To his lord and father Peter, most worthy abbot of the brethren of Cluny, Bernard, his son and their brother, sends one golden earring. What is brought before the public ear or before the mouths of many is the part of a wise man to accuse with correction and to absolve with judgment. Indeed, to revise his own work again and again gains glory for an author; to set it forth rashly and headlong gains disgrace. Hence it comes about that every writer betakes himself to the one side or the other; and if indeed he corrects his pen by the examination of other prudent men, he acquires—even if he does not seek it—the title and name of a prudent man.
But if, breathing pride, he disdains to submit his hand to the ferule, he is convicted no less of folly than of arrogance, and therefore neither he himself nor his discourse is accepted even by the unlearned. I lie if Flaccus Horace too, in instructing his Pisos and in restraining us who write poems everywhere—according to that saying of the poet, 'the untaught and the taught alike'—I lie, I say, if Flaccus in his Art of Poetry does not agree with the very thing I hold; for there he commands that a writing which many a day and many an erasure has not restrained, and which, though perfected, he has not chastised ten times to the fingernail, should be kept back until the ninth year.
But the imprudent—nay rather the impudent—who everywhere both bring forth and thrust upon us their own inventions and their own writings, who are 'ever learning and never coming to the knowledge of the truth,' while they reject the judgment of others, content with their own, suppose they know something. And since they are masters to themselves and hearers to themselves, and trusting in their own paltry talents take pride in them, they reckon the sayings of others as nothing or as little, but their own as great. But on the contrary, it is the part of the wise and the learned to compare their own work with the discourses of the learned, in them and with them and from them to learn the form and manner of writing, and to emulate and follow the arrangement and structure both of meanings and of the very words.
It is assuredly the custom of every learned man, by the judgment of his elders, to file his studies if they need a more careful file, to polish them if they need ornament, to correct them if they need amendment; and if they need none of these, then at last to finish them off as fit to be read. Considering this, I have not neglected to set before your authority, most learned father, the work here subjoined, which on the contempt of the world I have prepared and delivered in dactylic meter. I have not neglected, I say, to set it before you. For I did not judge it ought to be published with free confidence or trustworthy freedom, unless first it had been approved by the tongue of Peter—and truly of Peter—fortified with favor, corrected by judgment, strengthened by testimony. That I have called so great a person by his bare name, I pray no one be angry with me; that, doubling so great a praise, I have impressed it, let no one set down to flattery.
I know that, just as among ill-disposed minds glory or praise is the ruin of virtue, so on the contrary among noble minds it is a spur. Nor was it falsely said by the poet, 'Glory has a spur.' For a generous spirit ever strives, whenever anything of praise is spoken of itself, that—if it be not so as it is said—it may be so because it is said. But no one would do anything absurd if he should praise a good and God-fearing man, since to him that very praise is the material of virtue. But enough of these things. Now let me return to what I omitted. To your correction, therefore, most learned father and lord, I have determined to commit this little work on the contempt of the world. I have written it, divided it, but have not yet published it as wholly finished.
But why it has pleased me to write rather in the tenor of meter than in extended prose—if either some other or even you yourself should ask—receive it thus. To use poetic words, 'Poets wish either to profit or to delight, or to say both things at once that are honorable and fitting for life.' Indeed, what is uttered set forth in metrical song is both heard more willingly and read more eagerly, and thereby is the more easily committed to deep memory. Hence it comes about that, while the reader is enticed by the form of the verses and by the sonority of the words, he is kindled and girded for the practice of those things which he has either read or heard; and while he considers the elegance of the words, he may exercise their efficacy.
Wherefore, just as in meter there is very much grace, so in grace there is very much usefulness, and either of these two depends upon the other. This is most easy to see. For if the reader is delighted in the one, consequently he is delighted in the other also. Indeed, he who solicitously contemplates the form of the words often the more solicitously embraces the fruit of the things themselves. Hence it is that poets wrote all things, or nearly all, which they wrote, in meter; they sent them forth written, so to speak, in metrical song, taking heed even especially to this, that things which could less well be set forth in plain speech, depicted in meter, they might render pleasing. Hence too it comes about that the very psalter (as the fathers attest) lyric feet composed.
