Shame

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  The monks under the lead of the Augustinians, forgetting their vows, left the convents, laid aside the monastic dress, and took up their abode among the people to work for a living, or to become a burden to others, or to preach the new faith. Luther saw in these proceedings the work of Satan, who was bringing shame and reproach on the gospel.483 He feared that many left the cloister for the same reason for which they had entered, namely, from love of the belly and carnal freedom.484 During these troubles Crotus, the enthusiastic admirer of Luther, resigned the rectorship of the university, left Erfurt, and afterwards returned to the mother Church. The Peasants’ War of 1525 was another blow. Eobanus, the Latin poet who had greeted Luther on his entry, accepted a call to Nürnberg. The greatest celebrities left the city, or were disheartened, and died in poverty. From this time dates the decay of the university, once the flourishing seat of humanism and patriotic aspirations. It never recovered its former prosperity. § 66. The Revolution at Wittenberg. Carlstadt and the New Prophets. See Lit. in § 65. In Wittenberg the same spirit of violence broke out under the lead of Luther’s older colleague, Andreas Carlstadt, known to us from his ill success at the Leipzig disputation. He was a man of considerable originality, learning, eloquence, zeal, and courage, but eccentric, radical, injudicious, ill-balanced,

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  But the good effect was in great part neutralized by a stupendous fraud which brought Germany to the brink of a civil war. Philip of Hesse, an ardent, passionate, impulsive, ambitious prince, and patron of Protestantism, was deceived by an unprincipled and avaricious politician, Otto von Pack, provisional chancellor of the Duchy of Saxony, into the belief that Ferdinand of Austria, the Electors of Mainz and Brandenburg, the Dukes of Saxony and Bavaria, and other Roman Catholic rulers had concluded a league at Breslau, May 15, 1527, for the extermination of Protestantism. He procured at Dresden a sealed copy of the forged document, for which he paid Pack four thousand guilders. He persuaded the Elector John of Saxony of its genuineness, and concluded with him, in all haste, a counter-league, March 9, 1528. They secured aid from other princes, and made expensive military preparations, to anticipate by a masterstroke an attack of the enemy. Fortunately, the Reformers of Wittenberg were consulted, and prevented an open outbreak by their advice. Luther deemed the papists had enough for any thing, but was from principle opposed to aggressive war;948 Melanchthon saw through the forgery, and felt keenly mortified. When the fictitious document was published, the Roman Catholic princes indignantly denied it. Duke George denounced Pack as a traitor.949 Archduke Ferdinand declared that he never dreamed of such a league. The rash conduct of Philip put the Protestant princes in the position of aggressors and disturbers of the public peace, and the whole affair brought shame and disgrace upon their cause. § 115. The Second Diet of Speier, and the Protest of 1529. Walch, XVI. 315 sqq. J. J. Müller: Historie von der evang. Stände Protestation und Appellation wider den Reichsabschied zu Speier, 1529, Jena, 1705. Tittmann: Die Protestation der evang. Stände mit Hist. Erläuterungen, Leipzig, 1829. A. Jung: Gesch. des Reichstags zu Speier, 1529, Leipzig, 1830. J. Ney (protest. pastor at Speier): Geschichte des Reichstags zu Speier im Jahr 1529. Mit einem Anhange ungedruckter Akten und Briefe, Hamburg, 1880. Ranke, III. 102–116. Janssen, III 130–146. Under these discouragements the second Diet of Speier was convened in March, 1529, for action against the Turks, and against the further progress of Protestantism. The Catholic dignitaries appeared in full force, and were flushed with hopes of victory. The Protestants felt that "Christ was again in the hands of Caiaphas and Pilate."950 The Diet neutralized the recess of the preceding Diet of 1526; it virtually condemned (without, however, annulling) the innovations made; and it forbade, on pain of the imperial ban, any further reformation until the meeting of the council, which was now positively promised for the next year by the Emperor and the Pope. The Zwinglians and Anabaptists were excluded even from toleration. The latter were to be punished by death.

• From A History of Christianity (1976)

  pleasant cheer of death. . . the diligent, ubiquitous benignity of death’; ‘Deathbeds form a department of the church . . . which belongs to her officially’), deplored any tendency to preach Hell-fire to the lower classes but not to their betters: ‘I see real, good wholesome work to be done in real, good wholesome souls, by frequent meditation on Hell . . . .’ Moreover, Catholic intellectuals were expected to subscribe to the doctrine, and, where appropriate, to reflect it in their writings. In 1892, Professor St George Mivart, a Catholic zoologist, suggested that the sufferings of the damned might gradually be ameliorated, a speculation Newman thought admissible. Cardinal Vaughan, Archbishop of Westminster, thought otherwise, and required Mivart to subscribe to a statement of orthodox doctrine. Mivart refused, and found himself outside the Church. 3 The image of Rome as a repository of medieval certitudes, of social homogeneity, of a unitary view of life, exercised a marked appeal to a certain type of intellectual, and not only in England. In France, the current was, initially at least, much stronger, and it was linked to social and political forces which made nineteenth-century French Catholicism the driving force behind populist triumphalism. Chateâubriand’s Génie du Christianisme was the harbinger of a new Catholic and papal apologetic. For the first time since the twelfth century, various vocal interests saw the papacy, potentially at least, as a popular force, as a protection against unwelcome secular claims, and as a far more acceptable defender of civilized tradition than the old royal houses. The decline of Gallicanism and localism in the Church, and the virtual eclipse of the old type of bishop-aristocrat, produced an abrupt and permanent decline in episcopal authority, and thus placed the Pope and the parish priests (and through them, their congregations) in a direct relationship. In 1819 de Maistre published his remarkable celebration of the papacy, Du Pape, which not only reasserted the complete doctrine of papal infallibility, which had been devalued in the eighteenth century, but advanced persuasive and modern secular reasons for keeping, and exalting, the papal institution, as a barrier against barbarism and proletarian terror. The French Revolution and its consequences had destroyed Christianity as a total society; but it gave it a new place as a huge and vocal minority movement, active against change, ardent for conservatism, fighting reason with romance and progress with tradition, appealing strongly to certain ineradicable emotions in the human spirit. Catholicism, as conservative intellectuals recognized, was the chief beneficiary of the Christian reinvigoration because it made the fewest concessions to the modern egalitarian

