LIVES AND LETTERS 
 
 OF 
 
 ABELARD AND HELOISE. 
 
 BY 
 
 0. W. WIGHT. 
 
 " M6s ge ne croi mie, par m'ame, 
 C'onques puis fust une tel fame.' 1 
 
 Roman de la Rose, t ii., p. 213. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 M. DOOLADY, 49 WALKER STREET. 
 
 M DCCC LXI. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S60, 
 BY 0. W. WIGHT, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
 Southern District of New York. 
 
 RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: PRINTED BY H. o. HOUGHTON. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THIS book, written ten years ago, is faulty 
 in style, but contains, it is believed, an accu- 
 rate history of Abelard and Heloise, and a new 
 translation of their famous letters. It was first 
 published under the title of " The Kornance of 
 Abelard and Heloise," and has long been out 
 of print. The title was unfortunate, inasmuch 
 as it gave rise to the impression that we had 
 been rhapsodizing about the renowned lovers, 
 instead of writing their lives. We respond to 
 the demand for a new edition, and send it forth 
 with a new title, with revision, and with much 
 additional matter. 
 
 In translating the letters, we left in the ori- 
 ginal Latin a very few passages that we did not 
 care to render literally. A paraphrase would 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 have been no translation. The concluding 
 pages of the correspondence were omitted sim- 
 ply because Abelard and Heloise left them- 
 selves, left the subject of their misfortunes and 
 their love, and entered upon a dry-as-dust dis- 
 cussion of monastic institutions. Abelard's 
 letter about nunneries is as dreary a piece of 
 composition as any mortal ever had the mis- 
 fortune to read, and none but a professional 
 antiquary could regret its omission here. 
 
 The story the whole story of Abelard and 
 Heloise will be found in these pages, told in 
 the ambitious style of youth ; and if any one 
 is inclined to censure, let him blame the Muse 
 of History rather than us. The Ages have 
 preserved the record of their passionate love, 
 their tears have been embalmed for us in the 
 burning language of the heart ; let those who 
 are able extract wisdom from a faithful picture 
 of human experience. 
 
 "CEDAR-GROVE," Rye, 1860. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 L Genesis 9 
 
 II. Birth-Place 15 
 
 III. Logical Knight-Errantry 20 
 
 IV. An Episode: the First Crusade 27 
 
 V. To Paris. Paris at the beginning of the Twelfth Century . . 85 
 VI. Abelard studies at the School of Notre-Dame, and quarrels 
 
 with his Master, William of Champeux 40 
 
 VII. Melun and Corbeil 45 
 
 VIII. Philosophy and Sickness 50 
 
 IX. Argenteuil. A fair Pupil of the Nuns 55 
 
 X. The Condition of Woman at the beginning of the Twelfth 
 
 Century 59 
 
 XL An unwelcome Auditor, listens to an Old Master in a New 
 
 Place 67 
 
 XIL Siege of Paris 72 
 
 XIII. Abelard returns to Pallet to part with his Mother 75 
 
 XIV. Anselm of Laon 79 
 
 XV. Fulbert and his Niece 84 
 
 XVI. " The Observed of all Observers" 89 
 
 XVII A Pair of Renowned Lovers 93 
 
 XVIIL Confusion on every side 101 
 
 XIX. Secret Marriage 104 
 
 XX. Retribution .. 113 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XXL The Veil and the Cowl 119 
 
 XXII. No Object and no Rest: a Monodrama 123 
 
 XXIIL Heloise again. The Monodrama continues 137 
 
 XXIV. Letter of Heloise to Abelard 14:3 
 
 XXV. Letter of Abelard to Heloise 158 
 
 XXVI. Letter of Heloise to Abelard 1M 
 
 XXVIL Epistle of Abelard to Heloise 185 
 
 XXVIIL Letter of Heloise to Abelard 213 
 
 XXIX. The Curtain falls 216 
 
 XXX. Retrospect 228 
 
 XXXI." Dust to Dust " 262 
 
 XXXIL Recapitulation, in the Language of a Poet 267 
 
LIVES AND LETTERS 
 
 OF 
 
 ABELARD AND HELOISE. 
 
 I. 
 
 GENESIS. 
 
 E-EAL romance is in real history. Life, as it is lived, 
 is more wonderful and touching than life as it is 
 shaped by the fancy. History gives us the substance 
 of existence ; fiction gives us nothing but its shadow. 
 The highest conception of genius is meagre, when 
 compared with the drama that humanity is enacting 
 in time and space. 
 
 Most of us have lived a romance more beautiful 
 and pathetic than ever yet has been described by the 
 pen of man. Experience is the light whereby one is 
 able to read all romantic history. We know when 
 the historian writes fiction instead of truth, for within 
 us is a test. Truth to life, we always demand. The 
 
 romancer must faithfully give us the experience of 
 1* 
 
10 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 his own heart, or faithfully report the experience of 
 others. Nothing less than the history of real life will 
 satisfy us. Truth is stranger than fiction, and truth 
 we must have. 
 
 Life is not new ; there is nothing new under the sun. 
 No doubt, life was more complete and satisfying in 
 the garden of Eden, millenniums ago, than it is to-day, 
 here in the United States of America. Was there 
 not a woman's heart in the beautiful bosom of Aspasia? 
 Was there not a man's brain in the Roman head of 
 Cato ? Human nature is the same every where. 
 Humanity, through a thousand variations, is ever 
 humming the same old tune of life. 
 
 The remoteness and obscurity of the Middle Age 
 then, cannot be objected to us in our present under- 
 taking. Abelard and Heloise were human, and have 
 for us a human interest. In the Middle Age, heaven- 
 facing speakers and actors walked the earth, that 
 looked quite similar to those who are moving to and 
 fro to-day. Man then felt, as he now feels, that it is not 
 good to be alone. Then the precious heart of woman 
 deeply yearned, as it always yearns, for sympathy, 
 with which she is blessed, without which she is 
 wretched. Down upon thy brother and thy sister, 
 looked, calmly and sweetly, the same stars, that each 
 night keep watch over thee. The wind that kissed 
 the cold cheek of the Alps then, kisses it still. The 
 same hymn of nature that now goes up from the hills 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 11 
 
 of New- England, and the deep-bosomed forests of the 
 West, to greet the morning ; then went up from wold, 
 plain, and mountain, touching the heart of the early 
 worshipper, and melodiously uttering for him the 
 praise that his soul would give to Deity. Then, too, 
 each son of Adam, and each daughter of Eve, need- 
 ed food and raiment, for which they toiled, slaved, 
 enslaved, trafficked, cheated, stole, talked, wrote, 
 preached, fought, or robbed. The breath of passion 
 swept the chords of life, and the answering tones of 
 joy or woe were heard. Reformers disturbed conser- 
 vatives in church and state, and statesmen preserved 
 kingdoms, as politicians now save the Union. Then, 
 too, men wept and prayed, laughed and sung. There 
 were then marriage and giving in marriage, wars and 
 rumors of war, loves and hates, the cries of child- 
 hood and the complainings of age. The enchanting 
 spirit of beauty flooded heaven and earth ; and the 
 solemn mystery of things filled the soul with awe. 
 The old sphinx was still sitting by the wayside, and 
 the children of earth strove to solve the tough and 
 ever recurring problem of destiny. Stars were silent 
 above them, graves silent beneath; and the soul was 
 compelled to answer as she could, to the imperative 
 questionings of sense. The Middle Age was an age 
 of humanity, and has an interest for us, for human 
 things touch the heart. 
 
 Our freedom has its roots in the twelfth century. 
 
12 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 Then through the influence of the communes* began 
 the enfranchisement of the people; with Heloise, 
 the most devoted and one of the greatest of her sex, 
 began the enfranchisement of woman ; with Abelard, 
 one of the most eloquent of men, began the enfran- 
 chisement of human thought. Woman, recognized in 
 the Middle Age by the state under the degrading title 
 of the weaker vessel (vas infirmior), woman cursed 
 in the eleventh century by the church, the heroic He- 
 loise in the twelfth century proved, by her example and 
 her writings, to be equal with man, equal as a whole, 
 compensating for lack of energy and strength by su- 
 perior devotedness, patient endurance and love. With 
 
 * Thus have been called the towns that sprung up at the 
 foot of the castles of the great lords, the inhabitants of which 
 purchased from their masters a few privileges. " Needy and 
 wretched as they were," says Michelet, " poor artisans, smiths, 
 and weavers, suffered to cluster together for shelter at the 
 foot of a castle, or fugitive serfs crowding round a church, 
 they could manage to find money ; and men of this stamp 
 were the founders of our liberties." Kings sometimes, in 
 their contests with the feudal lords, called in the aid of the 
 commons, and, in requital for service, gave new privileges. 
 Noble is the language put by the author of the Romance of 
 the Rose in the mouths of these commons, in regard to their 
 lords : " We are men as they are, we have such limbs as they 
 have, and quite as great hearts, and can endure as much.** 
 
 Michelet's History of France, b. 3, c. iv. 
 
 Rob. Wace, Roman de Rou, v. 6025. 
 
 Thierry : Lettres sur 1'Histoire de France. 
 
 Guizot : Fifth vol. of his Cours. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 13 
 
 Abelard commenced a movement that triumphed with 
 Luther, after the martyrdom of Hiiss, and how many 
 more ! 
 
 With the philosophy of Abelard we shall not 
 trouble ourselves here. Abelard and Heloise the 
 greatest man and the greatest woman of the twelfth 
 century were brought by fortune into romantic rela- 
 tions with each other, and, as lovers, they possess for 
 each soul of us an extraordinary interest. The 
 heart is not human that does not love. There is no 
 use in denying the fact, that happiness or misery is, 
 somehow, strangely connected with conditions of the 
 heart. Woman asks no more in this world than to be 
 sincerely loved. When she is queen of one devoted 
 heart, then she has a kingdom that sufficeth for her 
 ambition. When all is well with her affections, she 
 thanks God for his abundant blessing, and is happy. 
 Man is as restless as the wind until his soul is anchor- 
 ed in woman's love. Without it there is for him no 
 rest, no peace. When equally mated with one that is 
 faithful, he is ready for any trials that " outrageous 
 fortune " may prepare for him, and the common adver- 
 sities of life are tossed aside as " a lion shakes the 
 dew-drops from his mane." The Powers Invisible 
 have such blessings in store for only a limited num- 
 ber ; hence the misfortunes of Abelard and Heloise 
 have a fresh interest for each new generation. They 
 enacted upon the earth a real romance, a faithful history 
 
14 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 of which we have undertaken to write. The cu- 
 rious, the students of human nature and history, and 
 those who like to amuse themselves with a romantic 
 narrative, may come here and get from a brother man 
 such help and pleasure as he can give and they re- 
 ceive. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 15 
 
 II. 
 
 BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 INASMUCH as we have determined to follow the 
 chronological order, which is perhaps the only true or- 
 der in all veritable history, it is necessary to commence 
 with Abelard's birth-place. We must describe the 
 place where the first scene of the first act of the 
 drama of his life is laid. 
 
 After leaving Nantes in Brittany, and before arriv- 
 ing at Clisson, we come to a little village which is called 
 Pallet. There is but one street. That street, however, 
 is long enough, if it were sufficiently divided, to make a 
 village of the usual form. We are about to leave the 
 place behind us without observing any thing remark- 
 able. Let us stop, however, and survey that church 
 on our left, that overlooks the street below. It is a 
 simple church, but men are accustomed to worship 
 there the Maker of heaven and earth. It stands, as 
 it were, at the gateway of the village, and we will re- 
 spect the temple of the Infinite. Some of its parts 
 seem to be remarkable for their antiquity ; we will go, 
 and, if may be, find some monument of an earlier age 
 
16 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 What mean those remains of thick walls, and those 
 vestiges of ditches, upon the hill back of the church ? 
 They are overgrown with ivy, and seem to be very 
 old. Never mind the church, let us ascend the 
 hill. The dilapidated walls, and half-filled fosses^ 
 indicate an ancient and strong construction. They 
 inclose a cemetery, now abandoned, and overgrown 
 with weeds and shrubs. Tread softly : beneath us 
 sleep the dead, those who once thought, felt, and act- 
 ed, as we now think, feel, and act. The earth is a vast 
 burial-ground ; every step we take, we press beneath 
 our feet dust that once has been ensouled with the 
 breath of Jehovah. We will go and stand by that old 
 stone cross, erected in the midst of a few modest 
 tombs. 
 
 Here* dwelt, and here still dwell, the lords of 
 Pallet. Times have changed, but they heed it not. 
 Their sleep is deep. They were brave knights and 
 true, but they have for ever laid aside the armor and 
 the lance. The war-trump may sound. Europe may 
 again and again be the theatre of conflict, but not a 
 finger will they lift, either for the new cause or the 
 old. Some other than a war-trump must be sounded 
 to make them answer the call. Sleep on, thou lord of 
 Pallet, thy villain shall not disturb thee more, unless 
 some injury thou hast done him, shall yet be paid for 
 
 * Abelard, par Charles de Remusat, t. I., p 1. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 17 
 
 out of thy soul's joy. Thinkest thou that he will be 
 thy villain hereafter ? Tears and toil were appointed 
 unto thee also, upon the earth ; the Eternal has not 
 commanded me to curse thee ; peace be to thy 
 ashes. 
 
 Upon this place, too, war laid its heavy mailed 
 hand. It was destroyed, history tells us, in 1420. 
 Margaret of Clisson made an attack upon John V., 
 duke of Brittany, and wars followed. Here in the 
 elevnth century, stood a small fortified chateau, 
 which commanded the town. The chateau was on 
 the highest part of this hill, overlooking the narrow 
 river Sangueze. This name was given to the river, be- 
 cause it was often died with the blood of the combat- 
 ants who fought upon its banks. Many a time the 
 blushing stream carried along to the inhabitants be- 
 low evidence of a hard-fought battle between the Bre- 
 tons and the English. 
 
 In this chateau, in the year 1079, Peter Abelard 
 was born. Philip I. was king of France, and Hoe'l 
 IV. was duke of Brittany. Many more kings and 
 dukes were then upon the earth, but the sun will prob- 
 ably shine to-morrow, if their names are not mention- 
 ed. Beranger, the father of Peter Abelard, was lord 
 of the chateau, and the name of his wife was Lucie.* 
 
 * See second paragraph of the Historia Calamitatum, or the 
 first letter of Abelard. Guizot gives a different interpreta- 
 tion ; see JEssai Hutoriqm sur Abailard et Heloise, p. XL 
 
18 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 Peter was the first-born child. There in that chateau 
 on the hill, above the river, often reddened with the 
 brave blood of warriors, in the chateau that command- 
 ed the little town of Pallet, once more was manifest- 
 ed the continually recurring miracle of life. A new 
 flower of humanity bloomed upon the banks of the 
 stream whose dyed waters often told the tale of death. 
 Has that young life no interest for thee ? Then thou 
 art still a sleeper ; the mystery of things has never 
 laid an awakening shadowy hand upon thy soul. A 
 young mother's heart was there bursting with joy, 
 while the propitious fates kept closely veiled the un- 
 happy future. Who but a father knows what was the 
 meaning of Beranger's silence, and self-satisfied look. 
 Two more sons and a daughter were given to them, 
 but the experience of clasping to their bosoms a first- 
 born could never be repeated. 
 
