permanently abandoned the possibility of attaining absolute truth. He asks us to consider a typical problem of representation, namely seeing a tree in a dream,119 thus once again taking his discussion in the direction of the notion of phantasia. In this example, the form of the tree has been made in the soul; however, that same image, which is seen in the mind while the person is asleep, was originally created in the body, that is, by the physical sighting of an actual tree.120 This tree was seen with corporeal eyes; therefore, the higher truth in this case arises from the body, although in principle the body is inferior to the soul.121
Moreover, the image of the tree that was seen is better, therefore, not because it was made in the body, but because it is truer, whereas the image of the tree in the soul is false because all images are false, not because it was created in the soul. “Better,” in this context, does not imply that the body has primacy over the soul: instead, it is the indication of an image that is nearer, more suitable, or more fitting, both in relation to the body’s and the soul’s notion of truth,122 since what produces numeri, that is, the numbers or harmonies in question, takes precedence over the numeri that are produced.123 Where the soul differs from the body is in its awareness that through the body it has received something that it lacks, and, on receiving it, turns from the carnal senses and reforms itself in accordance with the divine harmonies of wisdom.124 In Augustine’s view, this is what is meant by Ecclesiastes 7:26: “I have gone round and round so that I might know, consider, and seek both wisdom and number.”125
It does not follow that the “vital principle” in the tree is superior to the vitality of the person who hears the verbal rhythm represented by the word “tree.” If that were the case, hearing would consist of nothing but what is produced in the soul via the body.126 The master points out that when we hear something the body does not act like an artisan, shaping the raw data of the senses for the soul.127 The body is animated by the soul through the doer’s intention (intentione facientis, 6.5.9).128 Augustine recalls the principle advanced by the student, by which the producer of a numerus takes precedence over the rhythm produced (6.4.6). The soul is not always affected by the body, but occasionally acts on it and in it, as if the body were subjected to its domination through divine providence. The soul sometimes operates with ease and at other time with difficulty, since influences on the body act first on the body and only afterward on the soul.129 When the soul is opposed, it becomes, so to speak, more observant and attentive to what it desires, and this attentiveness results in what we call distress or fatigue, whereas, when body and soul are in harmony, the dominant emotion is pleasure.130
These ideas imply an active theory of sensation, based on Augustine’s conception of the will. The deferral of the body to the commands of the soul is not automatic, but results from communication between anima and natura corporea, both portrayed as having their directives, as Augustine will later acknowledge in his discussion of inner conflicts at Confessions independently of 8.9–10. It is at De Musica 6.5.9–10, written, it is assumed, independently of the account of his conversion, that he provides his readers with his most detailed analysis of the potential of the soul for dealing with the body’s movements. As in the autobiography, he emphasizes the role played by the accompanying emotions, dolor, labor, and voluptas, as an aspect of this interchange and as a signal on the soul’s part, indicating whether or not the will has been obeyed. Finally, he gives a large role to attention, which is an aspect of the will’s activity and the force of concentration of the mind that precedes deliberated action. Anima, in fact, which is presented in the suggestion of an allegorization, occasionally acts like a person entering into a meditative state in its relations with natura corporea, since, like Augustine himself in his many experiments with detachment, the soul is essentially attempting to distance itself from sense perceptions. When confronted with a bodily action that is contrary to its will, Anima reacts by refocusing its attention elsewhere. But, if the action harmonizes with its will, it is more attentive to it: attentius agitur (6.5.9).
