CHAPTER VI - CONCLUSION
The story of mediæval heresy is but a chapter in a much larger subject, that of the slow and painful development of religious tolerance and freedom of thought. Heresy—essentially free choice in the sphere of religious belief in contradistinction to implicit obedience to doctrinal authority—was a serious problem to the Church in the early centuries of the Christian era. During the long, distracted and desolate epoch of the barbarian invasions it ceased to be a potent factor in history. But when Europe recovered from the malady, the lethargy of the Dark Ages, and the human mind was again awake, it became once more a problem. The rationalistic speculations of Eriugena, Roscellinus and Berengar; the disordered ravings of Tanchelm; the aggressive anti-sacerdotalism of the Cathari or Paulicians, and of the vagrant Waldenses, present us with the three outstanding types of mediæval heresy. By far the most influential, those which the Church recognized as the most hurtful and dangerous, were the last. In the case of the Cathari there was a clear and a very remarkable revival of a heresy that had much afflicted the early Church, Manichæism. Their dualist theology was hopelessly pessimistic; their practical teachings a mere gospel of despair. The crude dualism and perverted antinomianism of the sect contained little indeed that either merited respect or promised lasting influence. Only in the hint of a genuine hatred of the gross and the cruel was there aught to respect; only in its Donatist doctrine and its denunciation of the Catholic clergy was there the likelihood of lasting influence. In their hostility to the claims, and their diatribes against the abuses, of the clergy, Paulicianism and Waldensianism stood united. These two heresies gave a popular currency in the lands where they secured a foothold to anti-sacerdotalism, which involved not only the condemnation of all backsliding on the part of the clergy from the strictest and most rigid interpretation of the Christ-like life, but also—as the result of this—the rejection of the doctrinal basis of the peculiar privileges of the clergy, namely the conception of the mediatorial character of the priesthood. The Arnoldist ‘Poor Men’; the Petrobrusians, insisting on the sole efficacy of the individual’s own faith, unaided by churches and sacraments; the Henricians in their ascetic denunciation of clerical worldliness and rejection of the sacraments; the Poor Men of Lyons, adopting the rule of absolute poverty, preaching in streets and countryside because, although illiterate, they were conscious of an inward vocation, and so being led on to undertake other priestly functions though unordained; the Cathari asserting that the Catholic Church was lost in materialism and worldliness and that they were the true church of Christ—all these were inherently the aggressive enemies of the priesthood. There was a similar note in much of the popular poetry in those southern lands in which these heresies took firmest root. It is a note scornful, defiant, often ribald and profane, that comes into the songs of the goliards and troubadours. With a robust and crude Rabelaisianism they burlesque, not only clerical manners, but the holiest ceremonies and the most sacred doctrines. Even in miracles and mystery plays the note is sometimes heard; in the poems of Rutebeuf, the ‘Roman de la Rose’ and ‘Reynard the Fox,’ it is most resonant. In the popular poetry there is undoubtedly something of the unconsecrated paganism of the average man—his innate secularism rebelling against clerical privilege, when it is not fortified by personal worthiness. Yet between the Provençal troubadour and the Paulician heretic there was something akin; and with the nobleman of Languedoc, only too willing to take the excuse for despoiling the clergy, they were alike popular. We may regret the total extinction of the exotic, semi-Moorish culture of southern France, which the Albigensian crusades involved; we need not regret the virtual extinction, with it, of the heresies.[477] If there was something worthy of esteem in their demand for spiritual reality and personal holiness, this was confused with other elements, which were perverted and absurd, sometimes even repulsive and abominable. On their constructive side the heresies of Waldenses and Albigenses had nothing of genuine value to offer. In so far as they have significance, it is because of their anti-clerical elements, which are in part a cause, but more a symptom, of a trend of popular sentiment.
The second type of mediæval heresy is that represented by Tanchelm, Eon de l’Etoile, Segarelli, Dolcino, the Flagellants. It belongs to the province, not of the theologian but of the psychologist, specially interested in the study of depraved emotion and diseased imagination. Its foundation is that perverted sexuality which is so strangely connected, as a matter of psychological fact, with intensity of religious enthusiasm. The cases of Tanchelm and Eon are no doubt cases of simple religious mania. None of the heresies of this type had, or from their character was at all likely to have, any but the most fleeting results. They have, nevertheless, their interest, as symptoms of the powerful emotionalism which seemed equally liable to produce a fierce animalism or an intense religious asceticism. The same raw material of unregenerate sense and passion gave to the Church saints and heresiarchs. Ever in the Middle Ages there was a tendency to excess, excess of self-abnegation, excess of self-indulgence, a tendency to push ideas both of doctrine and conduct to extremes. Thus did the Spiritual Franciscans tend to see in their founder a superman, to make the cult of poverty an obsession, to believe themselves a new order destined to inaugurate the era of the Holy Ghost.
