The Portable Medieval Reader

by James Bruce Ross

  A Call for Common Action against the Turks

  POPE PIUS II

  1459

  ON JUNE 1, the day fixed for the opening of the Congress, the pope descended from his palace to the church accompanied by the cardinals, bishops, and all the clergy. The monks of every order in the city had also been bidden to assemble and mass was celebrated with solemn pomp and with profound reverence on the part of all present. Then the bishop of Coron, a man distinguished for his learning as well as for his probity, delivered a speech in which he explained the pope’s purpose, the reason for the Congress, and the need for action and exhorted all who had gathered there to further the pope’s desire with ready and willing hearts. When all were on the point of rising, Pius [II] made a gesture for silence and from his throne spoke as follows:

  “Our brethern and our sons, we hoped on arriving at this city [Mantua] to find that a throng of royal ambassadors had preceded us. We see that only a few are here. We have been mistaken. Christians are not so concerned about religion as we believed. We fixed the day for the Congress very far ahead. No one can say the time was too short; no one can plead the difficulties of travel. We who are old and ill have defied the Apennines and winter. Not even mother Rome could delay us, although, beset as she is with brigands, she sorely needed our presence. Not without danger we left the patrimony of the Church to come to the rescue of the Catholic faith which the Turks are doing their utmost to destroy. We saw their power increasing every day, their armies, which had already occupied Greece and Illyricum, overrunning Hungary, and the loyal Hungarians suffering many disasters. We feared (and this will surely happen if we do not take care) that once the Hungarians were conquered, the Germans, Italians, and indeed all Europe would be subdued, a calamity that must bring with it the destruction of our Faith. We took thought to avert this evil; we called a Congress in this place; we summoned princes and peoples that we might together take counsel to defend Christendom. We came full of hope and we grieve to find it vain. We are ashamed that Christians are so indifferent. Some are given over to luxury and pleasure; others are kept away by avarice. The Turks do not hesitate to die for their most vile faith, but we cannot incur the least expense nor endure the smallest hardship for the sake of Christ’s gospel. If we continue thus, it will be all over with us. We shall soon perish unless we can summon up a different spirit. Therefore we urge you, who are holy men, to pray God without ceasing that He may change the temper of the Christian kings, rouse the spirit of His people, and kindle the hearts of the faithful, so that now at least we may take arms and avenge the wrongs which the Turks day after day are inflicting on our religion. Up, brethren! Up, sons! Turn to God with all your hearts. Watch and pray; atone for your sins by fasting and giving alms; bring forth works meet for repentance; for thus God will be appeased and have mercy on us, and if we show ourselves brave, He will deliver our enemies into our hands. We shall remain here till we have learned the disposition of the princes. If they intend to come, we will together take counsel for our state. If not, we must go home again and endure the lot God has given us. But so long as life and strength last we shall never abandon the purpose of defending our religion nor shall we think it hard, if need be, to risk our life for our sheep.”

  From The Commentaries of Pius II. book III, trans. F. Cragg. L. Gabel, ed. Smith College Studies in History, vol. xxv, nos. 1-4 (Oct. 1939—July 1940).

  III.

  THE HOUSE OF FAME

  Bohemond the Crusader

  ANNA COMNENA

  Early twelfth century

  Now the man was such as, to put it briefly, had never before been seen in the land of the Romans, be he either of the barbarians or of the Greeks (for he was a marvel for the eyes to behold, and his reputation was terrifying). Let me describe the barbarian’s appearance more particularly—he was so tall in stature that he overtopped the tallest by nearly one cubit, narrow in the waist and loins, with broad shoulders and a deep chest and powerful arms. And in the whole build of the body he was neither too slender nor overweighted with flesh, but perfectly proportioned and, one might say, built in conformity with the canon of Polycleitus. He had powerful hands and stood firmly on his feet, and his neck and back were well compacted. An accurate observer would notice that he stooped slightly, but this was not from any weakness of the vertebrae of his spine but he had probably had this posture slightly from birth. His skin all over his body was very white, and in his face the white was tempered with red. His hair was yellowish, but did not hang down to his waist like that of the other barbarians; for the man was not inordinately vain of his hair, but had it cut short to the ears. Whether his beard was reddish, or any other colour I cannot say, for the razor had passed over it very closely and left a surface smoother than chalk; most likely it too was reddish. His blue eyes indicated both a high spirit and dignity; and his nose and nostrils breathed in the air freely; his chest corresponded to his nostrils and by his nostrils ... the breadth of his chest. For by his nostrils nature had given free passage for the high spirit which bubbled up from his heart. A certain charm hung about this man but was partly marred by a general air of the horrible. For in the whole of his body the entire man shewed implacable and savage both in his size and glance, methinks, and even his laughter sounded to others like snorting. He was so made in mind and body that both courage and passion reared their crests within him and both inclined to war. His wit was manifold and crafty and able to find a way of escape ... in every emergency. In conversation he was well informed, and the answers he gave were quite irrefutable. This man who was of such a size and such a character was inferior to the emperor alone in fortune and eloquence and in other gifts of nature.