I pass over that very many pages of the Testament—which I refrain from enumerating—were, for the reason given above, issued in meter, not transmuted into meter. For in the time of revealed grace, when faith, when the Gospel, when our crucified Jesus was now reigning everywhere among the nations, the grace of the versifying art so advanced that certain of the catholics did not fear to transmute even the majesty of the evangelical page into the spondee and the dactyl. So therefore I too, imitating the style of these whom I emulate with the emulation of God; and if I was not able to attain so great a knowledge as they did either in this or in other exercises, yet to follow them I both wished and was able, and have followed.
For because among my contemporaries a fame of versifying well—though undeservedly—flitted about me, and scarcely anyone, or no one, rebuked the vices of the lost by living voice, much less by writing, my heart grew hot within me; and when in my meditation the fire of zeal burned for not a few days and nights, at last I girded myself, and spoke with my tongue what, conceived in mind, I had long concealed within me. For I had often heard from the Bridegroom, but had not heeded, 'Let your voice sound in my ears.' And again it was cried to me by the Beloved, 'Open to me, my sister.' What then?
I rose up to open to my Beloved, and said, 'Lord, that my heart may think, that my pen may write, that my mouth may announce your praise, pour into both my heart and my pen and my mouth your grace.' And the Lord said to me, 'Open your mouth, and I will fill it.' I therefore opened my mouth, which the Lord filled with the spirit of wisdom and understanding, that through the one I might speak true things, through the other clear things. Not arrogantly but altogether humbly would I affirm that, had not the spirit of wisdom and understanding been present and flowed in upon me, I could not have sustained the weaving of so long a work in so difficult a meter.
For that kind of meter, being a continuous dactyl except for the final trochee or spondee, and also preserving the leonine sonority, on account of its difficulty has by now almost—not to say utterly—fallen out of use. Indeed, Hildebert of Lavardin, who on account of the prerogative of his learning was first promoted to bishop and afterward to metropolitan, and Wilchard, canon of Lyons, most excellent versifiers, contributed how very little to this meter is plain. Of these, Hildebert, while commending that blessed sinner Mary (I mean the Egyptian) in hexameters, embellished only four verses in this meter; but Wilchard, more or less thirty, in that satire of his against certain men. To what does this tend?
Namely, that it may be understood that, not save by the cooperation of God and the confirming of my discourse, I wrote in that meter three little books, in which meter they wrote few—nay, very few—verses. And let these things be said with their peace. But now to the censure of your examination, most learned father, I present my meditations, and offer you my obedience as one golden earring. For some days ago, when you were at Nogent and had deigned to accept some of my little works, you perceived that this one also—because I had introduced mention of it before you—would be offered to you. Because then I could not, for I did not have it at hand, now I present it to you divided into three little books; and here I ask your correction, if it shall be needful.
Nor is it amiss briefly to taste beforehand what subject matter I have assigned to each book. For in the first there is disputed the contempt of the world. In the two that follow, one face answers both as to the matter and as to the intention; for both my matter is the rebuke of vices, and my intention is to call back from vices. What usefulness, what honor the writing of these things brings forth, is hidden from no one. Why say much? My work, of whatever sort, I have assigned to you, father; assigned, I have written it. Written with God's favoring, either I will send it being absent, or offer it being present. Let the gracious father therefore receive thankfully the writing of his son, the master of his disciple, the lord of his servant; for, my conscience bearing witness, I confidently dare to say, and I do say, that I am to you a son, not spurious.
I am to you a disciple, not a stranger. I am to you a servant, not servile. What are you to me? Nay, and what am I to you? Plainly, you shall be to me as a father, and I to you as a son. For the rest, may the God of peace and love preserve you and yours in peace in the selfsame, venerable father. Amen. The last hour, the times are most evil—let us watch. Behold, threateningly there presses on us that supreme Judge. He presses on, he presses on, to end evils, to crown the just, to reward the upright, to set free the anxious, to grant the heavens. Let him take away the harsh and hard burdens of the laden mind, fortify the sober, punish the wicked—both justly. He, the most holy, he, the most severe, behold, the King comes. Let guilty man rise; the God-man stands at hand, judge from the Father.