The third type of mediæval heresy is of an altogether different nature. It is intellectual, philosophic. In all the other heresies there is a taint of rottenness, disease. Here, on the other hand, there is the health and sanity of honest thinking—and though the thought be crude, obscure or exaggerated, there is at least the possibility of lasting results. In the re-discovery and re-absorption of the intellectual heritage of classical and patristic times there was always the danger of heresy. The process of adapting knowledge, pagan in source, coming sometimes through infidel channels, was certainly perilous. It has to be remembered that it was the Church that initiated and carried through this process; that to the Church the world is indebted for the Renaissance of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. But the process inevitably presented serious problems. In the first place, it yielded a copious mass of new comment and interpretation upon the original body of Christian dogma, viewed from a philosophic standpoint. Apply the logical methods of scholasticism and envisage dogma in the light of the metaphysical problem of the relations between the universal and the particular, and you have to decide whether the realist, the nominalist or the conceptualist is the true interpreter of the creeds. The difficulty was increased with the advent of Aristotelianism in the thirteenth century. One exposition of Aristotle was definitely declared to be heresy—that of the Averrhoïsts. But the Augustinian opponents of St. Thomas Aquinas endeavoured to confound him in the charge of heresy: and it was for a time doubtful whether Aristotelianism in any shape or form could be accepted as orthodox. Not only Alberto-Thomists in their attack upon the Averrhoïsts, but secular clergy warring with regulars, Franciscans inveighing against Dominicans, all glibly brought the convenient accusation of heresy against their opponents. It was for lawful authority to determine categorically what was orthodox, what heretical. But no authority was, as a matter of fact, impartial or certain to be final. Authority, whether papal, conciliar or academic, was itself wedded to one school of thought or another, swayed by the predominant philosophy of its own passing day.
It was not only a question of new ways of regarding, new interpretations of, existing dogma. There was also the problem presented by new dogmas, such as those of the Beatific Vision and the Immaculate Conception. Such tenets were not in themselves either inherently orthodox or heretical. When a creed is stabilized, completely rigid, it is easy to be exactly faithful to it; but when it is fluid, even for the most orthodox of intent, safety can only be found in caution.
But the chief potential source of trouble in the intellectual ferment of scholasticism lay in the fact that it inevitably placed side by side two different authorities, the objective authority of the Church as enshrined in Scripture, tradition, papal and other lawful ecclesiastical dicta, and, on the other hand, the subjective authority of the human reason. All discussion, all argument is necessarily an appeal largely to this second authority. While the great majority of the scholastics only used reason in order to justify revealed truth and never questioned the superiority of the infallible, the divine authority of the Church over the fallible authority of man’s intellect, there were others, such as Eriugena and Abelard, who placed reason first. Finally, there came a scholastic in Wycliffe, whose realism led him into dangerous errors, not only subversive of the cardinal doctrine of transubstantiation, but also threatening the whole status and mediatorial character of the priesthood.
It is most important to remember that the scholastic philosophers were in all cases clerics, representative of, and not antagonistic to, Catholic theology; that even the Averrhoïsts were also clerics, having no desire to break with the Church. On the other hand, the freedom of thought which the universities stood for and dialectic fostered, and which the Church not only did not repress, but even encouraged, had a tendency to produce heresy. Realism evolved pantheism; nominalism unitarianism. The intellectual influences of university life brought forth Gerson, D’Ailly and the other whole-hearted reformers who made the great effort at revival of the Church from within which failed at Constance and Basel; but it also brought forth Wycliffe and Hus, whom those Councils condemned. It was never absolutely clear where the dividing line between orthodoxy and heresy would rest. However much they might be reconciled or confused, the ideals and methods of theology and philosophy cannot be the same. The postulates of the one are not those of the other; and the more the scientific spirit is developed, the fewer the postulates of any sort that it is ready to accept. The Averrhoïsts at least saw this, only saving their position by the equivocation of the double truth.