  From The Alexiad, trans. E. Dawes (London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Triibncr, 1928).

  On the Fame of Abelard

  HELOISE

  Twelfth century

  A LETTER of consolation you had written to a friend, my dearest Abelard, was lately as by chance put into my hands. The superscription in a moment told me from whom it came, and the sentiments I felt for the writer compelled me to read it more eagerly. I had lost the reality; I hoped therefore from his words, a faint image of himself, to draw some comfort. But alas! for I well remember it, almost every line was marked with gall and wormwood. It related the lamentable story of our conversion, and the long list of your own unabated sufferings.

  Indeed, you amply fulfilled the promises you there made to your friend, that, in comparison of your own, his misfortunes should appear as nothing, or as light as air. Having exposed the persecutions you had suffered from your masters, and the cruel deed of my uncle, you were naturally led to a recital of the hateful and invidious conduct of Albericus of Reims, and Lotulphus of Lombardy. By their suggestions, your admirable work on the Trinity was condemned to the flames, and yourself were thrown into confinement. This you did not omit to mention. The machinations of the abbot of St. Denys and of your false brethren are there brought forward; but chiefly—for from them you had most to suffer—the calumnious aspersions of those false apostles, Norbert and Bernard, whom envy had roused against you.

  It was even, you say, imputed as a crime to you to have given the name of Paraclete, contrary to the common practice, to the oratory you had erected. In fine, the incessant persecutions of that cruel tyrant of St. Gildas, and of those execrable monks, whom yet you call your children and to which at this moment you are exposed, close the melancholy tale of a life of sorrow.

  Who, think you, could read or hear these things and not be moved to tears? What then must be my situation? The singular precision with which each event is stated could but more strongly renew my sorrows. I was doubly agitated, because I perceived the tide of danger was still rising against you. Are we then to despair of your life? And must our breasts, trembling at every sound, be hourly alarmed by the rumours of that terrible event?

  For Christ’s sake, my Abelard—and He, I trust, as yet protects you—do inform us, and that repeatedly, of each circumstance of your present dang
ers. I and my sisters are the sole remains of all your friends. Let us, at least, partake of your joys and sorrows. The condolence of others is used to bring some relief to the sufferer, and a load laid on many shoulders is more easily supported. But should the storm subside a little, then be even more solicitous to inform us, for your letters will be messengers of joy. In short, whatever be their contents, to us they must always bring comfort; because this at least they will tell us, that we are remembered by you....

  My Abelard, you well know how much I lost in losing you; and that infamous act of treachery which, by a cruelty before unheard-of, deprived me of you, even tore me from myself. The loss was great, indeed, but the manner of it was doubly excruciating. When the cause of grief is most pungent, then should consolation apply her strongest medicines. But it is you only can administer relief: by you I was wounded, and by you I must be healed. It is in your power alone to give me pain, to give me joy, and to give me comfort. And it is you only that are obliged to do it. I have obeyed the last title of your commands; and so far was I unable to oppose them, that, to comply with your wishes, I could bear to sacrifice myself. One thing remains which is still greater, and will hardly be credited; my love for you had risen to such a degree of frenzy, that to please you, it even deprived itself of what alone in the universe it valued, and that forever. No sooner did I receive your commands than I quitted at once the habit of the world, and with it all the reluctance of my nature. I meant that you should be the sole possessor of whatever I had once a right to call my own.