This process is looked upon as a type of internal narrative which affects the future course of our actions through the interaction of body and soul, and it is this mutual influence to which the name “sensing” or “perceiving” is given (sentire, 6.5.10).131 This sense, therefore, is something that exists within each of us individually, even when, as is often the case, it is not activated by an external or internal impulse—a view that is expanded in book 2 of De Libero Arbitrio. When the soul activates our sense of perception, it does so in a manner that is attentive to the sensory reactions that take place in the body. In this manner, the soul fits external impulses to the appropriate sense, for example, light to the eyes, or sounds to the ears. On the other hand, when there is introduced into the body anything that is perceived as “otherness,” the soul reacts more attentively, and, adjusting itself to the agency in question—whether this operates through the senses of hearing, smelling, tasting, or touching—it responds positively or negatively, depending on whether it perceives the influence to be in harmony with the body or not. And the soul, in doing this, “displays” or “exhibits” these operations to the body as it is reacting rather than submitting to the body’s reactions themselves.132
Inasmuch as sound produces an effect in the ears, the ears can be defined as an animated member of the body (animatum membrum). In inquiring into the relationship between the activity of the soul, in which the capacity for hearing arises, and the ears, in which it is realized, the master notes the parallel between the motion in the air, which produces sound, and the motion in the ears, which produces hearing. However, in the activity of body and soul, sound exists as long as there are vibrations in the air and in the ears, whereas the vital activity of the soul, which assures the sense of hearing, exists before these vibrations begin and continues after they have finished. As long as the senses are being activated in sound, the soul’s continuity is maintained in silence;133 and, whenever it senses something, the soul is aware of what can be called their motus, actiones, or operationes. When the senses of sight, hearing, smell, taste, or touch are brought into play, these operations take place in response to antecedent conditions in which the senses are acted upon by outside forces (e.g., light, sound, odor, and so on). However, when the soul is affected by its own operations, it is acted upon by itself, not by the body; nonetheless it acts by accommodating itself to the body. In doing so, the soul is reduced in its own eyes, although it is never lowered to the body’s level.134
At the end of his discussion of the soul’s harmony and disharmony, Augustine returns to the question with which the pair were previously concerned. The master again asks the student which of the three remaining types of rhythm in their earlier analysis is the most excellent, those that occur in memory, in sense perception, or in sound (in memoria . . . , in sentiendo, . . . in sono, 6.6.16; cf., 6.4.7). The student does not place physical sound after memory and sensation, as he did initially, but he still appears to be uncertain as to which of the two is superior. In the end, he adopts the line of reasoning that he had previously advanced, preferring the causes (facientes) to their effects (facti; cf. 6.4.7). On this view, primacy is given to rhythms present in the soul at the time of hearing rather than to those retained in the memory, which are their by-product. Two questions naturally follow from this conclusion. Does it imply that rhythms in the soul are superior to those in the memory only while we are listening to them, since it is then that the former clearly cause the latter? And, if numerical relationships that we sense through such listening are in part operations of the soul, how can we distinguish harmonies that arise from sense perceptions from those in the soul that do not operate through the senses or the memory of sense impressions, but instead by means of harmonic intervals within the soul itself?135
It is clear that the discussion is at an impasse, since, beyond sense impressions, the pair agree that they have no experiential knowledge of what creates harmonies in the soul. The master attempts to solve the problem by means of a classification of types of rhythm according to their degrees of merit (meritorum gradibus). In order of preference, these are (1) judiciales: judicial, i.e., those by which judgments are made; (2) progressores: progressing, i.e., those that are advancing; (3) occursores: occurring or encountered, i.e., those that have been heard;136 (4) recordabiles: recordable, i.e., those in the memory; and (5) sonantes: sounding, i.e., those that exist in physical sound.137 He thereby introduces a parallel for the earlier fivefold scheme for numeri, i.e., sonare, audire, operari, meminisse, and annuendo vel abhorrendo quasi quodam naturali jure.138
In trying to determine which is best, he asks the student whether any of these numeri in the second scheme are free of temporal constraints, or whether, like sequences of sounds described earlier, they all decline over time and disappear.139 The student initially advances the view that only the judiciales are permanently sustained. In order to challenge this statement, the master returns to an earlier problem, namely whether it makes any difference to the meter of a line of verse if a word is pronounced at different speeds (cf. 1.7.13–1.8.14; 2.2.2). His example is once again a word written in iambic meter (e.g., par/ens).140 If he says this word twice, taking twice as long for the second pronunciation, he does not appear to offend the student’s sense of judgment by ignoring the law of meter.141 It is clear, therefore, that these rhythms are superior to the other four types insofar as they are not constrained by a given span of time.142 Nonetheless, as also pointed out earlier (1.13.27), there is a limit to the length of time over which a judgment concerning regularity of measurement can be expected to carry conviction, owing to the upper boundaries of sense perception. If one diminishes the speaking time by successively reducing the time taken to pronounce the syllables by a ratio of 2:1, the reader soon passes beyond the capacity of the hearer to make accurate judgments about the meter.143
Most people, he observes, are offended by lame meters after hearing them and judging them in relation to what they know to be harmonious or not. But what is the source of this capacity—nature, training, or both (natura, aut exercitatione, aut utroque, 6.7.19)? Recall that when the master earlier asked whether the knowledge implied in his definition of music arose from imitation or reason, the student answered that in his opinion both were involved (1.4.6). It was also decided after a lengthy debate that the instrumentalist’s knowledge arose from both practice and artistic understanding. The question now before them is whether a similar combination of practice and theory can account for the appreciation of numerical harmonies themselves. The master points out that it would be possible for one person to judge and approve prolonged rhythms, while another might be incapable of doing so; moreover, the person lacking the capacity might be able to acquire it through practice. However, in both cases, the skills would have to be applied within certain definable limits of time.