• From A History of Christianity (1976)

  it utilized morally acceptable means. Bishop Buchberg called it ‘justified self-defence’ against ‘too-powerful Jewish capital’ (1931). Archbishop Grober, editing a handbook on religious problem, included an article on ‘race’ which stated: ‘Every people bears itself the responsibility for its successful existence, and the intake of entirely foreign blood will always represent a risk for a nationality that has proven its historical worth. Hence, no people may be denied the right to maintain undisturbed their previous racial stock and to enact safeguards for this purpose. The Christian religion merely demands that the means used do not offend against the moral law and natural justice.’ What did this mean in practice? Many Jews became Catholics to avoid persecution; thus the old Spanish problem of ‘new Christians’ cropped up again in a different form. The Nuremberg Laws of September 1935 dealt with this by forbidding two Catholics to marry if one were racially non-Aryan. By and large the Church bowed to this new law, which she had earlier termed an inadmissible infringement of her spiritual jurisdiction. One Catholic bishop, Hudel, actually defended the Nuremberg laws. The clergy made some effort to protect Catholics of Jewish birth; but it was unsystematic and unsuccessful. They claimed credit for forcing the Nazis to drop the compulsory divorce of people who had made racially mixed marriages, but this was probably achieved, rather, by demonstrations by Aryan wives. When the bishops condemned ‘killing’, as they occasionally did, they did not mention words like ‘Jews’ or ‘non-Aryan’, and never made it clear precisely what they were calling sinful. Thus Catholics engaged in the extermination processes were never told specifically by their clergy that they were doing wrong. The point is academic since they must have known already. The Church excommunicated Catholics who laid down in their wills that they wished to be cremated, or who took part in duels; but it did not forbid them to work in concentration or death-camps – and at the end of 1938, 22.7 per cent of the SS were practising Catholics. Provost Lichtenberg of Berlin was one of the very few Catholic priests who made a real protest against Hitler’s Jewish policy; he died on the way to Dachau in 1943. The laity were not much better, and the behaviour of the German bishops contrasted shamefully with that of their colleagues in France, Holland and Belgium. In 1943, the Prussian Synod of the Confessing Church pointed out that liquidation of the Jews was against the Fifth Commandment; this was a statement which the German Catholic bishops

• From A History of Christianity (1976)

  desolating extent of this latter fault in your soul. Pray daily against these two faults and look particularly after them in your examen of conscience. You must read no high spiritual books. . . . Pray silence as much as you can – never . . . argue on religion. . . . There is at present no symptom whatever of God calling you to perfection. . . . So far your spiritual life has been no more than an unreal ambition and built on sand. Your work is to begin.’ We also have a note of remonstration, dating from 1860, which Fr Faber, in accordance with his invariable custom, slipped under the bedroom door of Fr William Morris, one of the priests in his charge: ‘The absence of supernatural principles illustrated in your refusing to give Miss Merewether Holy Communion, because it might have shortened your breakfast by five minutes (1) Want of obligingness to one of your brothers and that when he was sick. (2) The example of what Jesus would have done obviously not your rule of action. (3) Want of penance, for even an almost microscopic inconvenience. (4) Want of silence in speaking of the breakfast. (5) Clear loss of spiritual sense in letting the length of breakfast be an obstacle, and in quoting it without any sense of shame or unspirituality. (6) Want of charity to an extern, and she sick. (7) Want of zeal of souls, depriving an invalid of the Fountain of Grace. (8) Want of love of Jesus, who longs to communicate Himself to souls, and you hindered Him, rather than curtail your breakfast five minutes, and His three hours on the Cross for you! You talk much of Our Lady – think of the want of love of her, who so jubilees in Communions. (9) Want of humility, in not doing so, if you thought you were being put upon. (10) Want of charity in judging, if you thought you were being put upon. (11) Plain absence of the saints’ principle of always being on the look out to increase your merits, and to do something for God. (12) The extreme nastiness of this pettiness, as compared with the grand, large, kindly apostolic spirit of St Philip’s Institute. (13) The disclosure of it is the absence of a life and spirit of prayer. (14) A token of fearful want of sensitiveness of conscience. (15) A proof of non-abiding presence of God: your first thought is self – and self’s comfort. Only your selfishness is prompt and at home: supernatural principles not at all. My poor child, sad and shameful as this disclosure of your interior must be for you, it is what I have seen all along – but I cannot put aside the mists of self- love and self-occupation and hardened delusion in which you habitually live.