Rise up, run by the simple path, all you who can; the King comes swiftly, himself conscious, himself witness. While it is allowed, O wicked things, while there is leisure, let all fleeting things be washed away; let it be given to the needy, let the depths be made ready for those who prepare the heights. The Judge presses on, about faithfully to set forth what he will give or has given; to the good the light returns, to the evil he is harsh. He who now is scorned shall be seen imperious, intolerable, irrevocable, and high-spirited. The sober ranks he will hold at the right hand, the wicked at the left; hence the reprobate order, thence the approved shall remain. Here the impious choir, and there the sober, shall hear, 'Go, go, guilty band; my flock, come into my kingdoms.' The right-hand assembly shall go into the heavens, with Christ as leader.
Lost in crime, the throng on the left side shall mourn in their order, lost in crime, owed to crime, the throng of Gehenna. It stands now, then it shall fall; here it stands, there it shall pay for its deeds forever. Then, holy assembly, holy creation, you shall receive perpetual joys—believe it—you who now weep. The flock shall be renewed and the robber removed from the flock; the new from the old, the upright from the reprobate, the white from the black, the foe from his daring deeds, the lamb from foes, the kid from the lambs. To the poorer who seek the stars, the heights; to the tyrants, the depths. He who weeps shall pass to the heavens; he who wrongly rejoices, to the depths below. The drunken mind shall pay for carnal joys, the sober shall applaud. Then, higher than all the mountains, the final fire shall rise—for the slothful who hold the depths, the stars for the kind.
And the free flame shall rise into the air, shall rise to the stars; it shall lay waste halls, kingdoms, suburbs, walls, camps. It shall boil away all the elements now flowing with filth, and shall render all things gleaming with light, the plague now taken away. The world shall be possessed and itself made new, but another—another in image, not also in origin. There no poor man, there no feeble or weepable man, no rage or strife, no food or cook, no Venus or jest, no swelling or violence. The earth shall be renewed and the image of the world repaired, which now one chasm pollutes, holds, overwhelms. The earth bears the bones of the fathers; thereafter it shall be as a paradise; moreover, as is its wont, no settler shall till it, leaning on the ox. No longer shall there be this shape of this our air, but it shall be pure with snow, clouds, fire, thunders, and rain.
The orbit of the sun and the hastened moon shall then stand fixed in place; the stars, the pole, the sea shall not be quick to make their circuit. The heavenly right hand shall make bright all the stars; with double light for the stars, the sun shall shine sevenfold for you. The godly people, now weeping, shall then shine even as the sun, and shall have learned hearts and beautiful bodies—wholly so—beautiful, swiftest, strong, free, delightful, sound, vigorous, and now lacking that death which they detested. Absalom would be unsightly there beside such beauty, and his hair too; lame-footed Asahel and the hand of Israel, withered Samson. And there shall be no faculty of Caesar unaware of its equal, and no power of Solomon, no pleasure. Not there would Moses give himself sound eyes and teeth; Methuselah would live but a brief while—seek these things well, O minds.
Seek, seek, rise up to seek pure joys—joys that stand fast, not passing away, nor about to perish. Does not the robber from the cross, weepable, bear open joys, snatched away to flowing kingdoms and lofty scepters to be ruled? Theirs are sad things, and no joys joined to the things above; compare with these, since you discern that earthly joys are nothing. Those joys we shall see, those we shall hold, those we shall know—the heavenly joys—we who now bewail each slippery thing. To all, all closed things shall be perceived as open and clear; and the several limbs shall be set up as eyes. The sober eyes, closed throughout all things as if open, shall behold there—since God is to himself a sure vision. We shall see our faces and penetrate our hidden things, and nothing by stripe; the reproaches stored up by weeping shall lie open.
He shall know your crimes, you his, and there shall be no shame at all. Hence grace more gracious, and there that higher hand shall lie open. The more savage your wounds are, or your complaint, the more proven and the more manifest is that cure. All closed things then shall be passable to you; nothing shall stand in the way. You know how to fashion good things; you shall gain more, says my constant voice; and, stronger than the world, you shall go swifter than the bird in sight; strong, you shall be able to turn the ages even without effort. You shall be equal to the heavenly ones, you bear them in your acts, you follow them in art; and of that Father—O, this sound is holy!—you shall enjoy the face. Standing above the heavens, you shall behold in safety the black Tartarus below; you shall fear none of the sad, troublesome, weepable, and fearful things.