 There nature made an effort, once more, to produce 
 a man. Millions of efforts she makes, but in every 
 instance she fails as well as succeeds. A perfect man 
 she never produces, and therefore always fails. She 
 never fails in making a good attempt, and therefore al- 
 ways succeeds. The perfect, or ideal man, the stand- 
 ard of which nature in every instance comes short, 
 is the type of the unity of the soul, while nature's fail- 
 ure in different degrees, produces variety in unity 
 Her method is simple, her operations are manifold. 
 She proceeds in every thing else, as she does with 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 19 
 
 man. She is infinitely economic, and at the same time 
 infinitely prodigal. The child Abelard had one mean- 
 ing for his parents, another for the world, and another 
 for Deity. His history was, no doubt, already written 
 in the quality of his infant blood, and the structure of 
 his infant brain ; but we must follow him, and see in 
 what manner he will coin himself into real acts in the 
 mint of life. His good and his evil deeds will inter- 
 pret for us ours, and may make us wiser and better. 
 
 Here, among the lords of Pallet, sleeps Beranger ; 
 but far from here, in a more frequented place, we shall 
 find the tomb* of Abelard, to which lovers, both for- 
 tunate and unfortunate, still pilgrim. 
 
 * See the Notice Hi&lorique, etc., par M. Alex. Lenoir, im- 
 prime'e a Paris en 1815, p. 4, et seq. 
 
20 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 in. 
 
 LOGICAL KNIGHT-ERRANTRY. 
 
 " Tis not in man, 
 
 To look unmoved upon that heaving waste, 
 Which, from horizon to horizon spread, 
 Meets the overarching heavens on every side, 
 Blending their hues in distant faintness there. 
 
 uv Tis wonderful! and yet, my boy, just such 
 Is life. Life is a sea as fathomless, 
 As wide, as terrible, and yet sometimes 
 As calm and beautiful. The light of heaven 
 Smiles on it; and 'tis decked with every hue 
 Of glory and of joy. Anon dark clouds 
 Arise ; contending winds of fate go forth ; 
 And hope sits weeping o'er a general wreck. 
 
 " And thou must sail upon this sea, a long 
 Eventful voyage. The wise may suffer wreck, 
 The foolish must." 
 
 THE father of Abelard before commencing the occu- 
 pation of arms, had received some instruction, and 
 never lost a taste for letters.* He was desirous that 
 the military education of his sons should be preceded 
 by some intellectual culture. Love for his first-born, 
 
 * Vie d' Abelard, par M. de Remusat, p. 8. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 2\ 
 
 inspired him with particular care for the instruction 
 of that son. The bright, fair boy more than answered 
 the hopes of his parent. He early showed a subtlety 
 of mind that promised a glorious future, and a bril- 
 liant career. As he increased in strength and years, 
 the bias for letters, that had been given by his father, 
 also increased. He renounced a military life, and 
 abandoned to his brothers his inheritance, and his 
 right of primogeniture. Philosophy first wins the 
 passionate love of the beautiful brilliant boy, and 
 never will she let go her strong hold upon his fiery 
 heart. He abandons Mars for Minerva, and will 
 write his history with tears instead of blood. Dear, 
 fair-haired, beautiful-browed boy, thou dost not yet 
 know the cost of wisdom ; other years shall teach thee 
 that it must be paid for in the fusion of the brain, 
 over the burning of the heart ! And what, if a vase 
 of ashes shall at length take the place of thy heart, and 
 thy brain congeal to stone ! With thee, also, fate 
 opens an account ; take what thou wilt, but payment 
 thou shalt not escape, even to the uttermost farthing. 
 Choose thy principles of action, but know that thou 
 must abide the results. 
 
 Abelard was a real Breton.* Every man must 
 inherit his country and his times. In arms and in 
 
 * Ouvr. ined. <T Abelard, parM. V. Cousin, Dialectic, p. 222 
 et 591. 
 
22 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 philosophy, the Bretons have always manifested a 
 character of unconquerable resistance ; obstinate firm- 
 ness, and fearless opposition. The true Breton is a 
 compound of the Greek and the Celt. Pelagius*, 
 the first churchman who was an avowed champion 
 of liberty, who provoked the attacks of St. Augustine 
 and St. Jerome, who denied original sin, and would 
 not admit the doctrine of redemption, who uncon- 
 sciously would have robbed Christianity of her piety 
 and her heart, the purity of whose life was regarded 
 by the fathers in the church, as increasing the danger 
 of his Jieretical doctrines ; this giant, as he is described 
 by one of his opponents, with the strength of Milo of 
 Crotona, who spoke with labor yet with power, was 
 a native of Brittany, a man of the sea-shore, as his 
 name implies, of that shore where the sea wails for 
 ever, and beats as it were upon the heart of the be- 
 holder, imparting to it her own untamable energy, 
 and unsubduable spirit of freedom. Descartes, who 
 philosophized with as much intrepidity as he fought 
 under the walls of Prague,* was a Breton. By the 
 strong-breasted and hard-headed Bretons, the North- 
 men and the English again and again were repulsed. 
 Believers and unbelievers, orators and poets, Brittany 
 has produced. The last exclamation heard at Water- 
 
 * St. Augustin, t. xii. diss. de Primis Auct. Haer. Pela- 
 gianae. 
 
 f M. Cousin's History of Modern Philosophy, t. L, p. 44. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 23 
 
 loo, it is said, was uttered by a Breton, " The guard 
 dies, but does not surrender"* Abelard has the 
 blood of his Breton mother in his veins. Mars he 
 has renounced, but for the goddess of wisdom he will 
 fight, with such arms as she will permit. To the 
 science of dialectics, the art of intellectual warfare, 
 he devotes himself, preferring a logical combat to 
 a conflict of arms ; preferring to triumph over a re- 
 futed rather than a slaughtered enemy. Have a care, 
 brave boy, thy brain is not the whole of thee ; thy 
 soul is larger than thy warlike logic. 
 
 Still a mere lad, Abelard availed himself of every 
 opportunity to engage in the contests of reasoning. 
 Such was his natural ability, and such his acquired 
 skill, that no champion could be found in the neigh- 
 borhood to stand before him. Like a fearless knight, 
 paving the paternal mansion, he went from province 
 to province,! searching for masters and adversaries, 
 marching from controversy to controversy, eager to 
 enter the lists for a dialectic tilt, putting lance in 
 rest, with or without provocation, unhorsing, beardless 
 as he was, every logical combatant. He was a 
 peripatetic, whose walk extended from end to end of 
 the kingdom. He was a real logical knight-errant, 
 every where seeking philosophic adventures. 
 
 * Michelet : Histoire de France, 1. iii. 
 f The Guizot edition of the Abelard and Heloise letters : 
 the first letter of Abelard, p. 5. 
 
24 LIVES AND LETTERS OP 
 
 In the eleventh century, dialectics were called an 
 art.* The one who was skilled in dialectics was 
 called a master of arts, a title which is still in use. 
 This art rivalled theology in importance, and we 
 might add, with a little exaggeration, in power. The- 
 ology sometimes consented to be served by dialectics, 
 but always showed signs of uneasiness when in the 
 presence of her subtle foe. The former was based 
 upon authority; the latter demanded an exercise of 
 free thought. Mother Church has always hated and 
 cursed every independent thinker, so it is necessary for 
 thee, thou youthful knight-errant of logic, to beware. 
 Authority! gives thee, on the one hand, the premises, 
 on the other, the conclusions ; it will not be safe to 
 question the former, nor to transcend the latter. 
 Talk as it may please thee about genus, species, dif- 
 ference, property, and accident ; about categories ot 
 predicaments ; about the universal principles of 
 language ; about reasoning and demonstration ; about 
 the rules of division ; about the science of discussion 
 and refutation, go from premises to conclusions by 
 what route thou wilt, but do not rashly venture fur- 
 ther ; within this charmed circle it is permitted thee 
 to obey reason and God ; out of it close thy clear eye, 
 and follow the voice of the siren that calls thee to 
 
 * Vie d'Abelard, p. 5. 
 
 f M. Cousin : His. Ph., t. H, lecture ix. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 25 
 
 her bosom. It is hard I know, but upon no other 
 condition shalt thou have any fellowship with thy 
 generation. It may be, some German will hereafter 
 journey far to listen to thy eloquent voice, whose 
 descendant, in a more propitious age, shall conquer 
 for men the privilege of obeying God. Go on, then, 
 in thy logical knight-errantry ; thus unconsciously 
 shalt thou teach others to freely think and freely act, 
 Aristotle, Porphyry, and Boethius, cannot afford thee 
 the best of mental nutriment, and thou art not skilled 
 to read nature and the soul ; yet, if thou wilt perse- 
 vere, all the men of thy times shall soon be left be- 
 hind. I fear thou art sadly neglecting one book, but 
 never mind now, Mother Church will not curse thee 
 for that. 
 
 Abelard, in the course of his philosophic adven- 
 tures, must have met with the celebrated John* Rosce- 
 lin, who first pushed nominalism to its extreme con- 
 sequences. In 1092, when Abelard was twelve years 
 of age, the doctrine of Roscelin had been condemned 
 by a council held at Soissons. Denying the reality 
 of universals, it seems, endangered some of the dog- 
 mas of the Church. St. Anselm, Abbe of Bee, 
 in Normandy, who was highly esteemed among the 
 religious orders, and enjoyed a great reputation as a 
 philosopher, who was expecting to succeed Lanfranc 
 
 * M. Cousin : Introduction to the Ouvr. ined. d'Ab., p. 40. 
 
 2 
 
26 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 as Archbishop of Canterbury, had from the beginning 
 supported realism against the nominalism of Roscelin. 
 Anselm served the Church and gained the object of 
 his ambition. Roscelin sought for the true in itself, 
 and was banished. We do not know precisely when, 
 or where, or how Roscelin, and Abelard met. They 
 were brother Bretons, and perhaps thought it were not 
 best for Greek to encounter Greek. Abelard heard 
 the lectures of Roscelin, who was then canon of Com- 
 piegn, and probably carried away in his retentive 
 memory the arguments that were used to substantiate 
 a new system. 
 
 Thus are spent the youthful days of Abelard. 
 Philosophy he is serving with the devotion of a true 
 lover ; but time shall teach him that Life cannot be 
 fathomed by any plummet of Thought. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 27 
 
 IY. 
 
 AN EPISODE : THE FIRST CRUSADE. 
 
 WHILE Abelard was pursuing his philosophic ad- 
 ventures. Peter the Hermit was preaching the first 
 crusade. The young logical knight-errant did not 
 seem to be affected by the movement that was convuls- 
 ing all France, nearly all Europe. Like a true phi- 
 losopher, he was unmindful of every thing that did not 
 pertain to thought, to the everlasting principles of 
 mind. 
 
 The first crusade all the other crusades were 
 only repetitions or imitations of that was the great- 
 est movement of the Middle Age. The preaching of 
 Peter the Hermit in the year 1095 was not its begin- 
 ning. It had its origin in one of the constituent prin- 
 ciples of the society of the times. Ideas are at the 
 basis of every human organization, whether in church 
 or in state. Modern society has taken the place of that 
 of the Middle Age, because the ideas of men have 
 changed. Belief in the benefit of pilgrimages and 
 crusades was one of the characteristics of those times. 
 
28 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 Man's condition of being on this planet is that of a 
 pilgrimage. Each age has its place, to which it joy- 
 fully, yet often painfully, wanders. Wearily, wearily 
 journeys the Arab to Mecca. Cold is the heart of that 
 Christian who has never desired to gaze upon the tomb 
 of his Redeemer. In the middle age, pilgrims, with 
 staff in hand, journeyed to Jerusalem, willing to en- 
 dure any fatigue, braving dangers, bearing humilia- 
 tions. " Happy he who returned ! Happier still he 
 who died near the tomb of Christ, and who could ex- 
 claim in the presumptuous language of a writer of the 
 time, ' Lord, you died for me, I die for you.' " 
 
 The pilgrimages to Jerusalem commenced about 
 the year 1000. At first the pilgrims were kindly re- 
 ceived by the Arabs, and soon their numbers became 
 immense. " About the same time so countless a mul- 
 titude began to flock from every quarter of the globe, 
 to the sepulchre of our Saviour at Jerusalem, such as 
 no man could before hope for the common people 
 
 middling classes kings and counts bishops 
 
 .... many nobles, together with poorer women .... It 
 was the heartfelt wish of many to die before they re- 
 turned home." * When the Caliph Hakem, the son of a 
 Christian woman, pretended to be the incarnation of the 
 Divinity, Christians and Jews were alike persecuted by 
 
 * Pierre D'Auvergne, ap. Raynouard, Choix de Poesies 
 des Troubadours, iv. 115. Rad. Glaber, L iv. c. 6, ap. Scr. R. 
 Ser. x. 50. Quoted by Michelet. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 29 
 
 him. The former persisted in believing that the 
 Messiah had come, and the latter persisted in believ- 
 ing that he was to come. Both, consequently, oppos- 
 ed the pretensions of the Caliph Hakem. By his 
 command, no one could approach the holy sepulchre 
 except on the condition of defiling it. The danger 
 increased, and the desire to visit Jerusalem also in- 
 creased. Whole armies of pilgrims sometimes failed 
 to reach the sepulchre. There often remained only a 
 few worn-out survivors, to tell of the hardships and 
 heroic death of their companions, thereby exciting 
 others to undertake the same perilous, yet glorious 
 journey. At length, in the last quarter of the eleventh 
 century, the Turks obtained possession of Jerusalem 
 and massacred Christians and Alides, all believers 
 in the incarnation. 
 
 Shall pilgrimages to the holy city cease then? 
 Will Christian Europe incur the penalty of leaving 
 the Redeemer's sepulchre in the hands of infidels ? 
 No ; the invasion of the East must be re-enacted in a 
 vaster form, and for the realization of a loftier idea. 
 The Greeks invaded Asia for the purpose of conquest, 
 for the purpose of extending their civilization. The 
 cause of the Past and the cause of the Future then 
 met, but the ideas that animated both sides were po- 
 litical ideas, merely those of Empire. In the 
 Middle Age the East and the West must again meet, 
 
30 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 again must draw the sword, but a religious principle 
 lies at the foundation of the contest. 
 
 When Peter the Hermit began to preach the cru- 
 sade, western Europe was ripe for the movement. 
 France was the seat of the greatest excitement. Ur- 
 ban II., who was then pope, was a Frenchman. In 
 France the whole populace was ready to take up arms. 
 Four hundred bishops or mitred abbots were present 
 at the Council of Clermont. " The lower order of 
 people," says a cotemporary,* " destitute of resources 
 but very numerous, attached themselves to one Peter 
 the Hermit, and obeyed him as their master, at least 
 so far as matters passed in our country. I have dis- 
 covered that this man, originally, if I mistake not, 
 from the city of Amiens, had at first led a solitary life 
 under the habit of a monk, in I know not what part 
 of Upper Gaul. He set out thence, by what inspira- 
 tion I am ignorant ; but we then saw him traversing 
 the streets and burghs, and preaching every where. 
 The people surrounded him in crowds, overwhelmed 
 him with presents, and proclaimed his sanctity with 
 such great praises, that I do not remember like hon- 
 ors having been rendered any one. He was very 
 generous in distributing whatever was given him. He 
 brought back to their husbands wives who had wrong- 
 ed them, not without adding gifts from himself, and re- 
 
 * Guibert : Nov. 1. ii. c. 8. Quoted by Michelet 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 31 
 
 stored peace and a good understanding between those 
 who had been disunited, with marvellous authority. In 
 whatever he did or said, there seemed to be something 
 divine in him, so that they would even pluck the hairs 
 
 out of his mule, to keep as relics He wore only a 
 
 woollen tunic, and above it a cloak of coarse dark 
 cloth, which hung to his heels. His arms and feet 
 were naked ; he ate little or no bread ; and supported 
 himself on wine and fish." 
 
