Chapter 8

When morning came the whole city was assembled before my dwelling. It is difficult, nay, impossible, for words of mine to describe the amazement which bewildered them, the lamentations they uttered, the uproar with which they harassed me, or the grief with which they increased my own suffering. Chiefly the clerics, and above all my scholars, tortured me with their intolerable lamentations and outcries, so that I suffered more intensely from their compassion than from the pain of my wound. In truth I felt the disgrace more than the hurt to my body, and was more afflicted with shame than with pain. My incessant thought was of the renown in which I had so much delighted, now brought low, nay, utterly blotted out, so swiftly by an evil chance. I saw, too, how justly God had punished me in that very part of my body whereby I had sinned. I perceived that there was indeed justice in my betrayal by him whom I had myself already betrayed; and then I thought how eagerly my rivals would seize upon this manifestation of justice, how this disgrace would bring bitter and enduring grief to my kindred and my friends, and how the tale of this amazing outrage would spread to the very ends of the earth.

When morning came, the whole city gathered outside my home. It is difficult, no, impossible, for me to describe their bewildered amazement, their cries of grief, or the uproar that tormented me. Their grief only added to my own suffering. The clerics in particular, and my students most of all, tortured me with their unbearable cries and lamentations. I suffered more from their compassion than from the pain of my wound. In truth, I felt the disgrace more than the injury to my body. Shame afflicted me more than pain. I could not stop thinking about the fame I had so delighted in. It had been brought low, no, utterly wiped out, so quickly by a stroke of bad fortune. I also saw how justly God had punished me in the very part of my body with which I had sinned. I realized that it was just for me to be betrayed by the man I had already betrayed. Then I thought how eagerly my rivals would seize on this sign of justice. I thought, too, how my disgrace would bring bitter and lasting grief to my family and friends. And I thought how the story of this astonishing outrage would spread to the ends of the earth.

What path lay open to me thereafter? How could I ever again hold up my head among men, when every finger should be pointed at me in scorn, every tongue speak my blistering shame, and when I should be a monstrous spectacle to all eyes? I was overwhelmed by the remembrance that, according to the dread letter of the law, God holds eunuchs in such abomination that men thus maimed are forbidden to enter a church, even as the unclean and filthy; nay, even beasts in such plight were not acceptable as sacrifices. Thus in Leviticus (xxii, 24) is it said: "Ye shall not offer unto the Lord that which hath its stones bruised, or crushed, or broken, or cut." And in Deuteronomy (xxiii, 1), "He that is wounded in the stones, or hath his privy member cut off, shall not enter into the congregation of the Lord."

What path was open to me after that? How could I ever again hold my head up among men? Every finger would point at me in scorn. Every tongue would speak of my searing shame. Everyone would look on me as a monstrous spectacle. I was overwhelmed by the memory of the law’s fearful words. According to the law, God considers eunuchs so abhorrent that men maimed in this way are forbidden to enter a church, just like the unclean and filthy. Even animals in that condition were unacceptable as sacrifices. Thus Leviticus (xxii, 24) says: "You shall not offer to the Lord any animal whose testicles are bruised, crushed, broken, or cut." And Deuteronomy (xxiii, 1) says: "Anyone whose testicles are wounded or whose penis has been cut off shall not enter the congregation of the Lord."

I must confess that in my misery it was the overwhelming sense of my disgrace rather than any ardour for conversion to the religious life that drove me to seek the seclusion of the monastic cloister. Héloïse had already, at my bidding, taken the veil and entered a convent. Thus it was that we both put on the sacred garb, I in the abbey of St. Denis, and she in the convent of Argenteuil, of which I have already spoken. She, I remember well, when her fond friends sought vainly to deter her from submitting her fresh youth to the heavy and almost intolerable yoke of monastic life, sobbing and weeping replied in the words of Cornelia:

I must confess that, in my misery, it was my overwhelming sense of disgrace that drove me into monastic seclusion. It was not any burning desire to embrace religious life. Héloïse had already taken the veil and entered a convent at my command. So we both put on religious dress, I at the abbey of St. Denis, and she at the convent of Argenteuil, which I have already mentioned. I remember well how her loving friends tried in vain to stop her. They did not want her to subject herself, so young, to the heavy and almost unbearable burden of monastic life. Sobbing and weeping, she replied in the words of Cornelia:

With these words on her lips did she go forthwith to the altar, and lifted therefrom the veil, which had been blessed by the bishop, and before them all she took the vows of the religious life. For my part, scarcely had I recovered from my wound when clerics sought me in great numbers, endlessly beseeching both my abbot and me myself that now, since I was done with learning for the sake of gain or renown, I should turn to it for the sole love of God. They bade me care diligently for the talent which God had committed to my keeping (Matthew, xxv, 15), since surely He would demand it back from me with interest. It was their plea that, inasmuch as of old I had laboured chiefly in behalf of the rich, I should now devote myself to the teaching of the poor. Therein above all should I perceive how it was the hand of God that had touched me, when I should devote my life to the study of letters in freedom from the snares of the flesh and withdrawn from the tumultuous life of this world. Thus, in truth, should I become a philosopher less of this world than of God.