Which was really the more dangerous to Catholic doctrine—the organized heresies, as a rule ignorant, perverted, having the seeds of their own destruction in their very rottenness, which the Church did systematically persecute; or the philosophical speculations of the universities, with their temptations to rationalism which the Church in the main tolerated?[478] Each produced a force not wholly transient—a force operative in the breaking up of the mediæval system. The first was anti-sacerdotalism; the second a habit of independent thought and criticism. It is true that the anti-sacerdotalism of Luther and the secular spirit of Renaissance humanism, with its entire indifference to religion, were the decisive factors in breaking up the fabric of mediævalism, and the movements of Lutheranism and humanism were largely new creations. Yet Luther owed much to Hus, and Hus everything to Wycliffe, the scholastic, and the detached attitude of the Italian humanist was only one step in advance of that of the Latin Averrhoïst. Neither the wandering sectaries, in part suggesting, in part merely articulating, an antisacerdotal sentiment, nor the philosophers with their speculations concerning universals and the ultimate cause of being, were without influence in bringing about the collapse of the mediæval structure.
It is of no use studying the question of the attitude of the mediæval Church towards heresy unless one is prepared to use imagination enough to envisage heresy from the mediæval point of view. Men’s mental outlook is governed by the intellectual conditions of their own day. A few individuals may be, as the phrase goes, ‘in advance of their time’; but at the best they form only a small minority. To consider abstractly the rights and wrongs, the advantages and disadvantages of institutions and systems is the function of the philosopher. But the historian, while not ignoring the abstract question, has specifically the function of ascertaining what, in point of fact, people’s opinions have been and why they formed them. Much that has been written on the subject of religious toleration is of only limited validity because it simply denounces, and does not attempt to explain or to appreciate, the psychology of intolerance.[479] Thus, for example, Locke’s ‘Letters on Toleration’ have little argumentative value, because they are based on a complete ignoratio elenchi. Religious toleration is a great principle, but many modern dithyrambs on the inalienable right of liberty of thought and conscience fall rather wide of the mark, can convince only the already converted. It is not very profitable to bring forward the theory of the indefeasible right of free thought in condemnation of mediæval society—to the whole of which, and by no means to its clerical elements only, the conception of such a right was entirely foreign. After all, even to-day the belief in an absolute toleration is held by only a very few, and even these anarchists will usually be found to hold it with certain reservations.[480] Organized society cannot tolerate the forces which are subversive of it. It does not tolerate the criminal. ‘A universal and absolute toleration of everything and everybody would lead to a general chaos as certainly as a universal and absolute intolerance.’[481] It is undoubtedly true that a certain measure of ‘intolerance is essential to all that is, or moves, or lives, for tolerance of destructive elements within the organism amounts to suicide.’[482] The individual possesses rights in so far as they are not prejudicial to the welfare of his fellows and the interests of the entire community. And the recognition that the maintenance of social order was perfectly compatible with the acknowledgment of the right of individual opinion and the permission of diversity of views, this in the Middle Ages ‘was a discovery to be made, not a truth to be proved.’[483]
For the Middle Ages religion was not divorced from the secular life. The Respublica Christiana was an unity and a potent reality. The common faith was the panoply of the State. Devotion to it was an integral part of patriotism, and the counterpart of loyalty to the secular prince and of obedience to his laws. The man, therefore, who assailed the faith assailed society; in cutting himself off from the Church he outlawed himself from the State. Acknowledgment of the sacred truths of Christianity was the foundation of all morality. The mediæval mind could not conceive of morality apart from religion. Hence respect for the divine law, as revealed in the Scripture and the Church, was regarded as the sole guarantee for the security of ordered society. Heresy was considered as essentially anti-social, anarchic; was conceived of as analogous to false coining or treason. Only to falsify truth was more heinous than to falsify the coin and treason against God than treason against man. The exposition of the nature of heresy in Ludovico à Paramo is most logical. The character of a state depends on its religion; the faith is the foundation of the state.[484] Heretics cannot dwell in harmony with Catholics: for if difference of language severs, how much more difference of belief?[485] Heresy is productive of all manner of vice and immorality, which are antagonistic to order and government.[486]
To the Church all this was self-evident. How could she stand neutral as between truth and falsehood, and treat them as if on an equality? She found all the strong walls and bastions, defences of the theocratic city, of which she was the appointed warden, being attacked by an insidious enemy within the gates. She had the power to defend; how could she be justified if she held her hand? The heretic questioned her credentials, turned her claims to ridicule, threatened to bring down the whole structure of the Christian polity to the ground. Both in self-defence and in common loyalty to her mission she must strike. All the intensity of religious conviction inspired to persecution. Tolerance, argues de Maistre, only indicates religious indifference.[487] Moreover, the mediæval churchman was inevitably much influenced by the injunctions of the Old Testament. The Church succeeded to the heritage of the synagogue.[488]