The master subsequently outlines the larger reasons for entertaining this view in a lengthy discourse that begins at 6.7.19. This consists in an extension of the concept of proportio or analogia, which was introduced into the debate at 1.12.23. On this view, every living thing, according to its particular class, is endowed with a sense of place and time in a relationship of proportion within the universe.144 The body’s mass is proportionate to the overall mass, of which it is a part; its age, to the age of the universe, of which its life span is a part; and its action, to universal motion, of which its movement is a part. It is through the totality of these relationships that the universe, that is, what is called “heaven and earth” in Scripture, achieves its greatness,145 since the parts can be reduced or increased proportionately, and yet the universe remains as great as ever. The reason for this state of affairs is that no place or time is absolutely large or small within the universe: each is relatively larger or smaller in proportion to something else.
Moreover, it is owing to these proportionate relationships that humans are incapable of judging periods of time superior to those that fall within the range of their senses. It follows that numeri judiciales, although superior to other types of harmony, are not eternal, even though, the master admits, it is difficult for mortals to discern the reasons for their limited life span.146 The master adds that custom or habit (consuetudo) has a secondary, craftsmanly, and habitual constitution (quasi secunda, et quasi affabricata natura),147 since the habits formed by means of our tastes and judgments evidently undergo change over time, one fashion frequently replacing another.148 It is clear from this statement that the natura about which he has been speaking is humana natura in the sense of hominis natura mortalis, as a consequence of sin. Human nature thereby reflects the proportionate structure of the universe as well as the biblical account of the entry into the world of humans’ carnalis vitae actiones.
The bringing together of the notion of mathematical harmony by means of ratios and the historical legacy of the fall of the soul from virtue is a reminder of the large role played by relations in Augustine’s theology of the self. Humans are condemned to live in a carnal, sensory world, because of their pride and disobedience in the garden of Eden. It is for this reason that all the harmonies that they are capable of understanding, including numeri judiciales, are governed by temporality. However, this weakness has to be conceived and understood within the overall mathematical structure of the universe, in which all rhythms, from the lowest physical level upward, are interrelated through the principle of proportion. Within this scheme, numeri judiciales can be understood by analogy with the account of Reason in De Ordine, which rises above the senses and the mind only to realize its own limitations before the eternal.
While the master has difficulty proving that numeri judiciales are not eternal, he has no doubt concerning the mortality of the other four types of rhythms, which, he proposes, are all subject to some form of superior judgment. As for the numeri progressores, when they strive to produce a harmonious operation in the body, their parameters are determined secretly by the agreement of the numeri judiciales.149 It is this form of cooperation that prevents us from walking with unequal steps, moving our jaws out of synchronization when we eat, and so forth. By contrast, occursores numeri are not produced by their own initiative but passively. They too are subject to the numeri judiciales, but only insofar as they are retained in the memory.150
This point can be illustrated by the pronunciation of a syllable, which, no matter how short, resounds between two moments of time. The sound is extended over a very short period; as a result, what we would call the waves are borne imperceptibly through beginning, middle, and end. Moreover, in recognizing this fact, we reflect rationally on what is taking place, independently of the physical events themselves. Thus it can be shown that it is by means of reason, not the senses, that spaces of time and place are subject to division. The master emphasizes the point by reminding the student that human hearing is unable to distinguish the beginning and end of the pronunciation of a single syllable. In order to do so, the sense of hearing has to be aided by memory. At the moment at which the end of a syllable makes a sound, it is by means of memory that the motion produced by the beginning still endures in the mind. If that were not the case, we could not accurately use the past tense in stating that we “had heard” anything.