• From A History of Christianity (1976)

  standing of the Christian faith than the First. It exposed the emptiness of the churches in Germany, the cradle of the Reformation, and the cowardice and selfishness of the Holy See. It was the nemesis of triumphalism, in both its Protestant and Catholic forms. Yet the Christian record was not entirely shameful. Christian resistance to Hitler and the Nazis had been weak and ineffectual, yet it did exist – it was more persistent and principled than that of any other element in German society. Some Christians in the West recognized its existence and tried to strengthen it; there was a slender line of Christian communication across the abyss of war. During the 1930s George Bell, Anglican Bishop of Chichester, had been in touch with the anti- Nazi group in the Evangelical Church, and in particular with Pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer. When war broke out he tried hard to combat the mindless Christian patriotism which, in 1914, had reinforced the hatreds on both sides. Indeed, he was one of the few Christian prelates in either of the world wars who tried to think out what a Churchman ought to do in these circumstances. In November 1939 he published an article, ‘The Church’s Function in Wartime’, in the Fortnightly Review, which argued that it was essential that the Church should remain the Church, and not ‘the state’s spiritual auxilliary’. It should define basic principles of conduct, and ‘not hesitate . . . to condemn the infliction of reprisals, or the bombing of civilian populations, by the military forces of its own nation. It should set itself against the propaganda of lies and hatred. It should be ready to encourage the resumption of friendly relations with the enemy nation. It should set its face against any war of extermination or enslavement, and any measures directly aimed to destroy the morale of a population.’ Bell did his best to live up to these principles, all of which were broken by the Allies with the knowledge and encouragement of the churches. In early summer 1942 he contrived to get to Sweden where he made contact with the German resistance and Bonhoeffer. The latter had told his friends in 1940, after Hitler’s success in France: ‘If we claim to be Christians, there is no room for expediency. Hitler is the anti-Christ. Therefore we must go on with our work and eliminate him, whether he be successful or not.’ Bonhoeffer’s last message, smuggled out of prison just before his execution in April 1945, was to Bell: ‘...with him I believe in the principle of our Universal Christian Brotherhood, which rises above all national interests, and that our victory is assured.’ For his part, Bell tried to set limits to Allied ferocity. He thought ‘the church cannot speak of any earthly war as a crusade’. He advocated an international

• From The Decameron (1353)