But it was not the Church only that was persuaded of the essentially dangerous and anti-social character of heresy. Partly, no doubt, as the result of the Church’s teaching through many generations, but certainly of their own accord and not as the result of any direct instruction, both secular rulers and the ordinary laity were equally convinced.[489] They all lived in a thoroughly theocratic atmosphere. The prince sincerely saw in the heretic an enemy of all authority, and therefore of his own.[490] Secular legislation was just as unequivocal in its treatment of heresy as was Canon law. To the ordinary layman the heretic appeared as a thoroughly cross-grained, cantankerous, dangerous person, certainly of some immoral propensities and perhaps sexually perverted.[491]
Such was the mediæval point of view; and, once granted the necessary premises, it is extremely logical and exceedingly hard to combat. Now-a-days we do not accept those premises; but in the Middle Ages we should probably not have dreamed of questioning them. On the extraordinarily interesting and important question of the causes of this change of attitude authorities do, and are likely to, differ, though many students will agree in combining their conclusions. To those who, like John Stuart Mill and Lecky for instance, attribute religious persecution almost entirely to the doctrine of exclusive salvation, the causes of the growth of tolerance will appear to be the extension of the sceptical spirit and the process of the secularization of politics.[492] Others, such as Bishop Creighton (who will not agree that persecution is to be explained by the doctrine of exclusive salvation at all),[493] or as Sir F. Pollock (who classifies different types of intolerance—tribal, political, social), insist strongly upon the simple factor of experience. ‘It is not the demonstration of abstract rights, but the experience of inutility, that has made governments leave off persecuting.’[494] After all, the great justification of liberty of thought lies not in the attempted demonstration of a natural right, but in the records of the painful process whereby toleration has been achieved.[495] It would have saved an infinity of bloodshed and misery, would have freed the palimpsest of history of some of its most terrible blots, could the principle of toleration have been established without that awful struggle. But none of the great triumphs of mankind have been achieved save after centuries of effort, loss and failure.
To the moral judgment of our own day no instrument of persecution seems more odious than the Inquisition. Protestants have persecuted just as whole-heartedly as Catholics, and with far less excuse; but the Inquisition stands by itself, as a regular specialized tribunal for persecution, immensely efficient, with an existence of centuries to its record.[496] We have seen the way in which the Inquisition came into being. Both the circumstances of its origin and the intentions of its various founders gave the tribunal a character only semi-judicial. Indeed, if we object that the Inquisition was a bad court of justice, its originators could retort with truth that it was not intended to be a simple court of justice. The Inquisition was created to deal with erring children, not criminals; not merely to pronounce a verdict, but to produce reconciliation and amendment; not to punish, but to penance. The Church, through the Inquisition, was dealing in the spirit of a parent with her own children, over whom she had all a parent’s rights of discipline and chastisement, but also evincing a parent’s deep desire for something more than justice and punishment, for the ending of estrangement and the restoration of loving union in the family. Such was the pure theory of the Inquisition, a much more benignant conception than that of the ordinary law-court. In the latter, the mere fact of repentance would not avail; in the former, if it were sincere, it availed everything. So de Maistre, defending the Spanish Inquisition, declared it to be the most lenient, the most merciful tribunal in the world.
But we have to consider the point of view, not only of the judge, but of the defendant. Whatever the real nature of the tribunal, the man brought before it was on his trial. The tribunal did pronounce a verdict, and upon that verdict his reputation, perhaps his freedom or his life, depended. He wanted justice, not mercy: and the Inquisition might be lenient, but it was not fair. It was radically unfair. It gave no facilities whatever for the plea of Not Guilty. It cared nought for the reputation of the accused. He had already lost his reputation by being before the court at all. The very fact of defamation, of being ‘suspect’ inferred guilt. To leave the court of the Inquisition without a stain upon one’s character was virtually impossible. In all manner of ways the accused was at a disadvantage—in the suppression of the names of witnesses and of evidence, in the refusal of legal assistance, in the use of torture, and above all in the fact that the judge was also the prosecutor, who regarded it as perfectly legitimate to browbeat and confuse the defendant, if he was so misguided and unfilial as to endeavour to defend himself. Inquisitorial procedure was a miserable travesty of justice; and its mercifulness was forthcoming only on its own terms. To all save the meekly submissive the Inquisition typified not mercy and love, but remorselessness and cruelty.