The role of memory in numeri occursores is likewise illustrated by means of attention deficit. It often happens that, when we are in the presence of people who are speaking to us, our minds are absorbed with other thoughts.151 The problem does not arise from the fact that, at the moment of hearing, the soul does not put in motion rhythms that react to what the other person is saying, but that this motion’s impetus is arrested by the directing of our attention toward another subject. On the other hand, if the motion produced by the speaker’s words had remained with us, it would have remained in the memory; as a result, we would have recognized and sensed that we had heard something.152
The role of attention, which provides the connection between the different numeri, is subsequently explained by comparing two experimental situations. It is possible that a person’s mental reactions may be too slow to appreciate the fact that a syllable, no matter how briefly it sounds, can be shown by logic to have a beginning and end. For our hearing cannot register, and therefore our souls cannot experience, the sound made by two syllables at the same time. The second syllable is not heard until the sound of the first has ceased.153 And, just as, in vision, light aids us in understanding intervals of space, so, in hearing, memory aids us in understanding duration. Alternately, if a person hears a rhythmic beat over a long period which is succeeded by a second rhythm whose intervals are equal to or double those of the first, then the subject’s attention shifts to the second and represses the memory of what has come before. In a comparable fashion, we can look at one part of an object and then at another, trying to decide whether it is round or square. However, if we forget what we first saw in focusing our attention on the second perspective, we cannot come to any conclusion about its shape without the aid of memory, which effectively establishes a sequence of time between the two experiences.
Numeri judiciales that are situated in intervals of time, therefore, cannot bring about judgments without the aid of memory, except in the case of the advancing rhythms by which their own progress is measured.154 This is likewise the case for numeri recordabiles. When we recall something, we call it up from memory, as if it were stored away. At such a moment we have recourse to something similar to the original motion of the mind, and we call this “remembering.”155 We reproduce in thought, or by some physical means (for example, by a movement of the limbs, as in dance) the rhythms that we performed on an earlier occasion. And we are aware that these movements are not coming into our minds for the first time but that we are returning to them again. At the time we transferred them to our memories, we may have had difficulty in repeating them and even needed some guidance, in order to get them right, whereas now, with this problem overcome, these rhythms present themselves in an agreeable fashion, following both their proper time and order; so easily, in fact, that the rhythms that inhere most tenaciously in our memories come forth spontaneously, even if we are thinking about something else at the time.156
It is now clear that numeri judiciales interact with the four other types of rhythm. But is there anything superior to these, that is, a principle of judgment within them by which they can be evaluated? This is the question that is taken up in the final segment of the dialogue.