 Every one mounted the red cross upon his shoul- 
 der, and some imprinted the mark of the cross on 
 themselves with a red-hot iron. Every body was 
 seized with the crusade mania. The ties of kindred 
 and the love of country were forgotten. " Thus," 
 says the one from whom we have quoted, " was ful- 
 filled the saying of Solomon, ' the locusts have no 
 king, yet go they forth all of them by bands.' These 
 locusts had not soared on deeds of goodness so long 
 as they remain stiffened and frozen in their iniquity ; 
 but no sooner were they warmed by the rays of the 
 sun of justice, then they rose and took their flight. 
 They had no king. Each believing soul chose God 
 alone for his guide, his chief, his companion in arms. 
 Although the French alone had heard the preaching 
 of the crusade, what Christian people did not supply 
 the soldiers as well ? . . . . You might have seen the 
 Scotch, covered with a shaggy cloak, hasten from the 
 heart of their marshes. 
 
32 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 " .... I take God to witness, that there landed in 
 our parts barbarians from nations I wist not of; 
 no one understood their tongue, but placing their 
 fingers in the form of a cross, they made a sign that 
 they desired to proceed to the defence of the Christian 
 faith. 
 
 " There were some who at first had no desire to 
 set out, and who laughed at those who parted with their 
 property, foretelling them a miserable voyage, and 
 more miserable return. The next day, these very 
 mockers, by some sudden impulse, gave all they had 
 for money, and set out with those whom they had just 
 laughed at. Who can name the children and aged 
 women who prepared for war ; who count the virgins 
 and old men trembling under the weight of years ? . . . 
 
 You would have smiled to see the poor shoeing 
 
 their oxen like horses, dragging their slender stock of 
 provision and their children in carts ; and these little 
 ones, at each town they came to, asked in their sim- 
 plicity ' Is not that the Jerusalem that we are going 
 to?' " 
 
 Walter the Penniless, and the German Gottes- 
 chalk, also had their followers. While the princes, 
 barons, and knights, were slowly putting their armies 
 on the march, the multitude, countless in number, under 
 the guidance of Peter the Hermit, began to descend 
 the valley of the Danube. Every unfortunate Jew 
 that happened to fall in their way, was mercilessly 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 33 
 
 slaughtered, as having inherited the sin of crucifying 
 the Redeemer. 
 
 The crusade has now left France, the scene of our 
 story, and we cannot pursue it further. 
 
 Six hundred thousand men started, bearing the cross. 
 Europe and her elder sister Asia, the West and the East, 
 met. Jerusalem was taken. But what became of the 
 more than half a million that composed the great army 
 of the crusaders ? Their route through Hungary, the 
 Greek Empire, and Asia Minor, was marked by their 
 bones ; only ten thousand returned ! And where were 
 the little ones who asked at each town on their way 
 " Is not this the Jerusalem that we are going to ? " 
 
 Was then the crusade a disaster and a failure? 
 
 We cannot here speak of all its benefits. Islam- 
 ism, that, especially on the side of Spain, more than 
 once had invaded Europe, was condemned to remain 
 at home, among her Saracens in the East. Christian- 
 ity, endowed with eternal youth and beauty, met a 
 daughter of earth, and pronounced the sentence of her 
 decay. The men of Europe, who long had been en- 
 gaged in warfare among themselves, learned the great 
 lesson of their brotherhood under the tuition of danger 
 and misery. The serf and the lord, learned to recog- 
 nize each other as belonging to the same humanity, 
 when fighting side by side in a common cause, under 
 the walls of Jerusalem, or dying side by side on the 
 pestilential plain. Thus European liberty grew up in 
 
34 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 a soil enriched by the blood of so many thousands of 
 men. It is said that an oriental town was walled with 
 the bones of the crusaders. Let us speak of them 
 with respect and gratitude, for we are to-day drinking 
 out of their skulls the wine of freedom.* 
 
 * Michelet : Histoire de France, 1. iv., c. iiL 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 35 
 
 V. 
 
 TO PARIS. PARIS AT THE BEGINNING OF THE 
 TWELFTH CENTURY. 
 
 IN the year 1100, or not far from that, Abelard 
 journeyed to Paris. Where were the crusaders ? 
 Most of them had arrived at a better Jerusalem than 
 the old, we hope. Loyal to his mission, Abelard did 
 not trouble himself about the work of others. His 
 pilgrimage was after free thought. Reason was then 
 buried, and the armed soldiers of Mother Church were 
 keeping watch at her grave. He who would make a 
 pilgrimage thither, was compelled to insult the divini- 
 ty that he would worship. Reason, however, was only 
 sleeping in the sepulchre, was waiting for a resurrec- 
 tion was waiting to reappear, in the white robes of 
 Christianity, restored to its original nobility through 
 the power of the redemption. lion-hearted Breton 
 youth ! I fear thou hast undertaken a dangerous pil- 
 grimage, for thou wilt encounter worse than Saracen 
 foes, thy own passions and the darkness of thy times ! 
 Persevere nevertheless ; a sight of the shrine which 
 
36 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 thou seekest shall bless thine eyes, but its capture shall 
 be the work of a braver than Godfrey of Bouillon, of a 
 heroic Teuton, who shall gather up in his own experi- 
 ence the whole antecedent history of the world, who 
 shall fear neither Duke George, the Council at Worms, 
 nor pope Leo X., neither men nor devils ; who shall 
 obey God alone and emancipate the soul ! 
 
 Abelard was little more than twenty years* of age 
 when he arrived in Paris. Although he was so young 
 he was still a veteran in controversial experience and 
 dialectic skill. Paris was then the centre of letters 
 and arts, for northern and western Europe. The ar- 
 dent young logical knight-errant was attracted by the 
 city which contained the most celebrated schools, and 
 was the home of the most distinguished professors of 
 philosophy. 
 
 As every one who has visited Paris knows, and as 
 any one who will open a map of it may see, there is 
 an island in the Seine, at the centre, which is called 
 Cite. When Abelard first visited Paris, it did not 
 extend beyond this island, f It was joined to the right 
 bank of the river by the grand-pout (great bridge) 
 and to the left bank by the petit-pont (small-bridge). 
 Upon this famous island was then concentrated all 
 
 * Vie d' Abelard, p. 8. 
 
 f Among the Documents ined. sur 1'hist. de France, see 
 Paris sous Philippe le Bel. Vie d'Ab., pp. 40 4. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 37 
 
 that was greatest and best in the kingdom. It was 
 the seat of royalty, of the church, of the administration 
 of justice, and of instruction. On the left bank of the 
 river arose the hill whose summit was crowned with 
 the abbey of Sainte-G-enevieve. On the right bank, be- 
 tween the ancient churches of Saint-Germain-PAux- 
 errois and Saint-G-ervais, was the quarter where foreign 
 merchants dwelt. Here and there upon the neighbor- 
 ing plains, were springing up establishments of piety or 
 learning, destined to great renown. The abbey of 
 Saint-Germain-des-pres, on the west, perpetuated the 
 memory of that bishop of Paris whose fame rivalled 
 that of Saint-Grermain-d'Auxerre. Down the left 
 bank of the Seine, in the neighborhood of this abbey, 
 where the school of Fine Arts and the University now 
 stand, not far above the present site of the Palais Bour- 
 bon, was the playground of the scholars and clerks j 
 thither they repaired, to engage in those exercises and 
 rude sports that were fitted for the robust nature of the 
 men of the times !* 
 
 Towards the lower end of the island, was the pal- 
 ace of the early French kings. On the end of the 
 island, between the palace and the river, was the gar- 
 den of the palace. It was not much like the modern 
 gardens of Paris. It was a place planted with trees, 
 which was opened on certain days as a public prome- 
 
 * Hist Univ. Paris, t. II., p. 750, et seq. 
 
88 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 nade. In front of the palace was the ancient church 
 of Notre-Dame, an imposing structure, although very 
 inferior to the immense church which has succeeded 
 it. When one would speak a word about Notre-Dame 
 he remembers Victor Hugo's romance, and remains 
 silent. " There is one," says Michelet, " who has 
 laid such a lion's paw on this monument as to deter 
 all others from touching it ; henceforward, it is his, 
 his fief, the entailed estate of Quasimodo by the side 
 of the ancient cathedral he has reared another cathe- 
 dral of poetry as firm as its foundations, as lofty as 
 its towers."* 
 
 Where the Garden of the Tuileries, the Champs 
 Elysees, and the Avenue de Neuilly leading out to the 
 Arc de Triomphe, now are, there was an unbroken marsh 
 750 years ago, at the beginning of the twelfth century. 
 Every thing changes ; the earth is metamorphosed un- 
 der the busy hands of man. At the period of which 
 we are speaking Paris is small, still she is the cher- 
 ished capital of the nation. Abelard comes up from 
 the forests and the villages of Brittany, and gazes up- 
 on her for the first time with wonder and delight. 
 His blood flows faster, and his ambition is inflamed 
 anew. How many sons of genius shall follow him to 
 fame and misery ! Dear, deceptive, gay, graceful 
 
 * See the third book of Victor Hugo's Notre-Daine de 
 Paris. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 39 
 
 city ! thou shalt increase in wisdom and beauty, in 
 strength and sin; thou shalt invite the lovers of 
 pleasure from the ends of the earth, to enjoy thy 
 charms ; thou shalt drink the wine of poesy and wit, 
 and eat the food of learning, and take the lead in the 
 world's civilization ; thy night revels shall be revolu- 
 tions, and thy fair bosom more than once shall be 
 drenched with the blood of heroes contending for thy 
 smile ; thou wilt banish thine own children and nourish 
 those that come unto thee from afar ; thou shalt be 
 the loved and the envied among the capitals of the na- 
 tions ; but the rose of innocence thou wilt not wear 
 upon thy ravishing breast ; thy queenly face shall fade, 
 thou shalt at length sleep with thy elder sisters, with 
 Nineveh, Athens and Rome ; the hand of retribution 
 shall touch thee, and through long years of mourning 
 thou shalt decay ; the eyes of strangers shall gaze 
 upon thy ruins, and foreign feet shall tread carelessly 
 upon thy dust ! 
 
40 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 VI. 
 
 'ABELARD STUDIES AT THE SCHOOL OF NOTRE- 
 DAME, AND QUARRELS WITH HIS MASTER, 
 WILLIAM OF CHAMPEAUX. 
 
 WHEN Abelard first entered the capital of France, he 
 sought the celebrated episcopal school of Notre-Dame,* 
 whose master was the famous William, of Champeaux. 
 There was then no University of Paris. There were 
 in the city many schools, however, which were under 
 ecclesiastical supervision. The largest and the most 
 renowned among these was the one that we have just 
 named. Students flocked to Paris from every part of 
 middle and western Europe. Thither young men went, 
 not only from every part of France and Gaul, but 
 also from England, Germany and Italy. The in- 
 struction at the episcopal school, as in a modern 
 German University, consisted mostly of lectures. 
 The auditors listened to the lectures of the master, 
 then talked or disputed among themselves. 
 
 The students assembled in a cloister, not far from 
 the habitation of the Bishop. This was called the 
 
 * Vie d' Abelard, p. 10. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 41 
 
 cloister of Notre-Dame, and was formed by an in- 
 closure that extended from the Metropolitan church 
 to the garden of the Archbishopric.* 
 
 The chief of this school, "William of Champeaux, 
 was Archdeacon of Paris. He taught with much 
 success and eclat, and the students were proud of 
 their unrivalled master. He excelled in dialectics, 
 and was first in the school of Notre-Dame to apply 
 the forms of logic to the teaching of holy things. 
 William of Champeaux was therefore the first to in- 
 troduce scholastic theology in Paris, f 
 
 Abelard soon attracted the attention of his master. 
 A teacher always loves a disciple, who understands 
 him, and can reproduce him with skill ; but woe to 
 that pupil who sets up any notions of his own. The 
 disciple, in order to please his master, must have a 
 genius for being moulded to the pattern of another 
 mind. Abelard soon distinguished himself among 
 his fellow pupils. His intellect had already been some- 
 what disciplined by his dialectic encounters, and many 
 things had been learned in the various provincial 
 schools that he had visited. By nature he was en- 
 dowed with a rare subtlety of understanding. His 
 speech flowed with graceful ease, and his illustrations 
 were singularly beautiful. Of course he was praised 
 
 * Paris ancien et moderne, par de Marl&s, 1. 1., c. i., p. 61, 
 et c. ii., p. 139. 
 
 f Abelard's Works : Dialectic, passim. 
 
42 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 by his teacher, admired, loved, and envied by the 
 other scholars. Those who occupy a position of out- 
 ward equality with us, will begin to hate us when they 
 are compelled to acknowledge our superiority. He, 
 whose life is a continual progress, has most to fear 
 from those that he is passing. 
 
 Abelard, as it seems, was only waiting to fathom 
 the mind and to comprehend the system of William of 
 Champeaux, before giving him battle. He separated 
 himself from his teacher and attacked some of his doc- 
 trines. The skilful young logical knight-errant more 
 than once unhorsed his proud master. The chief of 
 the great episcopal school of Paris, a school renowned 
 among distant nations, regarded the hardy young dialec- 
 tician with indignation and fright. Some of his fellow- 
 students looked upon him with jealousy and treated him 
 with defiance ; yet others, as is usually the case, prob- 
 ably looked upon him as a hero, and secretly wished 
 him success. Force of mind is never lost ; place the 
 really strong man where you will, and his influence 
 must be felt. 
 
 The soul of William of Champeaux was tortured by 
 the presence of one who possessed a more subtle mind 
 than his own. In a church in the city of Rouen, "you 
 see, on one and the same monument, the hostile and 
 threatening figures of Alexandre de Berneval, and of 
 his pupil whom he stabbed ; their dogs, couchant at 
 their feet threaten each other as well ; and the ill- 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 43 
 
 starred youth, in all the sadness of an unfulfilled des- 
 tiny, wears on his bosom the incomparable rose in 
 which he had the misfortune to surpass his master." 
 Young artist, beware of the veteran who has won the 
 confidence of men ; thy soul may be tempered with 
 the fire of genius, yet a smile of triumph might make 
 thee an enemy whose envy would supply the fuel of 
 his hatred. Young divine, who art ambitious to 
 serve thy master, take care not to disturb the repose 
 of leaders that have the ear of the public, that have 
 outlived their energy, that are, above all, impatient of 
 rivals ; any sin may be forgiven thee, except that of 
 excelling too much in eloquence and learning ; hide 
 thy gifts for a season, and do not question the right 
 of men who hold stations for which they are not fitted. 
 Every man is in danger from those who govern in 
 church or state, just in proportion to his power to dis- 
 turb them. Abelard dated his misfortunes from the 
 time when he incurred the opposition of his master 
 and his fellow-pupils. 
 
 At that period, Abelard was full of vigor and hope,* 
 and did not succumb to adversity. The whole field 
 of human knowledge was open before him, like the 
 world before a conqueror. He sought an acquaint- 
 ance with the mathematics, astronomy and music, for 
 he seemed to be already master of all other sciences. 
 
 * See his own account in the Historia Calamitatum. 
 