The wicked throng, now far before the judgment, sees its lost joys; hence it weeps, and the impious envies the holy. It weeps because the fullest tear stands to it, while joys stand to the saints. It weeps because it has fallen and has lost the face of the Thunderer. As the approved beholds the reprobate, so in turn the reprobate throng beholds the blessed, and despises her now laid prostrate before her. The swan is fairer than the blackbird, the white color than the black, sound than groan, snow than pitch, the good man than the reprobate. Neither does a good daughter become anxious over her mother, nor the son born over his father. She stands, this one falls; this one bears good things, that one pays for his guilt. As it now pleases you to behold fish sport in the water, so amid the things below you shall not lament your own bowels once seen. Run, O best of men, restrain slippery things, prefer honorable things; be straitened by weepings, by weeping you shall merit the heavenly feast; you shall be filled with light, now without evening, now without moon.
A new light, that light shall be a golden light, shall be one light. When with wisdom or power the fatherly Son shall hand over his kingdoms to the Father, then your path shall go to him; then a new glory shall make bright the sober hearts, shall solve the riddles, and shall continue the true Sabbaths. Free from foes and from those who lord it, the Hebrew shall go; free shall the jubilee be held and celebrated henceforth. The fatherland of light, unaware of the whirlwind, unaware of strife, shall be filled with citizens, and shall be enlarged with Israelites. The splendid fatherland and flowering land, free of thorns, is there to be given to the faithful citizens, here to the pilgrims. Then there shall be for all who behold the face of the Thunderer the highest power, full knowledge, peace ratified to the saints; and that peace shall be for all those faithful, that blessed peace, indissoluble, unchangeable, undefiled.
A peace without crime, a peace without storm, a peace without quarrel, the goal of labors and tumults, the anchor fixed fast. Peace shall be unique for all—but for whom? For the undefiled, the gentle in heart, those standing in order, those hallowed in mouth. That peace, peace ratified, peace given to those above, to be given to the modest; and the halls full of voices and of songs for the festal ones. This paradise, a garden, shall abound with all odors, full of grace and full of joys, songs, laughter, full redemption, full refreshment, full glory, with violence, plague, and griefs fleeing away, punishment exiled. Nothing feeble there, nothing weepable there, nothing torn there; there the commonwealth, peace shall be unique, peace in the selfsame. Here is rage, here evil schisms, scandals, peace without peace; peace without strifes and without griefs in the citadel of Zion.
O sacred draught, sacred refreshment, vision of peace, the anointing of the mind, not the recreation of the greedy belly. By this man strives, walks, makes use—therefore he shall enjoy. Peace ratified, that peace, in hope now, afterward in reality shall be received. Jesus shall be the holy and lovely food of him, food to the blessed, pastures for the minds that thirst for him and are satisfied. And you shall thirst and shall be satisfied by this banquet of life; in neither is there toil—one rest, one love on either side. You shall be associated with the citizens of heaven, a stranger made citizen. Here the trumpet, there peace, life abiding for you who live well. Here for all the faithful shall be one final supper. Then that net shall be heaped up and filled full.
At last, whole with the many fishes, whole with the great, it shall be glorified; here the serpent shall be removed from the lambs—the torn things to those falling, the whole things in their wholeness to those standing. Thence shall it be burned, hence shall it be made firm—O God, by you—a new people, a new flock, and that good number of the good shall seek Jerusalem; here he gives, there the order of the godly shall reap. The flock shall be illustrious, endowed with this Father, propped by this Leader, who bore away in his blood all harmful things, the crucified King. The flock, holy in order, splendid in array, full of light, shall live under that Leader who bore upon the cross—the King of Nazareth. Fed with inner odors and with heavenly nectar, it shall draw out its sweet leisures in everlasting spring.
Through the sacred lilies, and through the green sprouts of the flowers, the order of the godly shall walk abroad and shall sing in measure; it shall make ready hearts with applause and mouths with songs, while, standing fast, it shall remember its crimes and its former falls. The greater the error was, the more iniquitous the action of the mind, the greater shall be the praise, and the higher the hymn to him who abolishes it—a single song; then the full compassion of the Thunderer. There shall be one praise for the heavenly reward of him who gives the alms; for the alms a reward, for the cross joys, for death life; that shall be held fast, whence the Israelite shall be filled. Here life is brief, here mourning is brief, here weeping is brief. Not to live briefly, not to mourn briefly, shall be requited. O requital! a brief action stands, life everlasting; O requital! a heavenly mansion stands for those full of plague. What is given?