The student is greatly impressed by the force and potential of judicial rhythms, since it is to these harmonies, he believes, that the senses dedicate their services. Consequently, he is doubtful that a superior sense of harmony can be found. In response, the master invites him to consider again the first verse of Ambrose’s hymn Deus creator omnium. When it is sung or chanted, all five types of numeri appear to be involved: sonores, of course, in the sound; occursores, in the hearing; recordabiles, in the recognition; progressores, in the pronunciation; and judiciales, in the pleasure.157
The student asks why the term judiciales is not applied to reason rather than to pleasure within this scheme. Also, he fears that such an assessment of reason would amount to nothing more than a more careful judgment of numerical harmonies by means of themselves, when it is clear to him that our judgments based on reason and pleasure arise from the same source.158 The master first dodges the question, pointing out that, in enumerating the five types of numeri, he was making distinctions that pertained to the movements and affections of a single nature, namely the soul.159 He quotes the student’s own words at the beginning and end of book 1 to the effect that that they should not waste their time quibbling over words.160 Instead, they should recognize that the principle of reason is superimposed on the sense of pleasure, since reason would be incapable of judging inferior harmonies if it did not possess more enduring harmonies in itself.161
What characterizes reason is not only the ability to make rational distinctions but the type of self-consciousness that separates the knower from the known. If, by this criterion, one includes reason among the numeri, there are not five types but six, which can be arranged in a hierarchy that proceeds from the sensory (sensuales) to those that fall under the rubric of the judicial (judicialium nomen), the latter including reason itself. Reason is at the top of this ladder; at the bottom are numeri sonores,162 which, the master now suggests, should rather be called corporales, because they normally involve visible motion (motus visibilis), as in the example of the dance (6.8.22; cf., 1.2.2). The earlier position of the student, by which numeri sonantes were given priority, because they give rise to the other rhythms, is definitively rejected.163 The master concludes with an allegorical account of the way in which Reason assesses numerical harmonies as an aspect of her appreciation of her own beauty, proceeding upward from the senses to the mind (6.10.25–26).
The master then returns to the division of numerical relationships outlined in book 1, now placing them in a larger context. He points out that something similar can be said concerning the intervals of silence between words: our sense of harmony is not offended by the awareness of the absence because what is demanded by the law of equality is supplied, not by sound, but by the duration of a space of time.164 In listening to sounds followed by periods of silence in the reading of poetry, therefore, the hearer applies the same rules, simply filling out mentally the length of time that sounds would have created physically. By this type of mental examination, a short syllable, when followed by a rest, can be interpreted as a long syllable, whereas, if the same syllable had less than two time intervals, the law of equals would not apply because there would be nothing with which it could be compared (cf. 2.2.2; 6.2.3). In the master’s view, this law, which was proposed in numerical fashion in book 1, also applies to varieties of sentences, although the principles involved are less evident to the senses.
Augustine provides two examples of the limitations of the human perspective in this context (6.11.30). First, if a person were placed in a corner of a large, attractive building, and kept in position like a statue, he would be unable to appreciate the harmonious beauty of the whole, since, from his perspective, he could see only one part of the architectural design.165 Second, if the syllables of a poem were to come to life when they were pronounced and acquired the ability to think about the harmonious effects of the sounds that they were making, they would be unable to appreciate the beauty of the poem of which they are the parts. This appreciation would demand an understanding of the entire work, when the reading was completed, while their perspective is limited to the passing effects of the individual sounds.166
Proceeding downward through progressores, occursores, and sonantes numeri, one comes closer to the information provided by the senses. Yet, since one and the same soul receives and records these impulses, albeit from different sources, they are all subsequently made accessible through memory. (For this reason, the master observes, the human memory is considerable help in dealing with the complexities of everyday life).167 Our mental records retain what is known from experience or what is grasped by the senses, even if they only have the status of opinion (opinio), and are liable to error.168 With respect to memory, as noted, such errors consist in two types, which are called phantasia and phantasma, the one arises from the images of physical objects that find their way into the memory, while the other arises from the motions of the mind based on the images already in the memory.169 Through rhythmic recurrence, the mind is even capable of creating phantasmata that are images of images (imagines imaginum).170
Augustine admits that it is difficult to find an explanation for the origin of these types of images. He nonetheless engages in some speculation concerning their functions, and thereby adds a footnote to what is said about mental impressions in letter 7 and elsewhere. He is certain that if he had never seen, a human body, he would not be able to configure its visible form in his thoughts. He is aware that whatever he creates in his mind is based on what he has seen, as a product of his memory. He is likewise conscious of the fact that, within the operations that take place in the memory, it is one thing to discover a phantasia and quite another to create a phantasma.171 He has no doubt that the soul is capable of such operations: he is equally sure that it is an extreme form of error to mistake phantasmata for things that are actually known.172 We sometimes speak of knowing (scire) when we are referring either to things that have been sensed (sensisse) or imagined (imaginari). Thus he can say that he knows his father in one way, because he has seen him, and his grandfather, who is deceased, in another, through memory and imagination. But neither truly exists: the images are respectively phantasiae or phantasmata (6.11.32). As a consequence, he is convinced that mental images should on the whole be distrusted, or, when they are the object of thought, scrutinized carefully through the understanding (intelligentia). He thus returns to a Platonic position, but one in which the senses and the body play important roles.