  So when the young man bearing the torch entered the room with the Bishop and all the others in their wake, the first thing they saw was the Provost lying there with Ciutazza in his arms. At that precise moment, the Provost woke up, and seeing all these people standing round him in the torchlight, he thrust his head under the bedclothes, feeling thoroughly ashamed and confused. But the Bishop, taking him severely to task, forced him to show his face and have a good look at the person with whom he had been sleeping. What with his discovery of the lady’s deception, and the disgrace that he felt he had suffered, the Provost was instantly transformed into the saddest man who ever lived. The Bishop ordered him to dress, and when he had done so, he was marched back to the church under heavy escort, there to suffer severe penance for the sin he had committed. Before taking his leave of the lady’s brothers, the Bishop asked them how it had come about that the Provost had gone to their house to sleep with Ciutazza, and the young men told him the whole story from beginning to end. On hearing what had happened, the Bishop warmly commended the lady and the two young men, who, not wishing to soil their hands with the blood of a priest, had treated the Provost as he deserved. The Provost was forced by his bishop to do forty days’ penance for his sin, but love and indignation prolonged his suffering to forty-nine days at the very least, to say nothing of the fact that for a long time afterwards, he was unable to walk down the street without being pointed at by small boys, who would taunt him with the words: ‘There goes the man who went to bed with Ciutazza.’ And this riled him so much that he was almost driven out of his mind. This, then, was the way in which the worthy lady rid herself of the presumptuous Provost’s insufferable attentions, and Ciutazza won herself a smock. FIFTH STORYThree young men pull down the breeches of a judge from the Marches whilst he is administering the law on the Florentine bench. When Emilia had brought her story to an end, and the widow had been commended by all those present, the queen looked towards Filostrato, and said: ‘Now it is your turn to speak.’ Filostrato promptly replied that he was ready to do so, and began as follows: Delectable ladies, after hearing Elissa referring just now to the young man called Maso del Saggio, I have been prompted to discard the tale I was intending to relate in order to tell you one about Maso and some of his companions, which, though not improper, contains certain words that you ladies would hesitate to use. But since it is highly amusing, I am sure you would like to hear it.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  To which, heaving a sigh, Ser Ciappelletto replied: ‘Father, I am loath to tell you the truth on this matter, in case I should sin by way of vainglory.’ To which the holy friar replied: ‘Speak out freely, for no man ever sinned by telling the truth, either in confession or otherwise.’ ‘Since you assure me that this is so,’ said Ser Ciappelletto, ‘I will tell you. I am a virgin as pure as on the day I came forth from my mother’s womb.’ ‘Oh, may God give you His blessing!’ said the friar. ‘How nobly you have lived! And your restraint is all the more deserving of praise in that, had you wished, you would have had greater liberty to do the opposite than those who, like ourselves, are expressly forbidden by rule.’ Next he asked him whether he had displeased God by committing the sin of gluttony; to which, fetching a deep sigh, Ser Ciappelletto replied that he had, and on many occasions. For although, apart from the periods of fasting normally observed in the course of the year by the devout, he was accustomed to fasting on bread and water for at least three days every week, he had drunk the water as pleasurably and avidly (especially when he had been fatigued from praying or going on a pilgrimage) as any great bibber of wine; he had often experienced a craving for those dainty little wild herb salads that women eat when they go away to the country; and sometimes the thought of food had been more attractive to him than he considered proper in one who, like himself, was fasting out of piety. Whereupon the friar said: ‘My son, these sins are natural and they are very trivial, and therefore I would not have you burden your conscience with them more than necessary. No matter how holy a man may be, he will be attracted by the thought of food after a long spell of fasting, and by the thought of drink when he is fatigued.’ ‘Oh!’ said Ser Ciappelletto. ‘Do not tell me this to console me, father. As you are aware, I know that things done in the service of God must all be done honestly and without any grudge; and if anyone should do otherwise, he is committing a sin.’ The friar, delighted, said to him: ‘I am contented to see you taking such a view, and it pleases me greatly that you should have such a good and pure conscience in this matter. But tell me, have you ever been guilty of avarice, by desiring to have more than was proper, or keeping what you should not have kept?’ To which Ser Ciappelletto replied: ‘Father, I would not wish you to judge me ill because I am in the house of these money-lenders.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  By the time he arrived there, it began to dawn on him that all the candle-ends he could muster from a whole year’s offerings would scarcely amount to a half of five pounds in value, and he could have kicked himself for being so stupid as to leave her his cloak. So he began to consider how he might retrieve it without having to pay. Being a crafty sort of fellow, he soon thought of a very good way of getting it back, and it worked to perfection. On the following day, which happened to be a feast day, he sent the child of one of his neighbours to Monna Belcolore’s house, asking her whether she would kindly lend him her stone mortar, because Binguccio dal Poggio and Nuto Buglietti were due to breakfast with him later in the morning, and he wanted to prepare a sauce. Belcolore sent him the mortar, and when it was nearly time for breakfast and the priest knew that Bentivegna del Mazzo and Belcolore would be about to sit at table, he called his sacristan and said: ‘Take this mortar back to Monna Belcolore, and say to her: “Father says thank you very much, and would you mind sending back the cloak that the boy left with you by way of surety.” ’ So the sacristan took the mortar along to Belcolore’s house, where he found her sitting at table with Bentivegna, having breakfast; and having put the mortar down on the table, he gave her the priest’s message. When she heard him asking for the cloak, Belcolore tried to speak, but Bentivegna rounded on her angrily, saying: ‘What’s all this about taking sureties from the priest? Jesus Christ, I’ve a good mind to thrash the hide off you. Pox take you, woman, go and get the cloak and hand it back, and be quick about it. And just you remember from now on: if the priest wants anything, he’s to have it, no matter what it is, even if he asks for our ass.’ Belcolore got up, grumbling and muttering to herself, and went to fetch the cloak, which she had tucked away in a chest at the foot of the bed. And as she handed it over to the sacristan, she said: ‘Give the priest this message from me: “Belcolore says that she swears to God you won’t be grinding any more of your sauces in her mortar, after the shabby way you’ve treated her over this one.” ’ The sacristan took the cloak back to the priest and gave him Belcolore’s message, whereupon he burst out laughing and said: ‘Next time you see her, tell her that if she doesn’t lend me her mortar, I shan’t let her have my pestle. It’s no use having one without the other.’

• From The Decameron (1353)

  For some little time she remained silent, being too embarrassed to say anything, but finally he forced her to tell him the whole story from beginning to end. Gilberto was at first extremely angry, but after mature reflection, bearing in mind the purity of his wife’s intentions, he put aside his anger and said: ‘Dianora, no wise or virtuous woman should ever pay heed to messages of that sort, nor should she ever barter her chastity with anyone, no matter what terms she may impose. The power of words received by the heart through the ears is greater than many people think, and to those who are in love nearly everything becomes possible. 2 Hence you did wrong, first of all to pay any heed to him and secondly to barter with him. But because I know you were acting from the purest of motives, I shall allow you, so as to be quit of your promise, to do something which possibly no other man would permit, being swayed also by my fear of the magician, whom Messer Ansaldo, if you were to play him false, would perhaps encourage to do us a mischief. I therefore want you to go to him, and endeavour in every way possible to have yourself released from this promise without loss of honour; but if this should prove impossible, just for this once you may give him your body, but not your heart.’ On hearing her husband speak in this way, the lady burst into tears, maintaining that she wanted no such favour from him; but no matter how loudly she protested, Gilberto was adamant. And so next morning, just as dawn was breaking, the lady set out, by no means richly adorned, together with one of her maids, and preceded by two of her husband’s retainers she made her way to Messer Ansaldo’s house. Messer Ansaldo was astounded to hear that his lady had come, and leaping out of bed he summoned the magician and said to him: ‘I want you to see for yourself how great a prize your skill has procured me.’ They then descended to meet her, and Messer Ansaldo greeted her courteously and reverentially, without any show of unbridled passion, after which they all made their way into a splendid apartment where a huge fire was burning.