And to whom? The ether to the needy and to those worthy of the cross, the stars to the worms, the best things to the guilty, the heavens to the malign. Heavenly grace not only gives all things of light, but above the heavens it crowns and receives such inward parts. To all shall heavenly grace, that one grace, be requited; for all, for all who weep over their ulcers, it shall be received. Then the rose shall gleam with blood, the lilies with virgin mind. The greatest joys, the godly tear, shall recreate you. Now to you are sad things, then to you are joys—joys how great, that the voice cannot utter, the eyes cannot discern, the sole of the foot cannot touch. After black things, after evils, after the fierce scandals which the flesh affords, light without blackness, peace without storm remains for you. Now are battles, afterward rewards—of what kind? Full, full refreshment, and no suffering, and no punishment.
Now we live in hope, and Zion is straitened by Babylon; now tribulation, then re-creation, scepters, crowns. Therefore Rachel to Leah then, the way of the fatherland; Martha to Mary, the wrath of Saul to David, the Assyrians to Judith, Ahab to Elijah, shall yield; and all things shall be met for the gentle, the hope of the kind, the seeds to the fruits and the sound to the deeds, the shadow of the day. He who is now believed shall himself be seen and known; he himself shall be assigned to those who see and know. Full refreshment, then the godly vision, the vision of Jesus; Israel shall gaze upon him, shall be satisfied with this eating, shall be satisfied with this, shall be associated to him in the citadel of Zion. O good King, there no one needs to say to you, 'Spare.' The pitiable heart, the useless body shall be no more; no corpses and no funerals, no sepulchers;
And, what is more blessed, all evils shall become far away. On account of your crimes your eyes shall no longer be wetted, and the joys to be wept and the flattering battles of the flesh shall depart. Fraud, reproaches, brawls—why do I delay? all depraved things shall perish; no oppressions, no torments shall you now fear; nothing wicked, nothing harmful, you shall bewail nothing grievous. The flesh that wears itself away by the cross, this flesh shall be a flower, and this ash shall be no more, whereby that man or that woman might be anxious. Neither shall anyone need to feed another with alms, nor to bend him with prayer; nor shall any, lost by plague or terrified by death or weeping at the cross, perish. By weeping you shall merit to take joys, to take a life worn neither by alms, nor by prayer, nor by plague, nor by death, nor by the cross.
Heavenly abundance, heavenly glory shall be laid open together; a new light to the minds, and God shall become all things to all. A people well-living and a life flourishing, the fountain of David overflowing, shall be a golden light, and a land flowing with milk, abounding with honey. That light shall lack the evening, and that people shall lack plague and the death of life. Jesus shall be held, he himself shall be possessed, he himself shall possess. His light, his alone, shall be the food of the kind—a food without food to those for whom properly the heart is as fire. Him we shall behold, and we shall be sated by beholding him, when, the lowest choir, we shall fill the stars with the holy host. Now we lean upon hope, here we are fed at the breast, there at the bread.
The most evil night gives many things; the morning shall give inmost joys—joys for suffering, kingdoms for redemption, a haven for the sacred cross, applause for the tear, rest for punishment, a rising for the ending. Jesus shall bring lofty trophies to all who love him; Jesus shall be loved and shall be seen in Galilee. In the morning he shall be seen, the shadow shall be put to flight, the order shall lie open; the morning shall be shining, and he who does good things shall shine. Then the godly ear shall perceive and shall hear, 'Behold your King. Behold your God, behold his comeliness stands here; the law departs.' My portion, my King, God himself in his own comeliness shall be loved when seen, and the Author shall be seen in the face. Then Jacob shall be made Israel, and Leah then Rachel. Then the halls of Zion and the beautiful fatherland shall be perfected.