44 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 Mathematics, through want of natural aptitude, dislike, 
 or too much preoccupation, he did not succeed in. 
 He was ridiculed by his mathematical teacher, and 
 gave up the study in thorough disgust.* 
 
 Whither now will he go? what course will he 
 pursue ? Will he be contented with knowing what 
 there is ready at hand to be known, or will he show 
 himself a man by exploring new fields, and exhibiting 
 a spirit that can rely upon its own energies ? Be- 
 tween him and the master of the great school of Paris, 
 there shall be warfare and continual enmity ; other 
 foes await him, too, who shall dig the sepulchre of 
 his hopes, and build the charnel-house of his joys ! 
 
 * See the article, by Sir Wm. Hamilton, in the Edinburgh 
 Review, for January, 1836, " On the Study of Mathematics, 
 as an Exercise of Mind ; " also republished in his " Discus- 
 sions on Philosophy, etc.," p. 257 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 45 
 
 VII. 
 
 MELUN AND CORBETL. 
 
 ABELARD was not in the least disheartened by the 
 envy and opposition of his master and fellow-pupils. 
 He even conceived the idea of becoming a master 
 himself, which, in his times, was considered as a har- 
 dy notion for a youth only twenty-two years of age. 
 He had that which is always a characteristic of genius, 
 self-reliance. It seemed to be a necessity with him, 
 to seek to realize his ambition. He was not content- 
 ed to indulge in dreams of glory, without putting forth 
 any efforts to gain the object of his desire ; still less 
 did he passively complain about the wrongs received 
 at the hands of others, and succumb to misfortune. 
 He was born for action and had no disposition to play 
 the whiner. 
 
 Paris, where teaching was under the supervision 
 of the head of the school of Notre-Dame, was of 
 course interdicted to Abelard. He could not there 
 erect a chair of philosophy, and lecture to those who 
 might be willing to receive his instruction. He turn- 
 ed his attention to Melun, which was then one of the 
 
4G LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 most important towns of France, and was during part 
 of the year, the residence of the royal family. The 
 chief of the episcopal school, the master whom Abe- 
 lard was abandoning, had the penetration to perceive 
 that his own reputation was in danger. He did not 
 wish to have the brilliant pupil, who more than once 
 had silenced his teacher, establish a rival school in a 
 neighboring town.* Although William was on the 
 point of renouncing his chair of philosophy, although 
 he was about to quit the world for a convent, still he 
 used every effort to prevent the accomplished youth 
 from commencing a course of instruction in a place so 
 near Paris. He hoped at least to drive the young 
 Breton farther off. 
 
 The archdeacon brought to bear every influence 
 possible to have Melun also interdicted to Abelard. 
 His secret manoeuvres, however, were of no use. A 
 young man, if he is gifted and heroic, has the sympathy 
 of the public. Men like to see an old leader giving 
 place to a new. The genius of Abelard was exagger- 
 ated on account of his extreme youth. His antago- 
 nist had powerful enemies who were in the possession 
 of political influence. The very manner in which a 
 young philosopher was pursued by an envious master, 
 rendered him the more interesting to those who took 
 
 * Cousin's Introduction to the Ouvr. ined. d'Abelard, 
 . 13. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 47 
 
 his part. He was also a born nobleman, and for that 
 reason was sympathized with the more by the court. 
 
 Abelard gained the object of his wish He estab- 
 lished his school at Melun, and succeeded in his teach- 
 ing. His renown soon threw into the shade the nas- 
 cent reputation of his fellow-disciples, and the estab- 
 lished celebrity of his former teachers. His fame, to 
 use his own language,* " effaced all that the masters 
 of art had little by little acquired." His auditors 
 were numerous, and no one seemed to them worthy or 
 capable of being his rival in the art of dialectics. 
 
 Becoming more and more confident of final success, 
 and triumph over his adversary, he removed his school 
 from Melun to Corbeil. He was then near enough to 
 harass the school of Paris with his arguments. The 
 young knight-errant of logic, was not contented to sat- 
 isfy his own disciples, it was necessary for him to 
 be near enough to tease and worry his enemy. The 
 philosophic citadel of Paris was invested by one whose 
 heart knew no fear, whose youthful spirit could not be 
 conquered. 
 
 Philosophy as well as war has its heroes. It is dif- 
 ficult to tell whose fame is the greater, that of Alex- 
 ander or that of Plato. War is only the bloody en- 
 counter of ideas. The great hero is the representative 
 of a great principle. It was not Caesar that conquered 
 
 * Epistola Abselardi, in the Guizot edition of the letters, 
 p. 6. 
 
48 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 at Pharsalia ; in the person of Caesar human liberty 
 conquered Roman liberty. Ideas were at war in Ab- 
 elard and William of Champeaux. The battle, which 
 they were fighting at Paris, may have been fraught 
 with greater consequences to the world than that of 
 Arbela or that of Waterloo. The question is not to 
 be decided, by giving a picture of events, but by ex- 
 amining the ideas that were contending for dominion. 
 A philosopher surrounded by his scholars, does not 
 make so great a show as a commander followed by a 
 brave army, but the importance of any thing in this 
 world is not to be judged by external appearance. 
 The Apostle Paul when he was in bonds at Rome, no 
 doubt seemed very insignificant in comparison with 
 the Emperor, but we are now able to judge whose im- 
 portance was in reality the greater. " Things are not 
 what they seem," and wise is he who looks through 
 the appearance at the reality. That philosophic quar- 
 rel at Paris in the first years of the twelfth century, 
 was really one of the most important events of the 
 Middle Age. It was the cradle of scholasticism, and 
 the first decided declaration of the independence of 
 human thought in modern as distinguished from ancient 
 history. After centuries of darkness, there arose 
 once more a champion of unextinguishable reason. 
 
 " As all Nature's thousand changes 
 But one changeless God proclaim, 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 49 
 
 So in Art's wide kingdom ranges 
 
 One sole meaning, still the same : 
 This is truth, eternal Reason, 
 
 Which from Beauty takes its dress, 
 And, serene through time and season 
 
 Stands for aye in loveliness." 
 
50 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 VIII. 
 
 PHILOSOPHY AKD SICKNESS. 
 
 A RELIGION is the main source of every civilization. 
 Moral force governs the world, directs tbe course of 
 history. Religion lies at the foundation of the great 
 movements of society. Christianity, Mohammedanism 
 and Brahrninism, are means of civilization. Asiatic 
 civilization is as good as Brahminism can make it. 
 If society ever advances there, the East must have a 
 new religion. The Turks and Arabs can never ad- 
 vance until they lose their reverence for the Prophet 
 and accept a better faith. The civilization of Europe 
 and the United States, is the best in the world, because 
 it is the growth of the holiest religion. In those king- 
 doms and states where society has advanced most, we 
 are sure to find the best form of Christianity. 
 
 Now the great fact of any civilization is the rivalry 
 of two classes of men, those who teach the doctrines 
 of the prevailing religion, and the active spirits who 
 pretend to judge these doctrines, that part of the cler- 
 gy who would perpetuate authority and the free-think- 
 ers. In the first centuries after the establishment of 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 51 
 
 a religion, there are many of the first class and few of 
 the second. The regular clergy will be, for the most 
 part, instruments of authority. Philosophers will be 
 few in numbers and the objects of persecution. In the 
 course of time, free thought will claim its lawful domin- 
 ion, and will throw off the yoke of authority. Reason will 
 question faith, and examine the basis upon which it rests. 
 The first meeting of reason and faith is usually hos- 
 tile. They are the ideas that animate contending par- 
 ties in church or state. Reason is radical, faith is 
 conservative. One is impatient of the past ; the other 
 fears the future. The former relies upon the intu- 
 itions of the soul, the other clings to sacred books. 
 
 They are both right and both wrong. In time they 
 learn to recognize each other as mutual helpers, but 
 their first meeting is bloody. The great civil wars of 
 history are the obstinate encounters of these two 
 ideas. 
 
 A false religion cannot stand the test of this encoun- 
 ter of reason and faith. Christianity has calmly met 
 the questionings of philosophy, without losing any- 
 thing in dignity or power. Men of the largest minds 
 are the readiest to accept the teachings of Christ. 
 When a man or a church fears to meet reason face to 
 face, we may be sure that there is a consciousness of 
 weakness. He whose house is built upon a rock does 
 not fear the rains and the floods. Reason is the best 
 friend of Christianity, and constructs for her a sys- 
 
52 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 tern of evidences out of the material which she fur- 
 nishes. 
 
 Abelard used his own mind as a test of truth, and 
 thus unconsciously became a champion of free thought. 
 With him and William of Champeaux commenced a 
 long battle between reason and faith, which has not 
 ended yet. There had, no doubt, been some skirmish- 
 ing in the previous centuries, but in the episcopal 
 school of Paris commenced the real struggle, that has 
 already lasted many centuries, and will last many 
 more. We can here prophesy, without any fear, that 
 Abelard will encounter opposition from every cham- 
 pion of authority, in Mother Church, that he may meet 
 during his whole life. We are far from wishing 
 wholly to vindicate Abelard, but he was the first decided 
 Protestant on the continent of Europe. He has been 
 followed by the unfortunate Albigenses, by Philip le 
 Bel, Huss, Luther, Calvin, Cranmer, and others. 
 
 If we could look deep enough into things, perhaps 
 we might find more significance in the quarrel of a hot- 
 headed Breton youth with his master at Paris, than 
 in any battle of modern times. " Above all," says a 
 lynx-eyed critic, " it is ever to be kept in mind, that 
 not by material, but by moral power, are men and 
 their actions governed. How noiseless is thought ! 
 No rolling of drums, no tramp of baggage-wagons, at- 
 tends its movements : in what obscure and sequestered 
 places may the head be meditating, which is one day 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 53 
 
 to be crowned with more than imperial authority ; for 
 Kings and Emperors will be among its ministering 
 servants ; it will not rule over but in all heads, and 
 with these its solitary combinations of ideas, as with 
 magic formulas, bend the world to its will ! The 
 time may come, when Napoleon will be better known 
 for his laws than for his battles ; and the victory of 
 Waterloo prove less momentous than the opening of 
 the first Mechanics' Institute." 
 
 Soon after Abelard went to Corbeil, his bodily 
 powers were overcome by excess of work. His 
 strength was not sufficient for the labors that he un- 
 dertook, and disease was the result. Even in his 
 sickness, he impressed those who attended him with 
 the greatness of his talent and the profundity of his 
 erudition. Hie solus sdvit scibile quicquid erat* 
 " He alone knew whatever was knowable," was the 
 great and laconic eulogy of Coscilius Frey a physi- 
 cian of the Faculty of Paris. 
 
 Time alone can restore strength and health to his 
 worn body. His philosophic adventures, his studies, 
 his quarrels, the excitement of starting his new school, 
 his lectures, his anxiety, have exhausted his vital en- 
 ergy, and caused a debility of the whole nervous sys- 
 tem. What will he do ? His physician advises him 
 to breathe the fresh air of the country, and to rest. He 
 
 * Essay Historique, par M. et M me Guizot, p. 14. 
 
54 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 is in the midst of strangers, and flatttery will not sat- 
 isfy his hungry heart. Ambition, "powerful source of 
 good and ill," is for a moment forgotten, and memory 
 of home returns. What magic there is in the word 
 home ! It unlocks the heart that refuses to yield to 
 any other key. The place where one was born, is 
 above all others a consecrated spot for him upon earth. 
 "When sickness comes, our thoughts wander to the 
 scenes of our childhood, and we remember the hand 
 that rocked us in the hour of helplessness. When old 
 age overtakes us we wish to return to our birth-place 
 to die ; and do we not call heaven a home ! 
 
 Abelard, thy father will welcome thee to his man- 
 sion in the little burgh of Pallet, and thou hast there 
 a mother, and a sister, whose care and sympathy will 
 be for thee full of healing. Follow the promptings 
 of thy heart ; go by all means ; a few years of rest 
 will give to thy pale cheek the hue of health. Paris 
 will not forget thee ; fame and misfortune will come 
 sufficiently soon. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 55 
 
 IX. 
 
 ARGENTEUIL. A FAIR PUPIL OF THE NUNS. 
 
 LET us pass onto the year 1107. Abelard is gain- 
 ing strength in his native country, and is doing noth- 
 ing of particular interest to us. He may now and 
 then have a dialectic tilt with some pugnacious brother 
 Breton, he may visit Roscelin again ; but we have a 
 new character to introduce, and must leave him until 
 he returns to the capital of France. 
 
 The good sisters of Argenteuil have under their 
 care a little girl, now six years of age, that is destined 
 to become the most renowned of her sex. Her name 
 in the far-off centuries, shall be enrolled with those of 
 Aspasia, the Countess Matilda, Joan of Arc, and St. 
 Theresa herself. Above all others she shall be cele- 
 brated for her learning, her love, her self-sacrificing 
 spirit, and the eloquence of her letters. 
 
 But who is she ? what is the land of her birth ? who 
 are her parents ? how came she here among the nuns 
 of Argenteuil ? 
 
 We are not altogether certain about her name. The 
 daughters of the convent will not allow us to question 
 
56 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 them too closely.* A learned and famous lover will 
 pretend that her name is derived from the Hebrew 
 word Heloim, which is one of the names of the Deity ; 
 but lovers always say and do insane things, and we 
 are not in the least inclined to favor such a presump- 
 tuous etymology. She shall be known by the name 
 of Heloise, and it matters not what the nuns call her 
 now. 
 
 Paris is her birth-place. As near as we can ascer- 
 tain, she was born in 1101, the next year after Abe- 
 lard's arrival. 
 
 There seems to be an impenetrable my stery hanging 
 over her parentage. It is generally admitted that 
 Fulbert, the canon of the Cathedral of Paris, is her 
 uncle. Her mother's name is Hersenda, but the 
 name of her father must remain unknown. The gen- 
 eral impression is that noble blood flows in her veins, 
 and this impression is doubtless correct. There are 
 certain whispers about the family of the Montmorencys, 
 bnt if Heloise is in any way connected with those feu- 
 dal, fervent loyalists, it is probably on her mother's 
 side. Some silly gossips say that Fulbert is her 
 father, but we would wager the kingdom of France, 
 that the high-souled Heloise is not the daughter of 
 such a piece of stupidity. We will not, however, trou- 
 ble ourselves about a question that cannot be decided. 
 
 * Vie d'Abelard, p. 46. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 57 
 
 The little girl is an orphan, and poor, and we will love 
 her for the sake of her childish grace, beauty, activity 
 and brightness. The nuns have they not the hearts 
 of women ? gently kiss her high-arched brow, and her 
 little, thin, half-quivering lips. 
 
 Uncle Fulbert, the Canon of Notre-Dame, has giv- 
 en orders that she be instructed in the best possible 
 manner. Argenteuil is not far from Paris, the canon 
 can easily watch the progress of his niece, and, more- 
 over, his authority is weighty with the sisters at the 
 convent. They need no watching and admonition, 
 however, for woman is by nature faithful to her trust, 
 and it is a pleasure, rather than a task, to teach so 
 bright a pupil. In the little girl's mystic eye, there 
 is a nameless power that fascinates her teachers. 
 Every nerve seems to be surcharged with vitality, and 
 her touch is magnetic. She is as restless as the breeze 
 of summer, but in every wayward motion or act there 
 is a sweetness and a grace that disarm reproof. She 
 learns without effort what other girls of her age can- 
 not comprehend at all. A gleam of light at times 
 seems to pass over her fair face, and she utters words 
 whose depth of meaning astonishes the nuns and fills 
 them with awe. There are those of lofty spirit, whose 
 presence interprets for us the deep words of Novalis, 
 " There is but one temple in the world, and that is 
 the body of Man. Nothing is holier than this high 
 form. Bending before men is a reverence done to 
 
58 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 this Revelation in the flesh. We touch Heaven, when 
 we lay our hand on a human body." Woe to the 
 heaven-defying, sacrilegious man that shall undertake 
 the robbery of such a temple ! There are things that 
 may not be forgiven ; there are gifts for the accepted 
 worshipper that must not be touched by the hands of 
 the profane. Yet, mysterious Life, how shall we 
 fathom thy meaning ! Solemn words of toleration 
 admonish us to pause : " Judge not, that ye be not 
 judged." 
 