With these words on her lips, she went straight to the altar and took the veil the bishop had blessed. Then, before them all, she took the vows of religious life. For my part, I had scarcely recovered from my wound when clerics came to me in great numbers. They endlessly begged both my abbot and me to return to learning. Now that I had finished pursuing it for gain or fame, they urged me to pursue it for the love of God alone. They told me to care diligently for the talent God had entrusted to me (Matthew, xxv, 15). Surely, they said, he would demand it back with interest. Since I had once worked chiefly for the rich, they pleaded with me to devote myself to teaching the poor. Above all, they said, I would see that it was the hand of God that had touched me. For I would devote my life to study, free from the snares of the flesh and apart from the turmoil of worldly life. In this way, I would truly become a philosopher less of this world than of God.

The abbey, however, to which I had betaken myself was utterly worldly and in its life quite scandalous. The abbot himself was as far below his fellows in his way of living and in the foulness of his reputation as he was above them in priestly rank. This intolerable state of things I often and vehemently denounced, sometimes in private talk and sometimes publicly, but the only result was that I made myself detested of them all. They gladly laid hold of the daily eagerness of my students to hear me as an excuse whereby they might be rid of me; and finally, at the insistent urging of the students themselves, and with the hearty consent of the abbot and the rest of the brotherhood, I departed thence to a certain hut, there to teach in my wonted way. To this place such a throng of students flocked that the neighbourhood could not afford shelter for them, nor the earth sufficient sustenance.

The abbey where I had taken refuge, however, was utterly worldly, and its way of life was scandalous. The abbot’s conduct and foul reputation were as far below those of his fellow monks as his priestly rank was above theirs. I often and vehemently denounced this intolerable state of affairs, sometimes in private and sometimes in public. But the only result was that they all came to detest me. My students were eager to hear me every day, and the monks gladly seized on this as an excuse to get rid of me. Finally, the students themselves urged me to leave, and the abbot and all the other monks heartily agreed. So I went to a hut to teach as I usually did. So many students flocked there that the neighborhood could not shelter them all, nor could the land provide enough food for them.

Here, as befitted my profession, I devoted myself chiefly to lectures on theology, but I did not wholly abandon the teaching of the secular arts, to which I was more accustomed, and which was particularly demanded of me. I used the latter, however, as a hook, luring my students by the bait of learning to the study of the true philosophy, even as the Ecclesiastical History tells of Origen, the greatest of all Christian philosophers. Since apparently the Lord had gifted me with no less persuasiveness in expounding the Scriptures than in lecturing on secular subjects, the number of my students in these two courses began to increase greatly, and the attendance at all the other schools was correspondingly diminished. Thus I aroused the envy and hatred of the other teachers. Those who sought to belittle me in every possible way took advantage of my absence to bring two principal charges against me: first, that it was contrary to the monastic profession to be concerned with the study of secular books; and, second, that I had presumed to teach theology without ever having been taught therein myself. This they did in order that my teaching of every kind might be prohibited, and to this end they continually stirred up bishops, archbishops, abbots and whatever other dignitaries of the Church they could reach.

Here, as my profession required, I devoted myself mainly to lectures on theology. But I did not entirely give up teaching the secular arts. I was more accustomed to teaching them, and they were especially in demand. I used them as a hook, baiting it with learning to lure my students into studying the true philosophy. The Ecclesiastical History tells of Origen, the greatest of all Christian philosophers, doing the same. Apparently, the Lord had given me as much persuasive power in explaining Scripture as in lecturing on secular subjects. The number of students in both my courses began to grow greatly, while attendance at all the other schools declined accordingly. In this way I aroused the envy and hatred of the other teachers. They tried to belittle me in every possible way. While I was away, they brought two main charges against me. First, they said that studying secular books was contrary to the monastic profession. Second, they said that I had presumed to teach theology without ever having been taught it myself. They made these charges to have all my teaching forbidden. To that end, they constantly stirred up bishops, archbishops, abbots, and whatever other Church dignitaries they could reach.