Chapter 13

While I was thus afflicted with so great perturbation of the spirit, and when the only way of escape seemed to be for me to seek refuge with Christ among the enemies of Christ, there came a chance whereby I thought I could for a while avoid the plottings of my enemies. But thereby I fell among Christians and monks who were far more savage than heathens and more evil of life. The thing came about in this wise. There was in lesser Brittany, in the bishopric of Vannes, a certain abbey of St. Gildas at Ruits, then mourning the death of its shepherd. To this abbey the elective choice of the brethren called me, with the approval of the prince of that land, and I easily secured permission to accept the post from my own abbot and brethren. Thus did the hatred of the French drive me westward, even as that of the Romans drove Jerome toward the East. Never, God knows, would I have agreed to this thing had it not been for my longing for any possible means of escape from the sufferings which I had borne so constantly.

I was deeply troubled, and my only escape seemed to be seeking refuge with Christ among his enemies. Then a chance arose that I thought would let me avoid my enemies' plots for a while. But instead, I fell among Christians and monks who were far more savage than heathens and led more wicked lives. This is how it happened. In lesser Brittany, in the bishopric of Vannes, the abbey of St. Gildas at Ruits was mourning its abbot's death. The monks elected me to lead them, with the approval of the prince of that land. I easily secured permission from my own abbot and fellow monks to accept the post. Thus the hatred of the French drove me westward, just as the hatred of the Romans drove Jerome eastward. God knows I would never have agreed to this had I not longed for any possible escape from my constant suffering.

The land was barbarous and its speech was unknown to me; as for the monks, their vile and untameable way of life was notorious almost everywhere. The people of the region, too, were uncivilized and lawless. Thus, like one who in terror of the sword that threatens him dashes headlong over a precipice, and to shun one death for a moment rushes to another, I knowingly sought this new danger in order to escape from the former one. And there, amid the dreadful roar of the waves of the sea, where the land's end left me no further refuge in flight, often in my prayers did I repeat over and over again: "From the end of the earth will I cry unto Thee, when my heart is overwhelmed" (Ps. lxi, 2).

The land was barbaric, and I did not know its language. The monks were notorious almost everywhere for their vile and unruly way of life. The people of the region were also uncivilized and lawless. So I knowingly sought this new danger to escape the former one. I was like someone who, terrified by a sword threatening him, rushes headlong over a cliff. He escapes one death for a moment, only to rush toward another. There, amid the terrifying roar of the sea, I had reached the land's end. There was nowhere farther for me to flee. I often repeated these words in my prayers: "From the end of the earth I will cry to you, when my heart is overwhelmed" (Ps. lxi, 2).

No one, methinks, could fail to understand how persistently that undisciplined body of monks, the direction of which I had thus undertaken, tortured my heart day and night, or how constantly I was compelled to think of the danger alike to my body and to my soul. I held it for certain that if I should try to force them to live according to the principles they had themselves professed, I should not survive. And yet, if I did not do this to the utmost of my ability, I saw that my damnation was assured. Moreover, a certain lord who was exceedingly powerful in that region had some time previously brought the abbey under his control, taking advantage of the state of disorder within the monastery to seize all the lands adjacent thereto for his own use, and he ground down the monks with taxes heavier than those which were extorted from the Jews themselves.

I think anyone could understand how the unruly monks I had undertaken to lead tormented me day and night. I was also constantly forced to think about the danger to both my body and my soul. I was certain that I would not survive if I tried to force them to live by the principles they had professed. Yet I saw that if I did not do this to the best of my ability, I would surely be damned. Moreover, a powerful lord in that region had taken control of the abbey some time earlier. He had taken advantage of the disorder in the monastery to seize all the adjoining lands for himself. He oppressed the monks with taxes heavier than those taken even from the Jews.

The monks pressed me to supply them with their daily necessities, but they held no property in common which I might administer in their behalf, and each one, with such resources as he possessed, supported himself and his concubines, as well as his sons and daughters. They took delight in harassing me on this matter, and they stole and carried off whatsoever they could lay their hands on, to the end that my failure to maintain order might make me either give up trying to enforce discipline or else abandon my post altogether. Since the entire region was equally savage, lawless and disorganized, there was not a single man to whom I could turn for aid, for the habits of all alike were foreign to me. Outside the monastery the lord and his henchmen ceaselessly hounded me, and within its walls the brethren were forever plotting against me, so that it seemed as if the Apostle had had me and none other in mind when he said: "Without were fightings, within were fears" (II Cor. vii, 5).

The monks pressed me to provide for their daily needs. But they held no property in common for me to manage on their behalf. Each monk supported himself, his concubines, and his sons and daughters with whatever resources he had. The monks took pleasure in harassing me over this. They stole and carried off whatever they could get their hands on. They hoped that my failure to maintain order would force me to stop trying to enforce discipline or abandon my post altogether. The whole region was just as savage, lawless, and disorganized. So there was not a single man I could turn to for help, because everyone’s habits were foreign to me. Outside the monastery, the lord and his henchmen constantly hounded me. Inside its walls, the monks were always plotting against me. It seemed as if the Apostle had me alone in mind when he said: "Without were fightings, within were fears" (II Cor. vii, 5).