 The significance of these half mystic words will ap- 
 pear in due season ; for the present, we will leave the 
 dear little innocent Heloise in the care of the pious 
 sisters of Argenteuil. To look beyond the place where 
 earth and sky meet is impossible ; with us, as we 
 go, the visible horizon will move. The end of the 
 rainbow, it is said, dips in a vase of gold, but the 
 treasure always recedes when we seek it. The avari- 
 cious old Fulbert will act foolishly enough, but, like 
 Judas, he will be an instrument in the hands of an over- 
 ruling Power, and play the part destined for him in 
 the general progress of things. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 59 
 
 X. 
 
 THE CONDITION OF WOMAN AT THE BEGINNING OF 
 THE TWELFTH CENTURY. 
 
 THE state of society may always be determined by 
 ascertaining the condition of woman. When she is 
 the companion of man, and her relation to him that of 
 equality, then we may be sure that a high point of 
 rational and moral development has been attained. 
 The tardiness of civilization has always been chided 
 by the complaints of woman. She represents the high- 
 er sentiments, disinterested love, the benevolent affec- 
 tions, religion, and delicate sensibility, the divinest 
 part of humanity, that part of our nature, advance to- 
 wards the realization of which in practical life, consti- 
 tutes true progress. The treatment of woman indi- 
 cates in what estimation man holds the most beautiful 
 portion of his own being. When men are brutes, 
 women will be slaves. The lords of creation may de- 
 clare that the daughters of Eve are inferior to them- 
 selves, but such a declaration only shows their own 
 weakness and defects. He who places a light estimate 
 upon things of highest worth, proclaims his own igno- 
 
60 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 ranee and want of judgment. Man through the frail- 
 ty of woman publishes his low estimate of all that is 
 holiest in the relations of life. Strike out from exist- 
 ence all that is suggested by the words, mother, 
 daughter, sister, wife, and no man would care to live. 
 One half of humanity is man ; another, yet equal half, 
 is woman. He who speaks lightly of woman, curses 
 the hand that supported him in the hour of helpless- 
 ness, pronounces a malediction upon the fair young 
 being that with mingled reverence and trust calls him 
 father, utters blasphemy against the Being who has 
 filled with disinterested affection the bosom of her 
 whose heart beats with blood kindred to his own, and 
 returns hatred for love to her who has bestowed upon 
 him a greater gift than all wealth can buy. He who 
 knows woman in all of these relations, however, rarely 
 speaks evil of her. 
 
 In the eleventh century, the Holy Roman Empire 
 was overthrown by the Holy Roman Pontificate, and 
 woman was cursed. 
 
 The feudal world corrupted the church, and the 
 church was reformed by the monks. The empire was 
 the highest type of the feudal world, which sleeps its 
 everlasting sleep with the house of Suabia. The 
 church, once reformed, was not contented until she de- 
 stroyed her corrupter. 
 
 Under feudalism, the eldest son inherited the estate, 
 or rather the estate inherited him. The only dower 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 61 
 
 of the daughter was the chaplet of roses and her 
 mother's kiss. All but the eldest inherited the wide 
 realms of beggary. " Their bed is the threshold of 
 their father's house, from which, shivering and a-hun- 
 gered, they can look upon their elder brother sitting 
 alone by the hearth, where they, too, have sat in the 
 happy days of their childhood, and perhaps, he will 
 order a few morsels to be flung to them, notwithstand- 
 ing his dogs do growl. Down dogs, down, they are 
 my brothers ; they must have something as well as you."* 
 There is no asylum for these unfortunates, except 
 in the church. " Every provident father secures a 
 bishopric, or an abbey, for his younger sons. They 
 make their serfs elect their infant children to the 
 greatest ecclesiastical sees. An archbishop, only six 
 years of age, mounts a table, stammers out a word or 
 two of his catechism, is elected, takes upon him the 
 cure of souls, and governs an ecclesiastical province. 
 The father sells the benefices in his name, receives the 
 tithes, and the price of masses, though forgetting to 
 cause them to be said. He drives his vassals to 
 confession, and compelling them to make their wills 
 and leave their property, will ye, nill ye, gathers the in- 
 heritance. He smites the people with the spiritual sword 
 as well as with the arm of the flesh, and alternately fights 
 and excommunicates, slays and damns, at pleasure. 
 
 * Histoire de France, 1. 4, c. ii. 
 
62 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 " Only one thing was wanting to this system that 
 these noble and valiant priests should no longer pur- 
 chase the enjoyment of the goods of the church by the 
 pains of celibacy ; that they should combine sacerdo- 
 tal splendor and saintly dignity with the consolations 
 of marriage ; that they should enliven their family 
 meals with the sacrificial wine, and gorge their little 
 ones with consecrated bread. Sweet and holy hopes, 
 these little ones, God to aid, will grow up ! They 
 will succeed, quite naturally, to their fathers' abbeys 
 and bishoprics. It would be hard to deprive them of 
 the palaces and churches ; for the church is theirs, 
 their rightful fief. Thus the elective principle is 
 succeeded by that of inheritance, and merit gives place 
 to birth. The church imitates feudalism, and goes 
 beyond it. More than once it has given females a share 
 of the spoil, and a daughter has been dowered by a 
 bishopric. The priest's wife takes place by him, close 
 to the altar ; and the bishop's disputes precedency 
 with the count's."* 
 
 Thus writes one who is disposed to defend the celi- 
 bacy of the priesthood, who believes that the church 
 could never have reared the ceiling of the choir of Co- 
 logne cathedral, or the arrowy spire of that of Stras- 
 bourg ; could never have brought forth the soul of 
 St. Bernard, or the penetrating genius of St. Thomas, 
 
 * Histoire de France, 1. 4, c. ii 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 63 
 
 if her soaring aspirations had been checked by the 
 marriage of her clergy. We will not even condescend 
 to defend a divine institution, since Paul, a higher au- 
 thority than the successor of St. Peter, has recommend- 
 ed that a bishop be the husband of one wife, and will 
 persist in attributing to feudalism and the spirit of 
 the times the abuses that stain the history of the 
 church. The courtesan, Theodora, raised to the pope- 
 dom her lover, John XI. , and her infamous daughter 
 Marozia, did as much for Sergius III. Let the de- 
 fenders of the Holy Catholic Church remember these 
 and a thousand other things. 
 
 A monk reformed the church, and laid the axe at 
 the root of feudalism. The greatest man of the elev- 
 enth century was the Tuscan, Hildebrand.* He 
 must be ranked with those rare and mighty spirits 
 who by strong will, clear insight, and untamable ener- 
 gy, effect successful revolutions. Under Gregory VII. 
 (Hildebrand), the papal power first reached the point 
 of sovereignty. 
 
 The bold monk commenced the work of reform by 
 declaring against the marriage of the priests. " Al- 
 ready, and during the power of the two popes who 
 had preceded him in the pontificate, he had given 
 out that a married priest was no priest ; and great 
 agitation had ensued. An active correspondence com- 
 
 * See the excellent history of M. Yillemain. 
 
64 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 menced, leading to a common effort on the part of the 
 priests ; when, emboldened by their numbers, they 
 loudly declare that they will keep their wives. ' We 
 prefer,' they said, ' abandoning our bishoprics, abbeys 
 and cures : let him keep his benefices.' The reform- 
 er did not blench. The carpenter's son* did not hes- 
 itate to let loose the people on the priests. In all di- 
 rections, the multidude declared against the married 
 pastors, and tore them from the altar. The people 
 once given the rein, a brutally levelling instinct made 
 them delight in outraging all they had adored, in 
 trampling under foot those whose feet they had kissed, 
 in tearing the alb, and dashing to pieces the mitre. 
 The priests were beaten, cuffed, and mutilated in 
 their own cathedrals; their consecrated wine was 
 drunk, and the host scattered about. The monks 
 pushed on, and preached. The people became im- 
 pregned with a bold mysticism, and habituated to des- 
 pise form and dash it to bits, as if to set the spirit free. 
 This revolutionary purification of the church shook it 
 to the foundation. The means resorted to were atro- 
 cious The wild anchoret, Pietro Damiani, 
 
 traversed Italy with curses and maledictions, careless 
 of life, and stripping bare, with pious cynicism, the 
 turpitude of the church. This was to mark out the 
 married priests for death. Manegold, the theologian, 
 
 * Hildebrand was the son of a carpenter. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 65 
 
 taught that the opponents of reform might be slain 
 
 without compunction The church, armed 
 
 with a fierce purity, resembled the sanguinary vir- 
 gins of Druidical Gaul, or of the Tauric Chersonesus."* 
 
 Thus did man curse his own nature in the person 
 of woman. Strange to say, the noblest female of the 
 age, the chaste and high-souled Countes's Matilda, was 
 the friend and helper of Hildebrand. Such friend- 
 ship as tjiat which existed between these two celebra- 
 ted personages, is worthy of our profoundest admiration, 
 but we may safely say, that God has not designed 
 that a whole generation of anchorites should bring the 
 race to a close. " In the same manner as the middle 
 age repulsed Jews, and buffeted them as the murder- 
 ers of Jesus Christ, woman was held in disgrace as 
 the murderess of mankind. Poor Eve still paid for 
 the apple. She was looked upon as the Pandora, who 
 had let loose woes upon the earth.' 7 
 
 It would be interesting to trace the contest between 
 Hildebrand and the Emperor, between the reformed 
 church and the temporal power, but such a digression 
 would lead us too far beyond the limits of our subject. 
 
 We see, then, what was the condition of woman at 
 the close of the eleventh century, and consequently at 
 the beginning of the twelfth. Poor little Heloise ! 
 thou dost little know what trials await thee. A few 
 
 * Michelet, 1. 4, c. ii. 
 
66 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 years more, and thou shall encounter the world's temp- 
 tations, and feel the heavy weight of its curse. The 
 tears that sometimes flow to thy large eyes, while thy 
 head is lying upon the bosom of the mother abbess, 
 are mystic prophets of long years of sorrow, but in 
 thy blood there is an inborn heroism that shall defy 
 the maledictions of the age, and proclaim the " good 
 time coming," when the queenly heart of woman shall 
 reign in harmony with the kingly brain of m%n. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 67 
 
 XI. 
 
 AN UNWELCOME AUDITOR, LISTENS TO AN OLD 
 MASTER IN A NEW PLACE. 
 
 NOT far from the ancient city of Paris, on the 
 southeast, near the place where the royal botanical 
 garden now is, there was buried the remains of a re- 
 cluse, who had been noted for his piety. Thither, 
 William of Champeaux, assuming monastic habit, 
 retired, in the year 1108. He was followed by seve- 
 ral of his disciples, and around him there was formed 
 a kind of voluntary congregation of regular clerks. 
 This place afterwards became the site of the abbey 
 of Saint Victor.* 
 
 What the archdeacon's motives were for leaving an 
 elevated post in the church of Paris, is more than we 
 can tell. His chances for a still more elevated place 
 in the church were greater than those of any other 
 man. His position as head of the cathedral school, 
 it is said, was nearly equivalent to the first rank in 
 
 * Vie d'Abelard, p. 17. 
 
68 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 the palace of the king. Perhaps he wished to com- 
 mence a life of peace and piety. It may be that he 
 hoped to find a shelter against the storms which he had 
 sufficient sagacity to foresee. This step made him very 
 popular with the clergy, for they admired the devotion 
 and humility of a man who was willing to leave a place 
 of emolument and honor for the solitude of a cloister. 
 The proud and ambitious William may have chosen 
 that route to the episcopacy. A candidate for office 
 likes to grasp the hands of mechanics just before the 
 election, and human nature is the same at all times and 
 in all places. 
 
 Hoc vere philosopari est. " This is truly acting 
 the part of a philosopher," wrote Hildebert, the cel- 
 ebrated bishop of Manse, afterwards the more cele- 
 brated archbishop of Tours. He exhorted William 
 not to renounce his lectures, and the new recluse 
 followed the advice of his distinguished correspond- 
 ent. Thus was commenced the great school of 
 Saint Victor, which has played an important part, 
 especially in the teaching of theology. 
 
 William was soon surrounded with pupils,* and his 
 life again became tranquil. Destiny, however, has 
 denied him repose; he belongs to the cause of the 
 past, and the world moves on. All of a sudden, in 
 the midst of one of his lectures, Abelard reappears 
 
 * Epistola Abselardi, in the Guizot edition, p. 8. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 69 
 
 among his pupils. The young Breton looks older, 
 and stronger ; the glow of health is on the cheek that 
 a few years since was so pale ; there is new fire in his 
 thought-illumined eye ; he seems conscious of his pow- 
 er, and his face wears an expression of one knows not 
 what settled design. Be careful, William, or thy 
 pupils will observe in thee an uneasy look of appre- 
 hension ; and their confidence will be changed to dis- 
 trust. What does the belligerent Abelard want here 
 in this peaceful retreat, in this place consecrated by 
 the buried bones of a saint ? The master is lecturing 
 on rhetoric, and he wishes to receive instruction. It 
 is a modest and flattering request, and he cannot be 
 denied. Abelard is a man now, and may not be so un- 
 courteous as to dispute his master. Perhaps he will 
 be contented to play a subordinate part ; and will thus 
 reconcile to himself, a teacher that he once so deeply 
 offended. " The boy is father of the man," and no 
 such thing must be looked for. 
 
 The pretended pupil soon found an opportunity 
 to question the master. As we have already seen, 
 William of Champeaux was a realist, that is, he at- 
 tributed to universals a positive reality. When one 
 uses the word book in its general, or universal sense, 
 it is evident that he does not mean any book in par- 
 ticular ; and the question comes up, Does this 
 word stand for a substance, or for a mere idea, for 
 something real, or something nominal ? William of 
 
,70 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 Champeaux contended that it stood for something real, 
 and Abelard contended that it was used in a merely 
 nominal sense. This question of . nominalism and 
 realism, unimportant as it may now seem, was then 
 the dominant question in dialectics, and, as it were, the 
 touchstone of masters and schools.* Abelard, as might 
 have been expected, came off conqueror. His oppo- 
 nent was driven to the wall, and acknowledged himself 
 conquered by striking out from his formula a word 
 of the greatest importance to his system. Such a re- 
 traction was a deathblow to William's reputation as a 
 teacher of philosophy. His pupils deserted him, and 
 his spirit forsook him. Abelard was the victor ; he 
 destroyed the reputation of his antagonist, deprived 
 the proud master of his pupils, and triumphed over 
 an enemy. 
 
 It may be remarked, in passing, that nominalism and 
 realism are now regarded as both true and both false. 
 Some general words stand for things, others are mere 
 names. Abelard was right in combating the exclu- 
 sive realism of William of Champeaux, and he was al- 
 so right in combating the exclusive nominalism of 
 Roscelin, the canon of Compiegne. In proposing con- 
 ceptualism as a substitute for both, he took a step in 
 advance, and showed the fertility of his genius. f 
 
 The archdeacon, in leaving the metropolitan 
 
 * Ouvr. ined. d' Abelard, De Gener. et Spec., p. 513. 
 