• From A History of Christianity (1976)

  the men that had worn it. One of its monks, Hincmar, author of a partly fictitious account of the abbey’s relationship to the crown, was promoted Archbishop of Reims, where he made the Abbey of St Bertin the leading centre for the writing of French, especially royal, history and records. Such work might stretch the capacities of a fine mind. Hincmar, from 861–82, turned the terse and bare Annals of St Bertin into a full and colourful account; and, like Bede before him, used all the resources of the Church to get information which was scattered over the realm of Francis. But there was no real attempt to turn even history into a speculative, creative, or interpretive art; its writing was firmly limited by biblical and classical conventions, and by certain outstanding Latin models. The leading abbeys were the universities of the Dark Ages. But the curriculum was limited and the intellectual purpose humble. John Cassian, who did so much to determine the cultural perspectives of western monasticism, had argued that the era of creative exploration of Christian doctrine was over; all that remained to be done was a tidying-up process. There could be no question of another Jerome or Augustine. This conviction arose partly from the feeling that the work had already been done; partly, also, from an immense sense of inferiority towards the classical world which had now vanished. Eighth- and ninth- century monks believed that under the Romans mankind had possessed virtually the sum of ascertainable human knowledge, nearly all of which had since been lost; the most that they could do was to transmit faithfully what had been preserved. Augustine, writing on the brink of catastrophe, had allotted an essentially humble and unenquiring role for the human mind in the total Christian society. In destroying Pelagianism he had snapped the tradition of speculating on first principles, and banned the practice of critical reexamination of accepted conclusions. ‘Rome has spoken; the debate is over’ – those were his very words. The impact of his teaching was to apply the phrase in a much wider context than he had, perhaps, intended. His message to the Dark Ages was seen as: ‘The ancient world and the Fathers have spoken: the debate is over’; and by debate was understood the whole process of acquiring knowledge by thought and experiment. It was not for monks, however able, to challenge the conclusions of the past: merely to transmit and where necessary translate them. It can be argued that, in the long run, civilization has benefited from the intellectual self-abasement of these centuries. Much of the ancient world survived because of the intense reverence of a handful of men for the literary relics of the past.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The sight filled him with dismay, and at first he wanted to cry out to them, but then he decided to hold his peace and, if possible, remain hidden, so that he could carry out, with greater prudence and less detriment to his honour, the plan of action that had already taken shape in his mind. The two lovers remained together for a considerable time, as was their custom, without noticing Tancredi; and when they felt it was time for them to part, they got up from the bed and Guiscardo returned to the cavern. Ghismonda too left the room, and Tancredi, though he was getting on in years, clambered through a window and lowered himself into the garden without being seen, returning thence in deep distress to his own apartment. On Tancredi’s orders, Guiscardo was taken prisoner by two guards soon after dark that very night, just as he was emerging, hindered by the suit of leather he was wearing, from the hole in the ground. He was then conducted in secret to Tancredi, who almost burst into tears on seeing him, and said: ‘Guiscardo, my benevolence towards you deserved a better reward than the shameful deed I saw you committing today, with my own eyes, against that which belongs to me.’ By way of reply, all that Guiscardo said was: ‘Neither you nor I can resist the power of Love.’ 3 Tancredi then ordered him to be placed under secret guard in one of the inner rooms, and this was done. Ghismonda knew nothing of this, and after breakfast on the next day, Tancredi, who had been thinking all manner of strange and terrible thoughts, paid his usual call upon his daughter in her chamber. And having locked the door behind him, his eyes filled with tears, and he said to her: ‘Never having doubted your virtue and honesty, Ghismonda, it would never have occurred to me, whatever people might have said, that you would ever so much as think of yielding to a man who was not your husband. But now I have actually seen you doing it with my own eyes, and the memory of it will always torment me during what little remains of my old age. ‘Moreover, since you felt bound to bring so much dishonour upon yourself, in God’s name you might at least have chosen someone whose rank was suited to your own. But of all the people who frequent my court, you have to choose Guiscardo, a youth of exceedingly base condition, whom we took into our court and raised from early childhood mainly out of charity. Your conduct has faced me with an appalling dilemma, inasmuch as I have no idea how I am to deal with you. I have already come to a decision about Guiscardo, who is under lock and key, having been arrested last night on my orders as he was emerging from the cavern; but God knows what I am to do with you.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Meanwhile the Abbot ordered one of his servants to go and see whether the man was still there. ‘“Yes, sir,” replied the servant. “What is more, he is eating a loaf of bread, which he must have brought with him.” ‘“Then let him eat his own food, if he has some,” said the Abbot, “for he shall eat none of ours today.” ‘The Abbot would have preferred that Primas should go away of his own accord, for he felt it would be discourteous to order him to leave. Having eaten the first loaf, there being still no sign of the Abbot, Primas began to eat the second. This fact also was reported to the Abbot, who had sent to see whether he was still there. ‘Finally, since the Abbot showed no sign of coming, Primas, having finished the second loaf, started to eat the third. This too was reported to the Abbot, who began to ponder the matter and say to himself: “Now what on earth has got into me today? Why have I suddenly become such a miser? Why should I feel so much contempt for this unknown visitor? For years I have provided food for any man who cared to eat it, without inquiring whether he was a peasant or a gentleman, poor or rich, merchant or swindler. With my own eyes, I have seen any number of rogues devouring my food, and I have never felt as I do today about this fellow. No ordinary man can have caused me to be afflicted with such meanness. This fellow I regard as a knave must be someone important, for me to have set my heart so firmly against offering him my hospitality.” ‘Having said this to himself, he was anxious to know who the man might be. And when he discovered it was Primas, who had come there to see if the tales of his generosity were true, the Abbot felt thoroughly ashamed, for he had long been aware of the reputation Primas enjoyed as a man of excellent worth. Being desirous of making amends, he went out of his way to do him honour. After having fed him in a manner appropriate to his renown, he saw that he was richly clothed, provided him with money and a saddle-horse, and offered him the freedom of his household. Well satisfied, Primas thanked the Abbot as heartily as he could, before returning on horseback to Paris, whence he had set out on foot.’ Can Grande, being a man of some intelligence, had no need to hear any more in order to see exactly what Bergamino was driving at. And with a broad smile, he said to him: ‘Bergamino, you have given an apt demonstration of the wrongs you have suffered. You have shown us your worth, my meanness, and what it is that you want from me. To tell you the truth, I was never seized before with the meanness I have lately felt on your account.