While in studying the origins of the Inquisition we are bound to examine, and to seek to understand, the point of view of those who were responsible for its inception, in estimating its character and results we need not, nay we ought not, to judge by any other criterion than that dictated by the highest conceptions of right and justice. The common, the accepted, standard of to-day both as regards justice and humanity is, happily, greatly higher than that of the Middle Ages. Much that has been written of the Inquisition has been vitiated by an attempt to read into the mind and conduct of men of mediæval times a humanitarianism which is the peculiar product of the modern world, and which they could not even have understood. Even more vitiated would be any thesis which, not satisfied with justifying the originators of the Inquisition, sought to justify the institution itself. Certainly the motive for such an attempt could not be impartiality. Only moral obliquity can be blind to the transparent abominations of inquisitorial procedure.
If its character as a tribunal was essentially evil, evil also were some of the Inquisition’s results. Secular princes discerned its remarkable potential utility to themselves and regarded it with envy and admiration. Its methods had a satisfactory efficiency found in no other court. By such methods conviction could be practically assured. The charge of heresy could therefore be preferred against political enemies with the happiest prospects of advantage. The destruction for purely political ends was achieved by the use of inquisitorial methods of the Templars, Jeanne d’Arc, Savonarola.[497]
Those are the most notorious, but there are other instances of this abuse of the sacred tribunal for purely secular, and sometimes base and immoral, purposes.
Worse still—and possibly this is the worst aspect of the whole story of the Inquisition—its pernicious methods of procedure were borrowed by the admiring secular princes for their courts, which did not pretend to have the double nature which was the explanation, if not the excuse, for the Inquisition’s adoption of its system. Thus civil courts in Europe came to be tarnished by the system of inquisitio, the secret enquiry, the heaping up of disabilities for the defence, the application of torture—all these abuses having the august sanction of ecclesiastical use. The lay authority could triumphantly vindicate such innovations, whereby justice became an unequal contest between authority, combining the two characters of prosecutor and judge, and the unhappy prisoner, by pointing to the example of the Church, the repository of the sublime truths of divine justice and Christian charity. To the fortunate fact that the Inquisition never secured a footing in the British Islands is largely due their maintenance, in contradistinction to Continental states, of the open trial and of the great maxim that no one is presumed to be guilty, that the onus of proof lies with the prosecution. It was not the fault of the Church that the secular power admired and imitated the methods of the Holy Office; but it is surely a calamity that it should have been able to find in an ecclesiastical tribunal a system which must seem to every fair-minded man to-day so abhorrent to the whole spirit and tenor of the Christian gospel.
No attempt has been made in these pages to present the heresies of the Middle Ages in any heroic light, to slur over the pernicious crudities of many of them. As between the spiritual and intellectual ideals represented by the mediæval Church and those represented by the majority of the sectaries the choice is self-evident. Wycliffites and Husites stand obviously on a far higher plane, but Petrobrusians, Cathari, Dolcinists, Flagellants and many others had no fertile ideas to bequeath to a later day and were, at best perhaps, a nuisance in their own. Yet it has to be remembered that not only noble-minded men like Hus and Jerome of Prague, whose creed, whether true or not, was in any case sane and pure and exalted, but also innumerable others, whom we know only as names in inquisitorial records, who whatever the faith they professed stood constant through physical and mental anguish, to perish perhaps at the last at the stake in a world barren of pity with no friendly faces to encourage them—these suffered for a great ideal, that of fidelity to the spirit of truthfulness, of intellectual integrity. All who have died rather than be false to themselves and their vision of truth, thus demonstrating to the world their conviction that belief is worth dying for—whether Catholics or Protestants or the most erring of mediæval heretics—have done service to the cause of human progress. For, if it be true that only through the tragic experience of centuries of religious persecution could mankind attain to the establishment of the principle of liberty of thought and conscience, then every one of us to-day who enjoys the benefits of such liberty owes a debt of gratitude to the men and women who for conscience’ sake braved obloquy, torture-chamber and fire.