  Heaven knows! in all my love it was you, and you only I sought for. I looked for no dowry, no alliances of marriage. I was even insensible to my own pleasures; nor had I a will to gratify. All was absorbed in you. I call Abelard to witness. In the name of wife there may be something more holy, more imposing; but the name of mistress was ever to me a more charming sound. The more I humbled myself before you, the greater right I thought I should have to your favour; and thus also I hoped the less to injure the splendid reputation you had acquired.

  This circumstance, on your own account, you did not quite forget to mention in the letter to your friend. You related also some of the arguments I then urged to deter you from that fatal marriage; but you suppressed the greater part, by which I was induced to prefer love to matrimony and liberty to chains. I call Heaven to witness! Should Augustus, master of the world, offer me his hand in marriage, and secure to me the uninterrupted command of the universe, I should deem it at once more eligible and more honourable to be called the mistress of Abelard than the wife of Caesar. The source of merit is not in riches or in power; these are the gifts of fortune; but virtue only gives worth and excellence....

  But that happiness which in others is sometimes the effect of fancy, in me was the child of evidence. They might think their husbands perfect, and were happy in the idea, but I knew that you were such, and the universe knew the same. Thus, the more my affection was secured from all possible error, the more steady became its flame. Where was found the king or the philosopher that had emulated your reputation? Was there a village, a city, a kingdom, that did not ardently wish even to see you? When you appeared in public, who did not run to behold you? And when you withdrew, every neck was stretched, every eye sprang forward to pursue you. The married and the unmarried women, when Abelard was away, longed for his company; and when he was present, every bosom was on fire. No lady of distinction, no princess, that did not envy Heloise the possession of her Abelard.

  You possessed, indeed, two qualifications—a tone of voice and a grace in singing—which gave you the control over every female heart. These powers were peculiarly yours; for I do not know that they ever fell to the share of any other philosopher. To soften, by playful amusement, the stem labours of philosophy, you composed several sonnets on love and on similar subjects. These you were often heard to sing, when the harmony of your voice gave new charms to the expression. In all circles nothing was talked of but Abelard; even the most ignorant, who could not judge of composition, were enchanted by the melody of your voice. Female hearts were unable to resist the impression. Thus was my name soon carried to distant nations; for the loves of Heloise and Abelard were the constant theme of all your songs. What wonder if I became the subject of general envy?

  You possessed, besides, every endowment of mind and body. But, alas! if my happiness then raised the envy of others, will they not now be compelled to pity me? And surely even she who was then my enemy will now drop a tear at my sad reverse of fortune.

  You know, Abelard, I was the great cause of your misfortunes; but yet I was not guilty. It is the motive with which we act, and not the event of things, that makes us criminal. Equity weighs the intention, and not the mere actions we may have done. What, at all times, were my dispositions in your regard, you, who knew them, can only judge. To you I refer all my actions, and on your decision I rest my cause. I call no other witness....

  By that God, then, to whom your life is consecrated, I conjure you, give me so much of yourself as is at your disposal; that is, send me some lines of consolation. Do it with this design, at least; that, my mind being more at ease, I may serve God with more alacrity. When formerly the love of pleasure was your pursuit, how often did I hear from you? In your songs the name of Heloise was made familiar to every tongue: it was heard in every street; the walls of every house repeated it. With how much greater propriety might you now call me to God, than you did then to pleasure? Weigh your obligations; think on my petition.

  I have written you a long letter, but the conclusion shall be short: My only friend, farewell.

  From Abelard and Heloise, trans. A. S. Richardson (Boston: James R. Osgood & Co., 1884).

  Heloise and Abelard: The Later Years

  PETER THE VENERABLE

  Twelfth century

  WHEN I received your affectionate letters, which you sent to me earlier by my son Theobald, I was delighted, and I embraced them as friends for the sake of their sender. I wanted to write immediately what was in my mind, but I could not, because I was hindered by the troublesome demands of my cares, to which very often, indeed, almost always, I am compelled io yield. I have only just snatched what I could seize from a day interrupted by confusions.