• From A History of Christianity (1976)

  seek falsely to represent the discussions within the church as a conflict against the state.’ The Evangelicals provided both the most craven supporters of Hitler and the only element in the state churches to oppose him. Resistance, of a sort, began with the Evangelical ‘Barmen Confession’ of May 1934, rejecting ‘the false doctrine that the state, over and above its special commission, should and could become the single and totalitarian order of human life, thus fulfilling the church’s vocation as well.’ But this was a theological not a political statement; the ‘Confessing Church’ never attempted political opposition. Even in Neimoller’s church, Nazi flags hung from the walls, and the congregation gave the Nazi salute. And the courage of the pastors was limited. When some of them sent a private protest to Hitler in 1936, which was later published in Switzerland, the public outcry – Hitler was growing in popularity at the time – led the signatories to backtrack. When the Olympic Games were over, Dr Weissler, who had authorized publication (and had then been disowned by the ‘Confessing Church’) was put into Sachsenhausen, and beaten to death a few months later. The first, and virtually the only, protest gesture by the Catholics was Pius XI’s German encyclical, Mit Brennender Sorge, smuggled into Germany and read out on Palm Sunday in 1937. It attacked not merely violations of the concordat but Nazi state and racial doctrines, and was taken by Hitler to be a declaration of war. He suppressed it without difficulty and there is no evidence it stirred Catholic opposition to the regime. Indeed, he dealt with the state churches without really raising his voice. He used the currency laws, from 1935, to punish priests or nuns with contacts abroad, a device later adopted by the Communist states. The Gestapo carried out repression when necessary. It rarely needed to be severe. Except for a few individuals, the clergy were hardly ever imprisoned for long. Of 17,000 Evangelical pastors, there were never more than fifty serving long terms at any one time. Of the Catholics, one bishop was expelled from his diocese, and another got a short term for currency offences. There was no more resistance, despite the fact that, by summer 1939, all religious schools had been abolished. Only the free sects stuck to their principles enough to merit outright persecution. The bravest were the Jehovah’s Witnesses, who proclaimed their outright doctrinal opposition from the beginning and suffered accordingly. They refused any cooperation with the Nazi state which they denounced as totally evil. The Nazis believed they were part of the international Jewish-Marxist conspiracy. Many were sentenced to death for refusing military

• From The Decameron (1353)

