Whatever might have happened, it did happen that the laws repressing heresy were codified by the acute legal minds of the new time under the stress of a particular heresy of a most hateful sort. Symonds has recorded two Milanese epitaphs, dating from the mid-thirteenth century. In one an archbishop is praised for having “... cut the throats of the heretics (... jugulavit haereses).” In the other a Podesta (chief executive magistrate) of the city is also praised because “He did his duty and burned the Catharans (Catharos ut debuit ussit).”[34] Historians seem to have failed to notice the connection of the two sentiments. Whether or not heresy in general would have been as rigorously stamped out had the particular Manichean, Albigensian, or Catharan heresy never existed is mere speculation. The striking fact is that the time that could praise an archbishop for having cut heretical throats thought of heresy as typified by this particular sect. Another illustration is a well-known story of St. Thomas Aquinas. It seems that the greatest of Christian philosophers, one day seated at dinner with St. Louis and his court, suddenly rolled out (no doubt in a deep voice corresponding to his massive frame), “I have a conclusive argument against the Manicheans (Conclusum est contra Manicheos).”[35] Many students have smiled over the feeling of the courtiers; for our purposes the point is that no such contemporary anecdote has come down to us concerning Waldenses, Arnaldists, or any other of the numerous heresies of the time. Theologians taught that all heresy was sin, hence anti-heretical legislation, and the corresponding task of enforcing it. The enormous force of the attack upon the Albigenses came because the average Christian, once face to face with them, decided that duty was pleasure.
It is true that the huge engine first set in motion by anger against this inhuman sect was soon turned against all heretics, and the fact will surprise no one who has the remotest knowledge of practical politics. The historian, when he plots the course of the ship of State, is at ease in his study. But the ship herself, when that run was made, was blown upon, this side and that, by the fiercest passions of man, and is so to-day. Rare, indeed, are the officers and crew that, when those gales are at their height, can hold the vessel steady. More often her course is as viciously jagged as that of lightning. It is not for the American, with our treatment of the South and the negro question since the Civil War before him, to cast a stone at the thirteenth century.
In thirteenth century Languedoc, as in nineteenth century America, war made an end of nice distinctions. At the time of the Conference of Pamiers, in 1207, before the Crusade had begun, Peter de Vaux-Cernay could distinguish clearly between Waldensians and “heretics” par excellence: that is Manicheans. In 1226, nineteen years later, we find a Cardinal-Legate of the Holy See persuading Louis VIII of France to attack the city of Avignon because there were many Waldenses there, and this in spite of the fact that it was a fief of the Empire. From the first the theory of the Church had been that heresy itself, and not any one particular kind of heresy, however repulsive, was the enemy. Before the Albigensian Crusade is ended, we find that this theory is being worked out in fact.
What, then, are we to say of the statesmen and their peoples who encouraged or permitted the adoption into law of this sweeping theory promulgated by the Church? Clearly the men of the thirteenth century saw no moral problem in the matter, but only the doing of a necessary task. No other assumption can account for the success with which the difficulties in the way of the new inquisitorial institution were gotten over. For instance, there was the exceedingly delicate question of the precise relation of inquisitors to the local bishops. Had there been the slightest desire on the part of the secular governments to hinder the Inquisition, it would have been easy to play off one against the other, for it was a poor mediæval ruler who could not get some of his bishops to support him on practically any proposition. We hear of nothing of the sort. On the contrary, the thorny point of Inquisitorial versus Episcopal authority is triumphantly solved, in practice, without any serious hitch whatsoever. It is the same with popular resistance. At long intervals we sometimes hear of little riots, or even of the murder of an inquisitor here and there. But such things are the rarest of exceptions to the rule. This is easier to understand when we realize that only in the few centres of heretical resistance were inquisitorial activities of a drastic nature. Thus in Roussillon, just over the border from Languedoc, the atmosphere changes altogether. Here the minute research of the indefatigable M. Brutails has brought to light only four sentences of the Inquisition.[36] All are directed against robber barons, of the pestilential tribe whose activities we have noted. What happened to two of these wretches is not clear. Those whose fate is known suffered only the penalty of having their dead bones dug up and solemnly burnt, forty years after death in one case. The severities of the Inquisition, enormous though they bulk on the voluminous pages of Lea, were infrequent and local throughout thirteenth century Christendom as a whole. Furthermore, these infrequent and local severities were normally exercised against the “Albigensian” heretics who were deservedly detested. Not until two hundred years later—in the fantastic and stagnant close of the Middle Ages—do we find anything like a reign of terror. Nevertheless, the underlying idea of the whole business is so alien from us that we can scarcely understand it.
Even to approach understanding of such a thing, it is necessary to speak in parables. Let us, therefore, imagine a scene among the shades. The ghost of a thirteenth century scholastic is in converse with other ghosts, an ancient Roman, a sage of Hindustan, a mandarin from China, and an American citizen.
“Government is government,” say these last four, “and religion is religion. For men to agree, in general, to live peaceably with each other and to obey law, they need not also agree concerning divine things, and this is proved by what we ourselves have seen and known. If anyone offend against law let him be punished. But let him worship any God, or no God, as pleases him, granted only that he offend not the religious feeling and sense of decency of his neighbours, particularly if a great majority of them be agreed upon such matters.”
To whom the scholastic: “From you of the East and of old Rome these words mean little. No law of natural right informed your States. When did any one of you maintain that there was a God in whose sight all men were equal? Instead, you held to slavery and to the deepest inequalities among men. We strove more greatly than you because we sought to build upon eternal justice. In our eyes, it was justice that every man should enjoy the whole fruit of his labours, saving only a tax, as it were, paid to those who fought, judged, or governed. And in order that such justice might prevail it was needful that the Church be strong to lay down, precept upon clear precept, what was every man’s duty to his neighbour.”
“The conquered Saracen, in Spain and Sicily, was but an exception, to tolerate him did no harm. A graver exception was the Jew, for the weakness of men made it convenient that he be permitted usuries anathema to Christians. Nevertheless he was a race apart. But that the sword of the gospel should lose its edge, being blunted and chipped away by the unblessed interpretations of men calling themselves Christians, was to us a thing intolerable. For among such a babel of tongues we feared that men would listen to none, but would follow their own greeds and lusts, wheresoever these last might lead, until the strife among them ceased only from weariness.”
After he had done speaking there is a little silence. Then the American answers and says: “It is true that men must agree, after a fashion, as to that what is right, and it is true that this is hard. But faith is faith and men are facts. Moreover, since we speak of faith, there is a civic faith which seeks to bind men together upon the earth, no matter whence they came there and whither they shall go. But faith or no faith, men as citizens must sink or swim together, and if they cannot agree about the things of this world, they will certainly perish. About God they can never agree, therefore let them differ as peaceably as they can.”
“But is it not true,” says the scholastic, “that you have failed? For shades lately come hither out of the sunlight, say that more and more, in the upper world, there is strife in the cities between rich and poor. There are so many, even in your own country, who are called free and yet own nothing.”