 \ See M. Cousin's Fragments de Philosophic Scholastlque. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 71 
 
 school, appointed a successor. The new master, for 
 some cause which is not clearly ascertained, gave his 
 chair to Abelard, and took his place among the pupils. 
 According to the rules of the establishment, no one 
 could teach without being authorized by a recognized 
 master. Abelard was therefore only a delegate of 
 the new chief. The only mode of removing him was 
 through the master of the school. Consequently 
 William attacked his own successor, accusing him of 
 many things, without avowing the real cause of hostili- 
 ty, which, without doubt, was his deference to Abe- 
 lard. The new teacher was removed, and a tool of 
 the defeated and embittered foe of Abelard was put 
 in his place. 
 
 The decisive battle has been fought, the real victory 
 has been won, but the new hero cannot yet take peace- 
 ful possession of the conquered territory. There is a 
 hostile master in the great school of Paris, who is pro- 
 tected by the laws pertaining to instruction, and in 
 addition to this, it is regarded as an act of rashness 
 and almost as an offence, to teach in the city, save in 
 the authorized manner. William of Champeaux has 
 been unhorsed, but many things are yet to be done 
 ere Abelard can reach the object of his ambition. 
 He has experience, skill, learning, energy, eloquence, 
 boldness, youth, perseverance, and unconquerable de- 
 termination, and we may predict for him the most 
 brilliant success. 
 
LIVES AND LETTERS OP 
 
 XII. 
 
 SIEGE OF PARIS. 
 
 Si quaeritis hujus 
 Fortunam pugnce, non sum superatus ab illo. 
 
 " If you ask me what was the fortune of the combat, I was not van- 
 quished by him." 
 
 Ovid , Metam. 1. xiii. 
 
 ABELARD found it necessary to return to Melun, and 
 there to commence his lectures again. 
 
 William of Champeaux was not benefited in the 
 least by the temporary flight of his enemy. He lacked 
 energy of character, and skill to repel an attack. 
 Above all, he was conscious of weakness and defeat. 
 The disinterestedness of his piety in seeking a retreat 
 being called in question, he was forced to retire some 
 distance from the city into the country ; the congre- 
 gation which he had formed, and a few remaining 
 disciples followed him.* 
 
 Abelard left Melun. He put his army of disciples 
 on the march for Paris. The city was closed against 
 him, that is, the cathedral school, to the mastership 
 of which he was entitled by his genius and learning, 
 was in the hands of another. He encamped outside 
 
 * Brucker, Hist. Grit PhiL t. iii p. 733. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 73 
 
 of the wall, on the heights of Saint Grenevieve. It is 
 said that he. even occupied the cloister of the church 
 dedicated to the patron saint of the besieged city. 
 Every thing is lawful in war. Paris should have 
 opened her great school to a philpsopher, if she did 
 not wish to have one of her sacred suburban temples 
 defiled by the teaching of dialectics. 
 
 Saint Grenevieve has since become the Sinai, as a 
 Frenchman says, of university instruction. It was 
 then regarded as an asylum for those who were 
 imbued with the spirit of independence. From time 
 to time, private schools were established there, for 
 such as could not find admission to the crowded 
 schools of the city, and for such as were not satisfied 
 with the regular instruction. These schools were 
 tolerated, rather than authorized, by the chancellor of 
 the Church of Paris. 
 
 Among all of these teachers, Abelard was the re- 
 cognized superior. Even his enemies spoke of his 
 " sublime eloquence," of his " science that bore every 
 test." His originality and boldness seduced the 
 crowd, and confounded his rivals. A head and shoul- 
 ders above the rest, clad in an impenetrable logical 
 coat of mail, he provoked those around him to combat, 
 by his novel and daring assertions, and then put them 
 to flight by the first stroke of his terrible dialectic 
 lance. He was swift as Achilles, strong as Ajax ; woe 
 to the unlucky man who entered the lists against him. 
 
74 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 While besieging Paris, Abelard became in reality, 
 if not in name, the master of the schools. The suc- 
 cessor of William was no better than a phantom, ter- 
 rifying a few timid souls into submission by the ghostly 
 voice of authority. 
 
 William heard, from his retreat in the country, of 
 the danger of his successor, and marched to his aid.* 
 He collected around him his old partisans, vainly 
 hoping to raise the siege. This movement was unfor- 
 tunate, for the few remaining pupils of the cathedral 
 school returned to William of Champeaux at Saint 
 Victor. The master abandoned his chair. Philoso- 
 phic famine had wasted the besieged. The two old 
 combatants were again pitted against each other. 
 Skirmishes took place daily between detachments 
 from the two hostile armies of disciples. The pupils 
 of William, who had once been beaten in single com- 
 bat, lacked confidence in their master, and were gene- 
 rally repulsed. 
 
 In Abelard the cause of the future triumphed over 
 the cause of the past in William. The old master 
 fought to the last, and yielded like a hero, in obe- 
 dience to a stern necessity. " If you ask me," said 
 Abelard, quoting Ovid, " what was the fortune of the 
 combat, I shall respond to you like Ajax He did 
 not conquer me." f 
 
 * Vie d' Abelard, p. 27. f The first letter, p. 14. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 75 
 
 XIII. 
 
 ABELARD RETURNS TO PALLET TO PART WITH HIS 
 MOTHER. 
 
 SCARCELY had Abelard gained a final triumph over 
 his opposers, when he was summoned * to Brittany by 
 his mother. 
 
 He who has no love for the one that bore him, that 
 nourished him in infancy, is not capable of any human 
 affection. Abelard forgot his ambition, forgot his 
 triumphs, and obeyed the summons of his mother. 
 
 But what did she want of her son at such a moment, 
 when he had just reached the object of his ambition, 
 when he had just grasped the prize for which he had 
 been contending so long and so well ? 
 
 Her husband had been converted, as it was said ; 
 had embraced a religious life. Beranger, who had 
 received just enough literary culture to make him dis- 
 contented with a rude military life, who had probably 
 become disgusted with the world, for whom the " times 
 were out of joint," who perhaps was earnestly seek- 
 
 * Dtim ver6 hsec agerentur, charissima mihi mater mea 
 Lucia reputriare me compulit First letter, p. 14. 
 
76 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 ing the salvation of his soul, had sought an asylum in 
 a convent. The great tide of life might roar madly 
 on without ; but as for him, he would cherish among 
 the religious the hope of a more blessed existence 
 hereafter, and strive by every recognized method to 
 attain it. 
 
 According to the custom of the times, his wife, 
 Lucie, was about to imitate his example. Before 
 bidding adieu to the world, she wished to see and em- 
 brace her son her first-born ! 
 
 Many were those in the middle age, who, like the 
 father and mother of Abelard, sought a resting-place 
 under the shadow of the church. Man loves repose ; 
 he shrinks from the rude conflict with nature, by 
 which he compels her to yield fruits for the nourish- 
 ment of his body; he dreads antagonism with his fel- 
 low-man ; he would escape from the limitations of 
 external existence, and live wholly in the spirit : 
 therefore he builds for himself a retreat, where he 
 may enjoy, far from the profane, a higher, holier fel- 
 lowship with kindred spirits, and realize a life that is 
 wholly devoted to noble ends. Asceticism, whatever 
 form it may take, has its root in the human heart. It 
 equally points to the defects of the actual, and to the 
 perennial beauty of the ideal. When men are happy 
 in society, they will not build a monastery, nor attempt 
 to found a new community. 
 
 In the Middle Age, monastic institutions flourished, 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 77 
 
 for society was profoundly unhappy. Especially at 
 the beginning of the eleventh century, existence 
 seemed to be for each one, at best, a calamity. Not- 
 withstanding the promise of her priests, that Chris- 
 tianity should do away with all suffering upon earth, 
 still life was full of sorrow, and the strong man in the 
 midst of his loved ones watered the hearth-stone of 
 his habitation with tears. The belief had been 
 handed down from generation to generation, that the 
 world would come to an end in the thousandth year 
 from the nativity. As the appointed time drew nigh, 
 each one seemed to listen for the blast of the last 
 trump, and to watch for the bursting forth of flames 
 from the bosom of the earth. Famine and pestilence 
 were let loose, like angels of retribution, to punish a 
 sin-darkened world. Highways were strown with the 
 dead, and places of pilgrimage were packed with the 
 victims of a desolating disease. Famine seized many 
 that were spared by the pestilence. The stronger 
 killed and eat the weaker. Forty-eight were mas- 
 sacred and devoured by a single wretch in the forest 
 of Magon. In one place, human flesh was publicly 
 exposed for sale in the market-place. The beasts of 
 the forests visited the habitations of men, for their 
 daily food.* 
 
 In the general despair of the times, every body 
 sought refuge in the church. The abbots had to exer- 
 
 * Histoire de France, L iv., c. 1. 
 
V8 LIVES AND JJ-MTKKS OF 
 
 else their authority to keep all kings and nobles from 
 turning monks. The Emperor Henry II., entering an 
 abbey, exclaimed with the Psalmist: " This is my 
 rest for ever ; here will I dwell, for I have desired 
 it." He was accepted on a vow of obedience, and 
 sent back to his empire. 
 
 The year one thousand, however, passed by, and a 
 period of intense suffering was followed by a period 
 of deep superstition. Monastic institutions greatly 
 flourished in the eleventh century. The church, as 
 wo have alreedy seen, increased in splendor, and was 
 corrupted by the spirit of the feudal world ; but by the 
 monks, with Hildebrand at their head, she was reformed. 
 
 The course of Beranger and Lucie is, therefore, a 
 common one. Thev are actinir like multitudes of 
 others in their times. Al>elard has done well in going 
 to receive the adieus of his mother. She claims a 
 mother's right; and with the sage instinct of a true- 
 hearted woman, gives him counsel that is better than 
 any precepts of philosophy. When was a mother 
 ever insincere to a son ? He will not follow her 
 advice, however, and calamities shall come as the 
 avengers of his misdeeds. He shall follow the course 
 of his father and mother to escape the multiplying ills 
 of an unfortunate life, but shall find that no r< 
 can give quiet to a disturbed mind, and rest to a bur- 
 thened heart. The soul of man must find peace in 
 some other asylum than that of a convent. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 79 
 
 XIV. 
 
 ANSELM OF LAON. 
 
 WHEN Abelard returned to Paris no one hindered 
 him from taking possession of the school that was his 
 by right of conquest. William of Champeaux, aban- 
 doning his retreat, as well as the school of Saint Vic- 
 tor, had been made bishop of Chalons-Sur-Marne. 
 The two hostile philosophers will not meet again, but 
 their enmity has not ceased. William will fulfil Avith 
 sufficient dignity the office of bishop, but he lacks 
 magnanimity, even generosity, and will prejudice, 
 some time during the few more years that remain to 
 him on earth, the good St. Bernard against Abelard. 
 His hatred shall be felt by his conquering pupil, even 
 when the turf lies cold above him. 
 
 Abelard is now the dictator of intellectual Paris. 
 He has no rival in the schools, and his authority is su- 
 preme. He is in philosophy all that Napoleon will 
 be in arms, and rules by the force of genius alone. 
 
 He is not contented, for his warlike nature is not 
 satisfied with peace. The conqueror droops when 
 there are no more enemies to be subdued. When the 
 
80 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 business man retires, his days are listless and weary- 
 ing, and he wonders that happiness should have forsa- 
 ken him at the moment when he renounced care and 
 toil. Satisfaction is found only in doing. Alexander 
 wept when he had done conquering the world, for the 
 same reason that the merchant feels sad when he closes 
 for the last time the old familiar counting-room. 
 When one leaves scenes of activity for the purpose of 
 enjoying repose, he soon finds himself a victim of 
 ennui, and strong must be his virtue, or he will yield 
 to the excitement of sinful pleasures. 
 
 Abelard, moved perhaps by a desire to obtain a 
 position in the church, like that of William of Cham- 
 peaux, for the purpose, it might be, of adding a know- 
 ledge of theology to his other acquirements, or im- 
 pelled, possibly, by his restless nature, to seek new ad- 
 ventures, left Paris for the school of Anselm at Laon. 
 
 Anselm of Laon, who must not be confounded with 
 Anselm, the Archbishop of Canterbury, was the most- 
 distinguished teacher of theology in his times. He 
 began his teaching in Paris, and William of Charn- 
 peaux had been his pupil. His reputation was such, 
 that pupils were attracted to Laon from all parts of 
 Europe. His method was simple, but his elocution 
 was remarkably fine. His lectures contained little 
 else than a commentary on the text of Scripture, but 
 a fine delivery charmed his auditors. 
 
 Abelard was not at all pleased with his new mas- 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 8\ 
 
 ter. " From a distance," said the restless pupil, " he 
 was a beautiful tree loaded with foliage ; near by, he 
 was a tree without fruit, or resembled the arid tree 
 that was cursed by Christ. When he kindled his fire 
 he produced smoke, but no light."* We may easily 
 believe that he did not " long lie at ease under the 
 shade of that tree." At first he manifested his low 
 estimate of Anselm by neglecting his lectures. Those 
 pupils who thought most of their teacher, were of 
 course offended by such an exhibition of indifference. 
 One of his fellow students asked him one day what 
 he thought of the instruction in sacred things, hinting 
 to him, at the same time, that his studies thus far had 
 been confined to natural sciences. The response of 
 Abelard was quite characteristic, and somewhat pro- 
 voking. He regarded as most salutary the science 
 that gives one a knowledge of his own soul, but 
 thought that men of science needed nothing but a 
 single commentary, in order to understand the sacred 
 books. He added that such were in no need of a 
 master. This response was not very flattering to the 
 self-love of those who were zealous pupils, and the 
 presumptuous young Breton, who openly neglected 
 the instruction of the great Anselm, was made the 
 
 * Epistola Abselardi (Historia Calamitatum), p. 16. With 
 reference to Anselm Abelard quotes from Lucan : 
 
 "... Stat magni nominis umbra, 
 Qualis frogifero quercus sublimis in agro." 
 
 4* 
 
LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 object of their ridicule. He coolly answered their 
 jeering, by saying that he was ready for them if they 
 wished to test the matter. The Prophecy of Ezekiel 
 was accordingly chosen as the most obscure and most 
 difficult to explain. An accompanying commentary 
 was given to Abelard, and he invited them to attend 
 his lecture the next day. Some that professed friend- 
 ship, advised him not to undertake an enterprise of 
 such magnitude, and to remember his want of experi- 
 ence in such high matters. With his usual self-reli- 
 ance, he replied to them that he was in the habit of 
 obeying his own spirit instead of following custom. 
 
 At the first lecture he had but few auditors. It 
 seemed to most of the students, many of whom be- 
 longed to the regular clergy, that a lecture upon the 
 most difficult portion of the Scriptures by a new-comer, 
 by one who had received no instruction in sacred sci- 
 ence, who had never been initiated into the mysteries 
 of theology, was a thing too ridiculous to be counte- 
 nanced, too rash to be encouraged, too irreverent to be 
 tolerated. The few, however, that did attend, were 
 greatly charmed. The notes which they took 
 were transcribed by the others, and their eulogies 
 made all eager to attend the next lecture. 
 