  And since it could only have been taken by one of the people here, he wants to discover who it was by offering, to each of you in turn, one of these sweets to eat, together with a drink of this wine. I should explain to you right away that whoever has taken the pig will be unable to swallow the sweet – in fact, he will find it more bitter than poison, and spit it out. So before he is put to so much shame in the presence of all these people, perhaps it would be better for the person responsible to make a clean breast of it to the priest, and I can call the whole thing off.’ All of them were only too eager to eat one of the sweets, and so Bruno, having lined them up with Calandrino in the middle, started from one end and began to hand one out to each of them in turn. When he came to Calandrino, he picked up one of the sweets of the canine variety and placed it in the palm of his hand. Calandrino promptly tossed it into his mouth and began to chew on it, but no sooner did his tongue come into contact with the aloe than, finding the bitter taste quite intolerable, he spat it out again. They were all keeping a close watch on one another to see who was going to spit out his sweet, and Bruno, who still had several more to distribute, carried on as though nothing had happened until he heard a voice behind him saying: ‘Hey, Calandrino, what’s the meaning of this?’ Turning quickly round, and seeing that Calandrino had spat his out, he said: ‘Wait a minute! Perhaps he spat it out for some other reason. Here, take another!’ And picking up the second one, he thrust it into Calandrino’s mouth before proceeding to hand out the ones he had left. Bitter as Calandrino had found the first, the second seemed a great deal more so, but being ashamed to spit it out, he kept it in his mouth for a while. As he chewed away at it, tears as big as hazelnuts began to roll down his cheeks until eventually, being unable to bear it any longer, he spat it out like the first. Buffalmacco was meanwhile handing out drinks all round, with the assistance of Bruno. And when, along with all the others, they observed what had happened, everyone declared that Calandrino had obviously stolen the pig himself, and there were one or two who gave him a severe scolding about it. However, when the crowd had dispersed, leaving Bruno and Buffalmacco alone with Calandrino, Buffalmacco turned to him and said: ‘I was convinced all along that you were the one who had taken it.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  And heaving many a sigh, he answered him as follows: ‘If only the gods had so willed it, Gisippus, I would much rather have died than continued to live, when I think how Fortune has driven me to the point where my virtue had to be put to the test, and where, to my very great shame, you have found it wanting. But I confidently expect to receive, before long, my just reward in the form of my death, and this will be dearer to me than to go on living with the memory of my baseness, which, since there is nothing I either could or should conceal from you, I shall tell you about, though I burn with shame to speak of it.’ And so, starting from the beginning, he explained the cause of his melancholy, describing the conflict that had raged between his contrasting thoughts, which of them had won the day, and how he was wasting away for love of Sophronia. Moreover he declared that since he knew his attitude to be wholly improper, he had resolved that he would die by way of penance, and believed he would shortly achieve this desirable aim. On hearing what Titus had said, and observing how bitterly he wept, Gisippus was at first somewhat taken aback, for although his own passionate feelings towards the beautiful Sophronia were more restrained, he too was fascinated by her charms. But he instantly decided that his friend’s life meant more to him than Sophronia, and being moved to tears by the tears of his comrade, he replied, sobbing continuously: ‘If, Titus, you were less in need of reassurance, I should take you severely to task, seeing that you have abused our friendship by not telling me earlier of this overwhelming passion. Even if you felt that your thoughts were improper, that was no reason for concealing them from your friend, any more than if they were proper: for just as a true friend takes a delight in sharing his friend’s proper thoughts, so he will attempt to wean him away from those that are improper. But enough of that for the present: let us turn to the question that I take to be the more urgent. The fact that you have fallen violently in love with Sophronia, my promised bride, does not surprise me in the least; indeed I should be most surprised if you hadn’t, considering her beauty and your own loftiness of spirit, which renders you all the more susceptible to passionate feelings, the greater the excellence of the object that arouses your liking. And

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Having eased himself into the bed, Titus took the girl in his arms, and asked her in a voice no louder than a whisper whether she wanted to be his wife, as though playing some sort of game with her. The girl replied in the affirmative, thinking he was Gisippus, whereupon he placed a fine and precious ring on her finger, saying: ‘And I want to be your husband.’ The marriage was then consummated, and thereafter Titus long continued to disport himself amorously with her, neither Sophronia nor anyone else ever suspecting that the person with whom she shared her bed was not Gisippus. This, then, was where the marriage of Sophronia and Titus stood, when Titus was informed by letter that Publius, his father, had departed this life, and that hence he should return to Rome at once to attend to his affairs. So after consulting with Gisippus, he decided to leave Athens and take Sophronia with him, which he was neither prepared nor easily able to do without explaining everything to Sophronia. So one day, they called her into the room and took her fully into their confidence, nor could she doubt that their story was true because of numerous things that had passed between Titus and herself. And having cast a withering look, first at one, then at the other, she burst into floods of tears, complaining bitterly of the trick Gisippus had played on her. But before anyone else in the house came to hear of it, she took refuge in the house of her father, to whom, as well as to her mother, she recounted the way in which she and they had been hoodwinked by Gisippus, pointing out that she was married, not to Gisippus as they supposed, but to Titus. Sophronia’s father, who took a very grave view of the matter, complained loud and long to his kinsfolk, as well as to the kinsfolk of Gisippus, and there was a huge palaver, followed in turn by a great deal of gossip. Gisippus incurred the hatred of both Sophronia’s kinsfolk and his own, and everyone declared that he deserved to be not only censured but punished most severely. But he maintained that he had acted honourably and in such a way as to merit the gratitude of Sophronia’s kinsfolk, inasmuch as he had married her to someone better than himself. For his part, Titus heard all that was going on, and patiently bore the suffering it caused him. But eventually, knowing the Greeks had a habit of raising an enormous clamour and intensifying their threats until such time as they found someone to answer them back, when they would suddenly become not

• From Moral Man and Immoral Society: A Study in Ethics and Politics (1932)

  The rational forces, which seek to bring this energy, in which self-consciousness has focused the primal dynamic of all life in one particular point, seem weak indeed, when compared with the force arrayed against them. They are all the more inadequate for having no impartial perspective, from which to view, and no transcendent fulcrum, from which to affect human action, They always remain bound to the forces they are intended to discipline. The will-to-power uses reason, as kings use courtiers and chaplains to add grace to their enterprise. Even the most rational men are never quite rational when their own interests are at stake. “What man,” said Helvetius, “...if with a scrupulous attention he searches all the recesses of his soul, will not perceive that his virtues and vices are wholly owing to different modifications of personal interest?...For after all interest is always obeyed; hence the injustice of all our judgments.” {24} This insinuation of the interests of the self into even the most ideal enterprises and most universal objectives, envisaged in moments of highest rationality, makes hypocrisy an inevitable by-product of all virtuous endeavor. It is, in a sense, a tribute to the moral nature of man as well as a proof of his moral limitations; for it is significant that men cannot pursue their own ends with the greatest devotion, if they are unable to attribute universal values to their particular objectives. But men are no more able to eliminate self-interest from their nobler pursuits than they are able to express it fully without hiding it behind and compounding it with honest efforts at or dishonest pretensions of universality. Even a conscious attempt to eliminate dishonest and ambiguous motives is no perfect guarantee against hypocrisy; for there is no miracle by which men can achieve a rationality high enough to give them as vivid an understanding of general interests as of their own. Jeremy Bentham, who gave himself to the hope that men could be weaned from their immediate desires, if only they could be brought to realise that a broad social interest was not in conflict but in ultimate harmony with a wise egoism, found to his disappointment that a prudent self-interest was an achievement almost as rare as unselfishness. When impulse presses toward immediate goals it cannot always be deterred, even though reason try to persuade it that its real ends may be attained in more ultimate and inclusive terms. Writing in 1822, after many of his reform movements had failed to claim the popular support he had anticipated, Bentham confessed: “Now for some years past all inconsistencies, all surprises have vanished....A clue to the interior of the labyrinth has been found. It is the principle of self-preference.

