[Sidenote: Election of Gregory VII. 1073.]
Hildebrand was now Pope. During the funeral service of Alexander II. at St. John’s in the Lateran, a great shout arose from the multitude in the church that Hildebrand should be their bishop. The cardinal, Hugh the White, addressed the assembly. ‘You know, brethren,’ he said, ‘how, since the time of Leo IX., Hildebrand has exalted the Roman Church, and freed our city. We cannot find a better Pope than he. Indeed, we cannot find his equal. Let us then elect him, who, having been ordained in our church, is known to us all, and thoroughly approved by us.’ There was the great shout in answer: ‘Saint Peter has chosen Hildebrand to be Pope!’ Despite his resistance, Hildebrand was dragged to the church of St. Peter ad Vincula, and immediately enthroned. The cardinals had no mind to upset this irregular election, strangely contrary though it was to the provisions of Nicholas II. The German bishops, alarmed at Hildebrand’s reputation for severity, urged the king to quash the appointment, but Henry contented himself with sending to Rome to inquire into the circumstances of the election. Hildebrand showed great moderation, and actually postponed his consecration until Henry’s consent had been obtained. This Henry had no wish to withhold. On 29th June 1073 Hildebrand was hallowed bishop. By assuming the name of Gregory VII., he proclaimed to the world the invalidity of the deposition of his old master at the Synod of Sutri.
The wonderful self-control which the new Pope had shown so long did not desert him in his new position. Physically, there was little to denote the mighty mind within his puny body. He was of low stature, shortlegged and corpulent. He spoke with a stammer, and his dull complexion was only lighted up by his glittering eyes. He was not a man of much learning or originality, and contributed little towards the theory of the papal or sacerdotal power. But he was one of the greatest practical men of the Middle Ages; and his single-minded wish to do what was right betokened a dignity of moral nature that was rare indeed in the eleventh century. His power over men’s minds was enormous, even to their own despite. The fierce and fanatical Peter Damiani called him his ‘holy Satan.’ ‘Thy will,’ said he, ‘has ever been a command to me—evil but lawful. Would that I had always served God and St. Peter as faithfully as I have served thee.’ Even as archdeacon he assumed so great a state, and lived in such constant intercourse with the world, that monastic zealots like Damiani were scandalised, and some moderns have questioned (though groundlessly) whether he was ever a professed monk at all. Profoundly convinced of the truth of the Cluniac doctrines, he showed a fierce and almost unscrupulous statecraft in realising them that filled even Cluny with alarm. His ideal was to reform the world by establishing a sort of universal monarchy for the Papacy. He saw all round him that kings and princes were powerless for good, but mighty for evil. He saw churchmen living greedy and corrupt lives for want of higher direction and control. Looking at a world distraught by feudal anarchy, his ambition was to restore the ‘peace of God,’ civilisation, and order, by submitting the Church to the Papacy, and the world to the Church. ‘Human pride,’ he wrote, ‘has created the power of kings; God’s mercy has created the power of bishops. The Pope is the master of Emperors. He is rendered holy by the merits of his predecessor, St. Peter. The Roman Church has never erred, and Holy Scripture proves that it never can err. To resist it is to resist God.’ For the next twelve years he strove with all his might to make his power felt throughout Christendom. Sometimes his enthusiasm caused him to advance claims that even his best friends would not admit, as when William the Conqueror was constrained to repudiate the Holy See’s claims of feudal sovereignty over England, which, after similar pretensions had been recognised by the Normans in Sicily, Gregory and his successors were prone to assert whenever opportunity offered. The remotest parts of Europe felt the weight of his influence. But the intense conviction of the righteousness of his aims, that made compromise seem to him treason to the truth, did something to detract from the success of his statecraft. He was too absolute, too rigid, too obstinate, too extreme to play his part with entire advantage to himself and his cause. Yet with all his defects there is no grander figure in history.