This train of thought brings the discussion back to the moral predicament of humans, and, in particular, to the role of transitory pleasures based on images. In addressing this problem anew, Augustine describes a contemplative practice for separating the mind from the body, which is a complement to the philosophical soliloquy but oriented in the direction of pure meditation. This exercise has to do with our attempts to isolate ourselves from the images of physical things in our memories, even though these impermanent images can represent objects of lasting beauty. In Augustine’s view, the presence of such images, as they move in and out of our conscious thoughts, is a reminder that the deity has not entirely abandoned us: their fleeting nature is likewise a warning that we cannot return to stable truths without withdrawing from their sensory associations. This process can be completed in three stages, as described elsewhere in his early writings on the theme: suspension of thought, concentration on spiritual matters, and persistence, so that the habit is broken and misleading images disappear.173
The master recalls that the memory is the recipient of both corporeal and spiritual types of motion. Because sensory movements take place in space and over time, these motions cannot be considered the source of the eternal harmony that the soul finds within itself (6.12.34). Where, then, does this permanent harmony arise? Doubtless, someplace superior to bodies. But is this in the soul itself (in ipsa anima) or above it (supra animam)? The student asks once again how it is that the numerical harmonies found in quantitative verse remain in the mind after the sound of the words has passed away. The answer is that certain rhythms, which do not endure, result from harmonies that do.174 As proposed in book 1, the artistic skill (ars) in question arises in the disposition of the artist’s mind (affectionem . . . animi artificis). This disposition could not exist in the mind of someone unskilled (imperitus) in the art of writing verse, nor could it be completely forgotten (oblitus), if it had once been possessed (cf. 1.4.5–7).
But if it had been forgotten, even temporarily, how could it be recalled? The master proposes a solution based on classical anamnesis, asking whether the artist in question could have recalled his skill on being asked about it. Would the rhythms return to him via the questions he was asked? Alternatively, is the artist likely to be reminded of them by means of a movement within his own mind, as if he were rediscovering something he had lost?175 The student thinks that the artist would find these rhythms within himself, and, as his phrasing suggests, in relation to the self (apud semetipsum). But if that is the case, what is the role of questions and answers in this type of recall? The master asks the student whether, on interrogation, it is possible to teach an artist which syllables are long or short, if he has completely forgotten them, since their quantities have long been agreed upon through custom. If this arrangement had not been fixed and stabilized through nature or teaching (natura vel disciplina), is it not possible that even learned persons in contemporary times would have elongated the syllables that the ancients shortened, and vice versa?176
The student agrees that many things that are forgotten can be recalled through questioning, as Socrates suggests. But the master retorts that there are some things that one evidently cannot recall, for example, what one ate for dinner a year ago. Memory, therefore, is not an infallible source of knowledge, especially when a lengthy period of time elapses between image formation and recall. The student notes that it would not have been possible for him to remember the rules for short and long syllables either, if he had entirely forgotten them. By this route the master returns to the question with which De Musica begins, namely, whether a knowledge of poetic rhythms depends on inherited teachings or on an innate understanding of mathematical harmonies, which can be arrived at by means of reason alone. He asks the student to consider the word Italia, the first syllable of which is pronounced long by some of their contemporaries and short by others. This difference in pronunciation is evidently a question of linguistic conventions that change over time. By contrast, the law of numbers, which determines harmonies, remains unchanged: one plus one equals two, both now and in the past.
These rules are applicable to all the domains of thought in which numbers are pertinent, it would appear, with the exception of the quantities of syllables. A person untrained (imperitus) in mathematics would be able to master them, not because the methods had been forgotten but because they had never been learned, since they depend on logic rather than conventions of speech. But is this not true of meters too, since they reflect both the changeless and the changing elements in quantitative verse? In this context, the master asks how the rhythms of metrical poetry could be imprinted on his mind in order to give rise to a mental disposition capable of producing what is called their art.177 Could this knowledge arise from someone who was asking him questions (as in the case of geometry in the Meno)? By a different route, we return to Augustine’s perpetual query on the advantages of dialogue and soliloquy.