• From Moral Man and Immoral Society: A Study in Ethics and Politics (1932)

  It might be added that when the cruelties of economic and political life are thus obscured, and when the inertia, which every effort toward social justice must meet in any society, however religious or enlightened, remains unrecognised, there is always a note of hypocrisy, as well as sentimentality, in the total view. Those who benefit from social injustice are naturally less capable of understanding its real character than those who suffer from it. They will attribute ethical qualities to social life, if only the slightest gesture of philanthropy hides social injustice. If the disinherited treat these gestures with cynicism and interpret unconscious sentimentality as conscious hypocrisy, the privileged will be properly outraged and offended by the moral perversity of the recipients of their beneficences. Since liberal Protestantism is, on the whole, the religion of the privileged classes of Western civilisation, it is not surprising that its espousal of the ideal of love, in a civilisation reeking with social injustice, should be cynically judged and convicted of hypocrisy by those in whom bitter social experiences destroy the sentimentalities and illusions of the comfortable. Religion, in short, faces many perils to the right and to the left in becoming an instrument and inspiration of social justice. Every genuine passion for social justice will always contain a religious element within it. Religion will always leaven the idea of justice with the ideal of love. It will prevent the idea of justice, which is a politico-ethical ideal, from becoming a purely political one, with the ethical element washed out. The ethical ideal which threatens to become too purely religious must save the ethical ideal which is in peril of becoming too political. Furthermore there must always be a religious element in the hope of a just society. Without the ultrarational hopes and passions of religion no society will ever have the courage to conquer despair and attempt the impossible; for the vision of a just society is an impossible one, which can be approximated only by those who do not regard it as impossible. The truest visions of religion are illusions, which may be partially realised by being resolutely believed. For what religion believes to be true is not wholly true but ought to be true; and may become true if its truth is not doubted. Yet the full force of religious faith will never be available for the building of a just society, because its highest visions are those which proceed from the insights of a sensitive individual conscience. If they are realised at all, they will be realised in intimate religious communities, in which individual ideals achieve social realisation but do not conquer society.

• From Moral Man and Immoral Society: A Study in Ethics and Politics (1932)

  Broad, seeking to do justice to its dynamic quality, places it in the category of impulse, but gives it a sui generis character. Among many human desires, there is a unique desire, “the desire to do right.” {20} This is a fairly convincing explanation of the moral sense, though the definition of the sense of “ought” as a desire, even though a unique desire, is still too general to do full justice to it. Whatever its peculiar character, the important fact, for our purposes, is that men do seem to possess, among other moral resources, a sense of obligation toward the good, however they may define it. While it may give force to moral judgments, which must be regarded as mistaken from a rational perspective, its general tendency is to support reason against impulse. Historically it is related to both the rational and the impulsive elements in human nature. While it is not underived, it is at least as unique as the capacity for conceptual knowledge. Like conceptual knowledge it may be strengthened and enlarged by discipline, and may deteriorate by lack of use. Professor Gilbert Murray, in his Rise of the Greek Epic , gives a telling example from Greek history of the force of this element of conscience in human behavior: “If you take people—who have broken away from all their old sanctions, and select from among them some strong turbulent chief who fears no one, you will think that such a man is free to do whatever enters his head. And then as a matter of fact you find that among his lawlessness there will crop up some possible action which somehow makes him feel uncomfortable. If he has done it he “rues” the deed, and is haunted by it. If he has not done it he refrains from doing it. And this is not because any one forces him, nor yet because any particular result will accrue to him afterwards. But simply because he feels Aidos . No one can tell where the exact point of honor will arise. When Achilles fought against Eëtion’s city, “he sacked all the happy city of the Cilician men, high-gated Thebe, and slew Eëtion; but he spoiled him not of his armour. He had Aidos in his heart for that; but he burned him there as he lay in his rich-wrought armour, and heaped a mound above him.”—That is Aidos pure and clean. Achilles had nothing to gain, nothing to lose. Nobody would have said a word if he had taken Eëtion’s richly wrought armour. It would have been quite the natural thing to do. But he happened to feel Aidos about it. {21} The cynic might observe that conscience did not prevent the annihilation of a foe but only the perpetration of an indignity upon his corpse. Conscience is a moral resource in human life, but it is not as powerful as those moralists assume, who would save mankind by cultivating the sense of duty.