  It seems that I should have hastened to make at least the recompense of words for your affection towards me, which I have recognized both at that time from your letters and earlier from the gifts you sent me, and that I should have shown how large a place of love for you in the Lord I keep in my heart. For truly I do not now first begin to love a person whom I remember that I have loved for a long time. I had not yet completely passed out of adolescence, I had not yet attained young manhood, when the fame, not yet indeed of your religion, but of your distinguished and praiseworthy studies became known to me.

  I heard then that a woman, although she was not yet disentangled from the bonds of the world, devoted the highest zeal to literary studies, which is very unusual, and to the pursuit of wisdom, although it was that of the world. I heard that she could not be hindered by pleasures, frivolities, and delights from this useful purpose of learning the arts. And when almost everyone is kept from these studies by detestable sloth, and when the progress of wisdom can come to a standstill, I do not say among women, by whom it is entirely rejected, but it is scarcely able to find virile minds among men, you, by your praiseworthy zeal, completely excelled all women, and surpassed almost all men.

  Soon, indeed, according to the words of the apostle, as it pleased Him who brought you forth from your mother’s womb to call you by His grace, you exchanged this devotion to studies for a far better one. Now completely and truly a woman of wisdom, you chose the Gospel instead of logic, the apostle in place of physics, Christ instead of Plato, the cloister instead of the Academy. You snatched the spoils from the defeated enemy, and passing through the desert of this pilgrimage, with the treasures of the Egyptians, you built a precious tabernacle to God in your heart. You sang a song of praise with Miriam, when Pharaoh was dr
owned; and carrying in your hands the timbrel of holy mortification, as she did formerly, you sent forth with skilled musicianship a new melody to the very ears of God. Now in beginning that which, by divine grace, you will continue well, you have trampled underfoot the ancient serpent always lying in wait for women, and you have so driven it out, that it will never dare to tempt you further....

  I say these things, dearest sister in the Lord, not indeed to flatter you, but to encourage you, so that, devoting your attention to that great good in which you have for a long time persevered, you may the more ardently continue to preserve it carefully, and that you may inflame both by words and by example, according to the grace granted to you by God, those holy women who serve the Lord with you, so that they may strive anxiously in this same contest. For you, although you are a woman, are one of those creatures whom the prophet Ezechiel saw, who should not only burn like coals of fire, but should glow and shine like lamps. You are truly a disciple of truth, but you are also by that very obligation, inasmuch as it behooves you for those entrusted to you, a mistress of humility. The complete mastery of humility and of all celestial discipline has been imposed on you by God. Wherefore you ought to take care not only for yourself, but also for the flock entrusted to you, and on behalf of all, you should in all things receive a greater reward. Surely the reward of victory awaits you above all, since, as you know best, as many times as the world and the prince of the world have been overcome by your leadership, so many triumphs, so many glorious trophies, will be prepared for you with the eternal King and Judge.

  But it is not altogether unusual among mortals that women. should be ruled by women, and not wholly strange also that they should fight in battle, and moreover, accompany men themselves to battle. For if the saying is true that it is lawful also to be taught by the enemy, it is written that, among the Gentiles, Penthesilea, queen of the Amazons, with her Amazons, not men but women, often fought in battle at the time of the Trojan War, and that, among the people of God also, the prophetess Deborah inspired Barach, the judge of Israel, against the heathen. Why then should it not be permitted that women of courage, going forth to battle against a strong army, should be made leaders of the army of the Lord, since that Deborah fought against the enemy with her own hand, which indeed seemed unbecoming? Why should not this Deborah of ours lead, arm, and inspire men themselves to the divine warfare? When King Jabin had been defeated, and the leader Sisera slain, and the godless army destroyed, that other Deborah immediately sang a song, and she sang it devoutly in praise of God. By the grace of God, you shall be doing this, after the victory over enemies stronger by far has been given to you and yours, and you shall never cease to sing, far more gloriously, that song of yours, which thus rejoicing you shall sing, just as you shall never cease rejoicing. Meanwhile you shall be with the handmaidens of God, that is, the celestial army, as that other Deborah was with her own Jewish people, and you shall never rest from so gainful a contest, at any time or in any case, except in victory.