 A new chair was thus erected by the side of that 
 of Anselm. A rash young man not only seemed to 
 despise the most distinguished of European teachers 
 of theology, but threatened to eclipse him among his 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 83 
 
 own pupils. The old man was astonished and enraged. 
 A fate like that of William of Champeaux seemed 
 to await him. Two* of his most distinguished pupils, 
 however, came to his assistance, and recommended 
 the old man to exercise his authority, and put a stop 
 to the lectures of Abelard. Anselm announced to 
 his pupils, by way of excuse for his course, that he 
 feared lest through the inexperience of Abelard, some 
 error concerning doctrine might escape him ; but they 
 were not satisfied with such a pretext, and attributed 
 to jealousy the real motives of the master for silencing 
 so brilliant a lecturer, f 
 
 Abelard returned to Paris, having despoiled the 
 old theologian of much of his honor. It is an estab- 
 lished law, that every man must give place to a supe- 
 rior. The wisest and the best is the lawful governor 
 of the world. 
 
 * Alberic of Rheims, and Lotulfus of Navarre, with whom 
 Abelard subsequently came in contact. 
 
 f See Abelard's account in the Historia Calamitatum 
 
84 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 XV. 
 
 FULBERT AND HIS NIECE. 
 
 WHEN the curious traveller goes to Paris, he not only 
 visits the splendid constructions of modern times, but 
 also looks after those things that are monumental of 
 earlier ages. 
 
 When in going about that part of the city which is 
 most ancient, the part situated on the island in the 
 Seine, we descend by a flight of stairs from the quai 
 Napoleon into the rue des Chantres, above the door 
 of the first house on the left, we read this inscrip- 
 tion : 
 
 HELO!SE, ABELARD HABITERENT CES LIEUX, DES SINCERES AMANS 
 MODELES PRECIEUX. L/AN 1118. 
 
 "Here dwelt Heloise and Abelard, precious models of 
 sincere lovers. The year 1118." 
 
 If we go in we shall find fitted into the wall a 
 double medallion, bearing the profile of a man and 
 the profile of a woman. The stupid people about the 
 place will try to make us believe that these profiles are 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 85 
 
 those of Abelard and Heloise, but we had better be a 
 little incredulous. The medallion is probably the work 
 of a blundering restorer, who, some time in the fifteenth 
 or sixteenth century, put it in the place of one more 
 authentic and ancient.* 
 
 We are not certain that Abelard and Heloise ever 
 dwelt in this house, which does not seem to be seven 
 or eight hundred years old; but unquestionably the 
 dwelling of Fulbert, the canon of Notre-Dame, was 
 not far from this place. 
 
 The locality is nearly north from the cathedral. 
 Between the house and the river there is now a wharf, 
 but in the year 1116 or 1117, there must have been 
 a sloping bank from the foot of the street to the run- 
 ning waters below. The street is narrow and winding. 
 For centuries past it has been frequented by those 
 connected with the metropolitan church. The differ- 
 ent costumes of the various orders of these savers of 
 souls according to the grace of Rome, give to the 
 street a peculiar interest. On the bank of the river 
 opposite, we may now see the splendid Hotel de Ville. 
 In the early years of the twelfth century, the place 
 where that splendid palace now stands, was a wide 
 unoccupied shore. 
 
 In the year 1117, Heloise lived here with her un- 
 cle. She had left the convent of Argenteuil, one 
 
 * Remusat: Vie de Abelard^ p. 51. 
 
86 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 knows not when. The nuns there, most likely gave 
 her all the instruction that they had to impart, which 
 in the Middle Age was more than we boasting mod- 
 erns are apt to think. The education of females in 
 the convents had its excellencies as well as its defects. 
 It was too subtile and poetic, not sufficiently prosy 
 and practical. Christian girls were instructed in the 
 literature and philosophy of antiquity, and other things 
 were neglected. The imagination was developed more 
 than the understanding, therefore the heart was en- 
 dangered. Marriage was regarded by the church as 
 at least a venial sin, and the budding maiden was not 
 taught to look forward to a sanctified relationship in 
 which she might find a home for her affections. Bun- 
 glers attempted to mend the work of God ; confusion 
 was introduced, and many a one innocent as Iphige- 
 nia or the daughter of Jephtha, went as a victim to an 
 altar erected by the sightless, as a bride to the sha- 
 dowy arms of death. 
 
 Heloise was then about seventeen years of age. 
 Although so young, her name was known, not only in 
 Paris, but throughout the kingdom. Her talents and 
 acquirements were extraordinary she was by nature 
 a queen, and took the intellectual throne, like one who 
 has a perfect right to rule. Her aristocracy was 
 somewhat deeper than that of the cut and color of the 
 dress ; it was that elder aristocracy of vital force and 
 blood, of brain and heart. A wooden head is good 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 87 
 
 enough in its place, but is rather ridiculous when 
 thrust inside of a crown. 
 
 Fulbert was entirely of the earth, earthy. To eat 
 dinners, acquire money, and get notoriety of the better 
 kind, was, for him, to live. That such a piece of flesh 
 as he, should have been placed in the ancient city of 
 Paris, as a spiritual guide to a numerous flock, is one 
 of the strange things which time has to record against 
 humanity. 
 
 It is sad to see such a child of genius as Heloise 
 given up to the guidance of such a stolid man. One 
 sometimes has to pay a dear penalty for being related 
 to certain persons. Fulbert has no love for his niece 
 of the beautiful and spiritual kind. She is admired 
 by every body, and he likes her for the fame that she 
 brings his house. He prides himself on being the 
 uncle of such a queen of learning. A man who has 
 made money, sometimes purchases for an immense 
 sum a great work of art, and as its possessor, appro- 
 priates to himself a portion of the praises that are 
 bestowed upon a production of genius ; he cannot ap- 
 preciate the noble picture or the statue which he 
 owns, he does not love it for its beauty and intrinsic 
 worth, but prizes it for some accidental and entirely 
 outward value : such is the regard of Fulbert for He- 
 loise. He cannot appreciate her endowments ; in his 
 dull eye a gifted soul has no deep, divine significance, 
 he boasts of having a wonderful niece, as King Adrne- 
 
LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 tus might have boasted of having an excellent shep- 
 herd. 
 
 There are melancholy hours in which Heloise feels 
 the oppression of solitude. The soul continually seeks 
 for fellowship ; it is happy when it finds an interpre- 
 tation of its own moods in the expressed experience 
 of another ; alone, it is restless and sad. The house 
 of Fulbert is to Heloise a prison, for among its in- 
 mates there is not one, with whom she can hold any 
 communion of higher sentiment and thought. She is 
 not indifferent to fame, but the approbation of the great, 
 thoughtless, noisy world without, cannot satisfy the si- 
 lent aspirations of her spirit. She is no longer a child ; 
 her heart has become the home of longings that are 
 strange and new. A mystic tear now and then forces it- 
 self to her eye, and thoughts visit the soul, thai 
 like prophetic interpretations of life's future years. 
 
 Dear Heloise ! one of the gods might love thee ; 
 Apollo himself might be satisfied with thy most pre- 
 cious of hearts ; thou hast no guides, and art without 
 experience ; the serpent lurks near thee ; I fear thou 
 wilt accept the apple, which will turn to bitter ashes 
 upon thy sweet lips ! 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 89 
 
 XVI. 
 
 "THE OBSERVED OF ALL OBSERVERS." 
 
 WHEN Abelard returned to Paris, after his quarrel 
 with Anselm at Laon, he found an unoccupied field ; 
 the schools were all opened to him. His old enemies 
 were silent, and he took his place at the head of pub- 
 lic instruction. 
 
 It is said, and it is probably true, that Abelard 
 was made canon of Paris, as well as rector of the 
 schools. There is no evidence, however, that he be- 
 came a priest until afterwards ; but unquestionably he 
 was looking for advancement in the church. 
 
 In Paris, Abelard went on with his exegesis of 
 Ezekiel, which had been begun and suspended at 
 Laon. He was as successful in theology as in philo- 
 sophy. In fact he was the first one who applied, to 
 any extent, philosophy to the teaching of theology, 
 and thus founded scholasticism, properly so called. 
 
 Abelard soon became the most noted man of all 
 France, and his fame spread to distant nations. From 
 Germany, from England, from Italy from every civil 
 ized country, pupils flocked to Paris, attracted by the 
 
90 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 report of his learning and eloquence. Picts, Gascons, 
 Iberians, Normans, Flemings, Teutons, Swedes, as 
 well as the children of Rome, went to be instructed 
 by Abelard. In a year or two after his return to 
 Paris, the number of his pupils amounted to more 
 than five thousand. Greatly gifted must have been 
 the man who, in the rude Middle Age, could thus 
 charm all Europe by the eloquent exposition of the 
 abstract doctrines of philosophy. 
 
 The noblest young men of the whole civilized 
 world were among the five thousand pupils that daily 
 listened to the voice of Abelard. What is the influ- 
 ence of a king compared with that of such a teacher ? 
 Quis custodiet custodes ? somewhere asks Juvenal ; 
 " Who shall keep the keepers ? " He who instructs 
 the rulers of society is a keeper of the keepers. 
 Among those pupils there was one destined to become 
 a pope (Celestin II.) ; there were nineteen destined to 
 become cardinals ; more than a hundred destined to 
 become bishops or archbishops of France, England, 
 and Germany. There were also many who afterwards 
 became distinguished in the political world, who bore 
 a conspicuous part in the affairs of the times, and left 
 a name in history.* 
 
 " In the midst of this attentive and obedient mul- 
 
 * The enemies, as well as the friends of Abelard, testify 
 to the number of his pupils. Fabulous as it seems, all autho- 
 rities agree that there is no exaggeration. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 91 
 
 titude," says Charles de Remusat,* " was often seen 
 passing a man with a large forehead, with a vivid and 
 fiery look, with a noble bearing, whose beauty still 
 preserved the brilliancy of youth, while taking the 
 more marked traits and the deeper hues of full viri- 
 lity. His grave and elegant dress ; the severe luxury 
 of his person; the simple elegance of his manners, 
 which were by turns affable and haughty ; an attitude 
 imposing, gracious, and not without that indolent 
 negligence which follows confidence in success, and 
 the habitual exercise of power ; the respect of those 
 who followed in his train, who were arrogant to all 
 except him ; the eager curiosity of the multitude : 
 all, when he went to his lectures or returned to his 
 dwelling, followed by his disciples, still charmed by 
 his speech, all announced a master the most 
 powerful in the schools, the most renowned in the 
 world, the most loved in the cite. The crowd in 
 the streets stopped to gaze at him as he passed by ; 
 in order to see him, the people rushed to the doors of 
 their houses, and females gazed at him from their 
 windows. Paris had adopted him as her child, as her 
 ornament and her light. Paris was proud of Abelard, 
 and celebrated the name of which, after seven centu- 
 ries, the city of all glories and oblivions has preserved 
 the popular memory." 
 
 * Vie d' Abelard, p. 43. 
 
92 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 Such is the position of Abelard about the year 
 1117; but the conqueror shall soon be conquered ; 
 he has been sufficiently mighty to take a city ; but 
 he will not be equal to the ruling of his own spirit. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 93 
 
 XVII. 
 
 A PAIR OF RENOWNED LOVERS. 
 
 " Thou know'st how guiltless first I met thy flame, 
 "When love approached me under friendship's name ; 
 My fancy formed thee of angelic kind, 
 Some emanation of th' all-beauteous mind. 
 Those smiling eyes, attemp'ring ev'ry ray ! 
 Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day. 
 Guiltless I gazed ; heav'n listen'd while you sung ; 
 And truths divine came mended from that tongue. 
 From lips like those what precept failed to move ? 
 Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love : 
 Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran. 
 Nor wished an Angel whom I loved a Man. 
 Dim and remote the joys of saints I see ; 
 Nor envy them that heav'n I lose for thee." 
 
 POPE'S "Eloisa to Abdard." 
 
 " THE more spirit one has," says Pascal, " the greater 
 his passions are, because the passions being only sen- 
 timents and thoughts which purely pertain to the 
 spirit, although they are occasioned by the body, it is 
 clear that they are still only the spirit itself, and that 
 thus they fulfil its entire capacity."* 
 
 * Des Pensees de Pascal, par M. Victor Cousin, second 
 edition, p. 397. 
 
94 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 The youth and early manhood of Abelard were 
 pure. Philosophy was his mistress, and he served 
 her with all the ardor of his intense nature. His 
 fiery passions spent their energy in study and in dia- 
 lectic war with the most renowned masters of his 
 times. At length the whole circle of science was com- 
 pleted, and every foe that appeared on the battle-field 
 of argumentation was conquered. His spirit would 
 not be at rest ; it is not in the nature of man to be 
 satisfied without the love of woman. 
 
 What can Abelard do ? He is already a canon, 
 and is looking for advancement in the church. Rome 
 has cursed woman, and will not allow any of her 
 priests to marry. Concubines they may have, but 
 wives are unlawful. He that ministers in sacred 
 things may say his prayers in the arms of a courtesan, 
 but he must not taste the sweets of wedded love. 
 The wicked layman may enjoy the pleasures of do- 
 mestic life, but the immaculate priest is permitted to 
 look for sympathy and solace only among the daughters 
 of sin. 
 
 Abelard, then, can abandon his idea of becoming 
 a priest, and marry ; or he can adhere to his ambition 
 of preferment in the church, and seek a mistress. 
 The latter course is chosen, and becomes the occasion 
 of many misfortunes. 
 
 For Abelard we do not claim saintship, yet Rome 
 was in part to blame for his fall. The church was at 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 95 
 
 war with nature and revelation in demanding celibacy 
 for her priesthood. Abelard, if we judge him by the 
 highest standard, should have abandoned the church, 
 or in aspiring to the priesthood should have been willing 
 to fulfil the vows which it imposes. The lax morality 
 of the times and the habits of the clergy may soften 
 our judgment, yet they are not sufficient excuses for 
 his crime. 
 
 In all Paris, the niece of Fulbert, the young, the 
 accomplished, the beautiful Heloise, was regarded as 
 the most worthy object of his attention. Such were 
 his renown, his manly beauty, his grace of manner 
 and eloquence of conversation, that, in those lax 
 times, any woman in France would have considered 
 herself honored by his proposals. He chose the one 
 best fitted by her studies and by the strength of her 
 mind to become his companion, who might have been 
 the blessed wife of his bosom until the hour of his 
 death, had not Mother Church interposed a barrier 
 to such a sacred union, had not ambition tempted 
 him beyond his strength. 
 
 It is not known when Abelard and Heloise first 
 met. Two such persons could not long remain, even 
 in the largest city, unknown to each other. They 
 seemed to be placed there for each other to bless 
 each other ; but their meeting was the occasion of 
 sorrow instead of lasting joy. 
 
 The cunning brain of the philosopher soon con- 
 
90 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 trived a plan to get access to tin- object of his passion. 
 Mutual friends propose to Fulbert that he shall take 
 the great master into kis house. The residence of 
 Fulbert is so convenient to the school; Abelard finds 
 the cares of keeping a house so troublesome ; he is 
 absorbed in deep study, and the servants waste his 
 income. Fulbert loves money, and is tempted with 
 the price offered. He loves his niece, too, and thinks 
 it is a good opportunity to complete her education 
 under the private instruction of the most renowned 
 teacher. Foolish old Fulbert ! if a wife had been 
 allowed thee, her eye would have seen what entirely 
 escaped thy obtuse vision, and Heloise would not 
 have been exposed to a danger that she was unable to 
 withstand. 
 
 We cannot help cursing Abelard, notwithstanding 
 all the extenuating circumstances of his times, for his 
 sin was a deliberate act, as appears from his own con- 
 fession. 
 