I considered and lamented the uselessness and the wretchedness of my existence, how fruitless my life now was, both to myself and to others; how of old I had been of some service to the clerics whom I had now abandoned for the sake of these monks, so that I was no longer able to be of use to either; how incapable I had proved myself in everything I had undertaken or attempted, so that above all others I deserved the reproach, "This man began to build, and was not able to finish" (Luke xiv, 30). My despair grew still deeper when I compared the evils I had left behind with those to which I had come, for my former sufferings now seemed to me as nought. Full often did I groan: "Justly has this sorrow come upon me because I deserted the Paraclete, which is to say the Consoler, and thrust myself into sure desolation; seeking to shun threats I fled to certain peril."

I reflected on my useless, wretched existence and mourned how fruitless my life had become, both for myself and for others. In the past, I had been of some service to the clerics I had abandoned for the sake of these monks. Now I could no longer be of use to either group. I had proved myself incapable in everything I had undertaken or attempted. So, above all others, I deserved the reproach, "This man began to build, and was not able to finish" (Luke 14:30). My despair grew still deeper when I compared the evils I had left behind with those I had come to face. My former sufferings now seemed like nothing. Often I groaned: "This sorrow has rightly come upon me because I deserted the Paraclete, which means the Consoler. I thrust myself into certain desolation. Trying to escape threats, I fled into certain danger."

The thing which tormented me most was the fact that, having abandoned my oratory, I could make no suitable provision for the celebration there of the divine office, for indeed the extreme poverty of the place would scarcely provide the necessities of one man. But the true Paraclete Himself brought me real consolation in the midst of this sorrow of mine, and made all due provision for His own oratory. For it chanced that in some manner or other, laying claim to it as having legally belonged in earlier days to his monastery, my abbot of St. Denis got possession of the abbey of Argenteuil, of which I have previously spoken, wherein she who was now my sister in Christ rather than my wife, Héloïse, had taken the veil. From this abbey he expelled by force all the nuns who had dwelt there, and of whom my former companion had become the prioress. The exiles being thus dispersed in various places, I perceived that this was an opportunity presented by God himself to me whereby I could make provision anew for my oratory. And so, returning thither, I bade her come to the oratory, together with some others from the same convent who had clung to her.

What tormented me most was that, having left my oratory, I could make no proper provision for services there. The place was so poor that it could scarcely provide one man with the necessities of life. But the true Paraclete himself brought me real comfort in my sorrow and made all necessary provision for his own oratory. For somehow my abbot of St. Denis took possession of the abbey of Argenteuil, which I have mentioned before. He claimed that it had legally belonged to his monastery in earlier days. At Argenteuil, Héloïse, who was now my sister in Christ rather than my wife, had become a nun. My former companion had become the prioress there. The abbot forcibly expelled all the nuns who had lived at the abbey. The exiled nuns were scattered in various places. I saw this as an opportunity God himself had given me to provide for my oratory again. So I returned to the oratory and asked Héloïse to come there, along with some other nuns who had stayed with her.

On their arrival there I made over to them the oratory, together with everything pertaining thereto, and subsequently, through the approval and assistance of the bishop of the district, Pope Innocent II promulgated a decree confirming my gift in perpetuity to them and their successors. And this refuge of divine mercy, which they served so devotedly, soon brought them consolation, even though at first their life there was one of want, and for a time of utter destitution. But the place proved itself a true Paraclete to them, making all those who dwelt round about feel pity and kindliness for the sisterhood. So that, methinks, they prospered more through gifts in a single year than I should have done if I had stayed there a hundred. True it is that the weakness of womankind makes their needs and sufferings appeal strongly to people's feelings, as likewise it makes their virtue all the more pleasing to God and man. And God granted such favour in the eyes of all to her who was now my sister, and who was in authority over the rest, that the bishops loved her as a daughter, the abbots as a sister, and the laity as a mother. All alike marvelled at her religious zeal, her good judgment and the sweetness of her incomparable patience in all things. The less often she allowed herself to be seen, shutting herself up in her cell to devote herself to sacred meditations and prayers, the more eagerly did those who dwelt without demand her presence and the spiritual guidance of her words.

When they arrived, I gave them the oratory and everything that belonged to it. Later, with the local bishop’s approval and help, Pope Innocent II issued a decree confirming my gift. The oratory would belong to them and their successors forever. The sisters served this refuge of divine mercy with great devotion, and it soon brought them comfort. At first, though, they lacked necessities, and for a time they had nothing at all. But the place proved to be a true Paraclete for them. It moved all the people nearby to feel pity and kindness for the sisterhood. I believe they gained more from gifts in one year than I would have gained in a hundred years there. It is true that the weakness of women makes their needs and suffering appeal strongly to people’s feelings. It also makes their virtue all the more pleasing to God and man. God granted great favor in the eyes of all to the woman who was now my sister and led the others. Bishops loved her as a daughter, abbots as a sister, and laypeople as a mother. All of them admired her religious zeal, her good judgment, and her gentle, incomparable patience in all things. She kept herself in her cell, devoted to sacred meditation and prayer, and rarely allowed herself to be seen. The less often she appeared, the more eagerly those outside sought her presence and the spiritual guidance of her words.