The master has an answer that is directed toward the option of the inner dialogue. In his view, the person to whom this question was proposed would act within himself, in order that he might understand if what was being asked was true before giving his answer.178 This reasoning takes him close to the proof for the existence of God based on the truth of number (a problem that was possibly being worked out by Augustine about the same time but along different lines in De Libero Arbitrio).179 On this view, the numeri about which they are speaking are aeterni and possess no hint of inaequalitas. As a consequence, they have to have been imparted to the human soul from a source that was eternal, which can only have been divine.180 It is clear, therefore, that a person who, on being questioned by someone else, is moved from within himself toward God, would not be able to understand an uncommunicable truth unless it had been previously retained in his memory, even if he were prompted from the outside.181 This is an example of reminiscence, but, again, not of the type described by Socrates in the Meno or Phaedo.
The master thus suggests that the person who carries on a dialogue within himself concerning what is unquestionably true is in fact searching within himself for the traces of God’s eternal laws. As in the Soliloquia, this type of conversation is a way of indicating the importance of external reasoning as well as its limitations in the light of interior instruction. It is not clear to him why anyone would separate himself from the obvious benefits of this type of contemplative practice, and as a result make it necessary for the method of teaching from within to be recalled by means of memory. He asks whether the mind or soul needs to be brought back to itself in this way because it has permitted its attention to be drawn to other matters. And what sort of thinking would account for its turning away from the contemplation of the highest type of equality to something evidently inferior?182 The answer is that the soul, when it is in communication with itself, acknowledges the existence of changeless equality, but it also recognizes the problem of its own changefulness: it knows within itself that in its interior reflections its attention is directed toward both the timeless and the temporal. Passing from one to the other, it evidently performs operations in time, which are neither eternal nor changeless (6.13.37). There is a capacity in the soul by which it understands both the eternal and the fact that the temporal is inferior to the eternal, even when it knows that the latter resides in itself. The soul’s prudence consists in desiring what is superior rather than what it knows is inferior. The soul therefore retains the potential for virtuous behavior within itself.
Why, then, does the soul not adhere immediately to these eternal rhythms, since it already knows that it should do so? Because we direct our care and attention mostly to the things that we love: these are objects of beauty, which give us pleasure by means of the senses. As a consequence, we search for what is harmonious (convenientia) according to the measure of our nature, and we avoid what is unharmonious (inconvenientia). Where there is equality or similitude, there is also harmoniousness: Ubi autem aequalitas aut similitudo, ibi numerositas (6.13.38). It is the love of acting in response to what is successively felt in its body, therefore, that turns the soul away from the contemplation of eternal things, soliciting its attention through its concern for the pleasures of the senses.183 The soul experiences these passiones through a series of numeri. Its initial reaction takes place by means of occursores numeri, that is, harmonies of reception. The second response is brought about by progressores numeri, that is, by harmonies that are put forth by the soul itself. Its attention can be rerouted by the two sorts of memory images, phantasiae and phantasmata, both of which are attributable to recordabiles numeri. Finally, the soul is diverted by the vain love for the knowledge of things, and this is governed by sensuales numeri, in which are found the rules by which it takes pleasure in the imitation of art: whence is born curiosity, the enemy of tranquility, and vanity, which is powerless over truth.184 This love of acting or responding, which inevitably turns away from truth, is inspired principally by pride. It is because of this vice that the soul prefers to engage in the imitation of God rather than to be of service to God.185 The soul is thus represented as having in itself the self-awareness of a person who hesitates over the options of spiritual or corporeal attractions in life. This awareness amounts to the introduction of the notion of the self into the concept of the soul. Despite twists and turns in its argument, as well as creating the impression of being a still unfinished piece of thinking, book 6 of De Musica is the most important statement of this principle in Augustine’s early writings, whose assumptions underlie his achievement in the Confessions.