O good fatherland, the sober eyes gaze upon you; at your name the sober eyes weep together. The mention of you is the anointing of the breast, the cure of grief, the fire of love to the minds that conceive the heavens. You are the unique place, and that heavenly place is Paradise. There is no tear there, but most placid joys, laughter. There is planted the laurel and the cedar grafted upon the hyssop; the walls are radiant with jasper, bright with the fiery-red carbuncle. Hence the sardius for you, thence the topaz, hence the amethyst; your fabric is the heavenly assembly, and the gem is Christ. Your light is the death of the cross, and the flesh of the Leader is the flesh of the Crucified. Praise, blessing, jubilation sound to him.
Your flowering dowry and bright gem is the King of Nazareth, Jesus the God-man, a golden ring, a pleasant garden, the gate, the gatekeeper, himself both the bearer and the haven. He himself is your salvation-bearing light, the morning star, the pledge-husband, the rising. You are without shore, you are without time, a fountain now a stream; you taste sweet to the good, and the stone is to you living on every side. He himself, your God and golden stone, is to you a wall, inviolable, insuperable, by no means about to fall. To you is a laurel; a golden dowry is given, a comely bride; and you receive the first kisses of the Prince; you behold his face. White lilies, living necklaces, are to you, O bride; the Lamb is present to you as Bridegroom; you are present to him, beautiful. Your peace is the rewards, the Founder the halls, the sacred cross the gates; your art is to applaud, your gifts to live now without death.
All her business is sweet songs, to sound sweetly forth, and to rejoice together over the evils we deserved as much as over the good things bestowed. Your portion is joys without any lack, nothing sad to give; your law is to chant psalms, to say 'glory,' 'Praise to you, O Christ.' City of Zion, good city, harmonious homeland, homeland of light, sweet one, you are wont to lead pious hearts to your joys. Jerusalem, holy homeland, no mere road but a fair thoroughfare, the right Pythagorean way leads to your gifts. Golden city of Zion, milk-white homeland, comely in your citizens, you overwhelm every heart, you stop up for all both heart and lips. I know not, I know not what jubilation, what manner of light is yours, how fellowly your joys, how singular your glory. Striving to extol these things in praise, my mind, overcome, grows faint. O blessed glory, I am conquered in all things; your praise has prevailed.
Zion's courts are full of jubilation, full of martyrs, glittering with citizens, standing fast in their Prince, in serene light. There are pastures overflowing with good things, granted to the meek and holy. There is the King's throne, and the sound of the feasting host; a people splendid in their leader, an assembly white in white garments. In Zion's mansions there is no weeping, in those nourishing dwellings. There is no guilt, no tumult, no strife, among the Israelites in Zion's loftier citadels. There peace is in bloom, the pastures living, the marrow alive; no trouble, no tragedy, no tear at all. O holy draught, O holy refreshment, peace of souls; O loving, O good, O gentle sound, the hymn of these souls. God himself is sufficient food for all the redeemed; the full refreshment is the very vision of the Almighty.
They have enough of him, yet their thirst still pants after him, without sorrows, without toils, without complaint. To this one more, to that one less—he is the open bosom of the Godhead; many a mansion stands ready, and many a recompense of the Father. As the lesser fires yield to the moon, and Phoebus to himself, she presides over the nights, and these stars that gleam, while he rules the days; so you behold in the heavens one star outshining another. Thus, O faithful one, believe in the middling rewards and the highest. Illustrious city of Zion, glory due to those to be glorified, you unfold your good things, your inmost depths, to inward sight. Inward lights, the keen edges of the mind, gaze upon you; flaming hearts now gain you by hope, hereafter by lot. Sole city of Zion, mystic mansion founded in heaven, now for you I rejoice, now for myself I mourn, I grieve, I pant.
Since I cannot reach you in the body, in heart I often pierce through to you; but my flesh is earthen and the earth fleshly, and soon I fall back again. No man can unfold, no man can utter with his mouth, how your walls, how your strongholds are full of splendor. I can tell it as I could touch the sky with my thumb, can run upon the sea, or fix a dart in the air. That beauty of yours, O Zion, O Peace, overwhelms every heart; city beyond time, no praise of you can ever prove false. O new mansion, the pious assembly, the holy people fortifies you, advances, rouses, increases, makes you one and the same, unites you. God refines you, the angel adorns you, the angelic order dwells in you; to it food is added, and a sound is sent forth from the ten-stringed harp. You are flowery for the prophets, golden for the twelve fathers, bright for the faithful—hungry here, filled there.