 " There existed at Paris," he says,* " a young 
 lady, named Heloise, niece of a certain canon, who 
 was called Fulbert, who in his love for her, had neg- 
 lected nothing in order to give her the most complete 
 and brilliant education. She was far from being the 
 lowest in beauty, and was certainly the highest in 
 literary attainments. Such knowledge of literature 
 
 * Abelard Op., ep. i., p. 10. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 97 
 
 the more highly commended a young girl because it 
 is so rare in women, and had made her the most noted 
 in the whole kingdom. 
 
 " Therefore observing that she was endowed with 
 all those charms that are wont to attract lovers, I re- 
 garded her as a more proper person to engage in an 
 enterprise of love with me, and believed that I could 
 easily accomplish my purpose. My name was then 
 so great, the graces of youth and the perfection of 
 form gave me a superiority so unquestionable, that 
 from whatever female I might have honored with my 
 love I should have feared no repulse. 
 
 " I persuaded myself the more easily that the 
 young lady would consent to my desires, because I 
 knew the extent of her knowledge and her zeal for 
 learning, and because I knew that more daring things 
 would be written than spoken, and that thus pleasant 
 intercourse could always be maintained. 
 
 Jj' Wholly inflamed with love for this young girl, I 
 sought an occasion to approach her, to familiarize her 
 with myself in daily conversation, and thus lead her 
 the more easily to yield her consent. In order to 
 succeed in this, I employed the intervention of some 
 friends with the uncle of the girl, that they might 
 induce him to receive me into % his house, which 
 was very near to my school, at whatever price. I 
 pretended that my studies were very much impeded 
 by domestic cares, and that keeping open a house 
 
98 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 burthened me with too heavy an expense. He was 
 very avaricious, and eager to facilitate the progress 
 of his niece in literature. By flattering these two 
 passions I soon gained his consent, and thus obtained 
 what I desired ; for he was intent upon gain, and 
 believed his niece would profit by my presence for her 
 instruction. In regard to this he pressed me with 
 the most earnest solicitations, acceding to my wishes 
 more readily than I had dared to hope, and thus 
 serving himself my love ; for he committed Heloise 
 wholly to my direction, praying me to devote to her 
 instruction all the time, either day or night, unoccu- 
 pied in my school ; and, if I found her negligent, to 
 chastise her severely. T 
 
 " In regard to tnis, if I wondered at the sim- 
 plicity of the canon, on the other hand, in thinking of 
 myself, I was not less astonished than if he had been 
 confiding a tender lamb to a famished wolf. In giv- 
 ing up Heloise to me, not only to teach, but even to 
 chastise severely, he was doing nothing else than 
 granting full license to my desires, and, even if we 
 were not thus disposed, to offer occasion of triumph ; 
 for should I not be able to accomplish my purpose 
 with blandishments, I might bend her to my will with 
 threats and blows. But two considerations closed 
 the mind of Fulbert against any suspicion, love of 
 his niece, and my long-standing reputation for conti- 
 nence. To say all in a word ; at first we were united 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 90 
 
 in one house, then in mind. | Under the pretext of 
 study, we were wholly free for love, and the retire- 
 ment which love sought, zeal for reading offered. 
 The books opened, there were more words of love 
 than of reading : more kisses than precepts ; love 
 was reflected in each other's eyes oftener than the 
 purpose of reading directed them to the written page. 
 In order to keep off suspicion, blows were given, but 
 in love and not in rage, in tenderness and not in 
 anger, blows that transcended the sweetness of all 
 balmsj / What then? We passed through all the 
 phases and degrees of love ; all its inventions were 
 put under requisition ; no refinement was left untried. 
 We were the more ardent in the enjoyment of these 
 pleasures, because they were new to us, and we ex- 
 perienced no satiety. It was very tedious for me to 
 go to my lessons, and it was equally laborious, for the 
 hours of the night were given to love, and those of 
 the day to study. I gave my lectures with negli- 
 gence and tedium, for my mind produced nothing ; I 
 spoke only from habit and memory ; I was only a 
 reciter of ancient inventions ; and, if I chanced to 
 compose some verses, they were songs of love and not 
 the secrets of philosophy. Most of these verses, as 
 you know, have become popular, and are sung in many 
 regions, especially by those whose life has been charmed 
 by a similar experience." 
 
 We weep for thee, fallen Heloise ! Thy spirit 
 
100 
 
 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 has found the sympathy for which it longed, but 
 delirium flows swiftly in thy blood, and paints upon 
 thy youthful cheek the crimson of sin. The tongue 
 whose eloquence charms thee is half false ; in the gaze 
 that thy lover bends on thee lurks insincerity ; there 
 is a wave of scorn in the smile that gives thee such 
 deep joy ; there is a tone of hollowness in the heart 
 that beats against thy reclining head ; thou art cursed 
 with passion and not blessed with love. These days 
 of intoxicating pleasure are swiftly passing ; the Eden 
 in the midst of which thou art standing shall soon be 
 metamorphosed ; its bright colors shall fade, its music 
 shall cease, the warmth of its atmosphere shall turn 
 to chilliness, its rich fruits shall vanish, and around 
 thee on every side shall be desolation as far as the 
 eye can reach. We pity thee, but cannot greatly 
 blame ; the earth is cursed beneath thee, but heaven, 
 with its mercy, is above thee still ! 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 10 1 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 CONFUSION ON EVERY SIDE. 
 
 G-REAT was the desolation among the pupils of Abe- 
 lard when they perceived the pre- occupation of their 
 master. A vast army of them, five thousand in num- 
 ber, had come together from every quarter of the 
 civilized world, attracted by Abelard's reputation for 
 eloquence and wisdom; from day to day they had 
 been charmed by his ingenious and brilliant lectures ; 
 and when in their famous teacher languor took the 
 place of animation, when commonplace traditions 
 were given instead of original and striking thoughts, 
 when they perceived that his cheek was growing pale 
 and his eye losing his fire, when they saw that his 
 love had been transferred from philosophy to another 
 object, they were sorely grieved, and some could not 
 refrain from tears at the sight of that which none 
 could behold without pain. 
 
 Such was the laxness of manners in the Middle 
 Age, or such was the infatuation of Abelard, that he 
 took no pains to conceal the cause of his pre-occupa- 
 
102 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 tion. Every one in Paris knew it, except the one 
 most interested to know it, the uncle of Heloise. 
 Every body spoke of his adventure ; the songs which 
 he composed and sung for his mistress were scattered 
 abroad and sung in the streets. 
 
 The undoubting Fulbert, for a long time, saw not 
 within his house what all Paris saw from without. 
 So stupid was the old canon that at first he would not 
 believe those who informed him of the wrong that 
 Abelard was inflicting upon his family. At length 
 his heavy eyes were opened, and the lovers were con- 
 sequently separated. 
 
 The unhappy pair were overwhelmed with grief 
 and shame. They grieved for each other more than 
 for themselves. " How great," says Abelard, " was 
 the grief of the lovers in their separation ! How 
 great was my shame and confusion ! How great \\as 
 my contrition on beholding the affliction of this dear 
 girl ! What tides of regret overwhelmed her spirit 
 when she saw my dishonor ! Each, while grieving for 
 the other, forgot self. Each deplored a single mis- 
 fortune, that of the other."* 
 
 * It has seemed to us that Abelard's regard for Heloise 
 began in passion and ended in love. It was not the highest 
 kind of love, and is not to be compared with that of Heloise; 
 but we must remember that he was very busy with the 
 world, while she was wholly occupied with sentiment with 
 thoughts of her lover. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 103 
 
 Separation only inflamed their love. Regardless 
 of every thing but their passion for each other, they 
 sought interviews that were all the sweeter for being 
 stolen. When the cup of shame has once been drunk 
 to the dregs, scandal no longer restrains us. What 
 did the two mad lovers care for the reproach of the 
 world, while they were to each other all in all ? * 
 
 Heloise with the highest exultation soon informed 
 her lover of the delicacy of her situation, and asked 
 him what was to be done. Every consideration forbade 
 her longer stay in the house of Fulbert. To remove 
 her was a hazardous enterprise, for she was watched 
 by her guardian with great vigilance. One night, in 
 the absence of the uncle, Abelard entered the house 
 by stealth, removed Heloise in the disguise of a nun, 
 and secretly conducted her to Brittany, his native 
 country. 
 
 * Actum itaque in nobis est quod in Marte et Venere 
 deprehensis poetica narrat fabula. Ep. i, p. 13. 
 
104 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 XIX. 
 
 SECRET MARRIAGE. 
 
 w How oft, when pressed to marriage, have 1 said, 
 Curse on all laws but those which love has made ? 
 Love, free as air, at sight of human ties, 
 Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies. 
 Let wealth, let honor, wait tile wedded dame, 
 August her deed, and sacred he her fame ; 
 Before true passion all those views remove, 
 Fame, wealth, and honor 1 what are you to Love? 
 The jealous god, when we profane his fires, 
 Those restless passions in revenge inspires, 
 And Mils them make mistaken mortals groan, 
 Who seek in love for aught but love alone. 
 Should at my feet the world's great master fall, 
 Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn 'em all : 
 Not Caesar's empress would I deign to prove, 
 No ! make me mistress to the man I love ; 
 If there be yet another name more free, 
 More fond than mistress, make me that to thee ! 
 Oh ! happy state 1 when souls each other draw, 
 When love is liberty, and nature law : 
 All then is full, possessing, and possessed I 
 No craving void left aching in the breast : 
 Ev'n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part, 
 And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart, 
 This sure is bliss (if bliss on earth there be), 
 And once the lot of Abelard and me." 
 
 POPE'S M Elotea to Abelard." 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 105 
 
 FULBERT, as may well be supposed, was enraged 
 beyond measure, when he found that his niece had 
 escaped. At first he had been overwhelmed with 
 grief on account of the disgrace that had been brought 
 upon his family, and severely reproached himself with 
 being the unwitting instrument of the meeting of 
 Abelard and Heloise ; but when the perfidious phi- 
 losopher took advantage of his temporary absence to 
 remove the object of his care and solicitation, anger 
 alone took possession of his heart. But he knew not 
 how to take vengeance on Abelard ; he knew not 
 what plots to prepare for him, or what injury to do 
 him. If he killed the seducer, or severely wounded 
 him, he feared that his cherished niece might be the 
 victim of vengeance in the hands of Abelard's friends. 
 As to making himself master of his enemy's person 
 by force, it was an impracticable thing, for he was on 
 his guard, and prepared for resistance, if it became 
 necessary to defend himself. 
 
 Finally, touched with compassion on account of 
 the canon's grief, and accusing himself of treachery, 
 Abelard sought the old man with supplications and 
 promises, offering to make any reparation that might 
 be demanded. He reminded Fulbert that his conduct 
 ought to surprise no one who had experienced the 
 power of love, or who was aware what misfortunes 
 had from the beginning of the world befallen the 
 
 greatest of men through the instrumentality of women. 
 5* 
 
LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 And in order to appease him the more, he offered the 
 canon a satisfaction which surpassed all his hopes, in 
 proposing to marry her whom he had seduced, pro- 
 vided that the marriage should be kept a secret, so as 
 not to injure his reputation. Fulbert consented ; he 
 engaged his own faith, and that of his friends. 
 
 In the mean time, Heloise, who was sequestered 
 with a sister of Abelard in Brittany,* had given birth 
 to a son, which she called Pierre Astrolabus. When 
 he returned, therefore, he found a living tie estab- 
 lished between himself and the object of his - 
 which shall we call it, passion or love ? She was 
 cheerful, for, inasmuch as her reason had been seduced 
 with sophistry, she was without self-reproach, and her 
 eyes were blessed with the sight of a first-born son. 
 
 " I have returned," said Abelard, " to take you 
 back to Paris, and marry f you." 
 
 Heloise smiled, for she supposed that he was 
 speaking in jest an unusual thing with him. 
 
 " Your uncle," he continues, " I have seen, and 
 have promised to marry you. Do not smile, I am in 
 earnest; and this promise has reconciled him to me." 
 
 " It becomes me then," she responded in a firm 
 
 * Epistola Abselardi, p. 34. 
 
 f Epistola Abselardi, p. 38. Heloise complains in one of 
 her letters, that Abelard has not mentioned some of the ob- 
 jections which she urged to their marriage. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 107 
 
 tone, " to be also serious. I tell you, my Abelard, 
 frankly, that I cannot consent to become your wife." 
 
 " Your refusal," he said, " is pronounced in a de- 
 cisive manner, and I must have your reasons." 
 
 " My reasons you shall certainly have," she said, 
 " if you will accept them in the unpremeditated form 
 in which I am able to give them." 
 
 He gravely bowed an assent, with the air of one 
 about to engage in a philosophic disputation, and she 
 proceeded : 
 
 " If you suppose that this step will satisfy my 
 uncle to the extent of appeasing his anger, you are 
 greatly deceived. I know him thoroughly, and, you 
 may depend upon it, he is implacable. If it be your 
 object to save my honor, you are surely mistaken in 
 the means you propose. Will your disgrace exalt 
 me? From the world, from the church, from the 
 schools of philosophy, what reproaches should I 
 merit, if I were to take from them their brightest star. 
 And shall a single woman dare to take to herself that 
 man whom nature meant to be the ornament and bene- 
 factor of the race ? No, Abelard ! I am not yet so 
 selfish and shameless. Then think of the state of 
 matrimony itself. With its petty troubles and its cares, 
 how inconsistent it is with the dignity of a wise man ! " 
 
 She then fortifies her position by quotations from 
 the Apostle Paul, from St. Jerome, and from the 
 philosopher Cicero, and thus continues : 
 
108 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 " To pass by the impediments which a woman 
 would bring to your study of philosophy, think of 
 the situation in which a lawful alliance would place 
 you. What relation, tell me, can there be between 
 schools and domestics, writing-desks and cradles, 
 books and distaffs, pens and spindles ? Who, in fine, 
 that is devoted to religious or philosophic medita- 
 tions, could endure the crying of children, the lullaby 
 of nurses trying to still them, and the turbulent 
 bustling of disorderly servants ? Who could bear the 
 care and trouble of children at an age when they are 
 entirely dependent ? These inconveniences, you say, 
 can be avoided in the houses of the rich. That is 
 true, for the opulent do not mind expense, and they 
 are not tormented with daily anxieties. But the 
 condition of philosophers is not the same as that of 
 the rich ; and those who are seeking fortune, or 
 whose life is devoted to worldly affairs, have no time 
 to study philosophy and divinity. Hence, the re- 
 nowned philosophers of former times have contemned 
 the world, have shunned rather than abandoned mun- 
 dane pursuits, have interdicted themselves all plea- 
 sures, in order that they might repose in the arms of 
 philosophy alone. 
 
 " One of the greatest of these says, in his instruc- 
 tions to Lucilius : * c Philosophy de'mands any thing 
 
 * Seneca. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 109 
 
 else but leisure : all things are to be neglected that 
 we may devote ourselves to that for which no time 
 is sufficiently great. It makes little difference whether 
 you omit philosophy or intermit it ; for it does not 
 remain, when it is interrupted. Occupations are to 
 be resisted ; they are not to be managed, but put 
 away ! ' 
 
 u What with us the monks, who are worthy of 
 bearing the name, do for the love of God, the philoso- 
 phers who have been renowned among the Gentiles, 
 have done for the love of philosophy. For among all 
 the peoples of the earth, whether Gentile, Jewish, or 
 Christian, some have always been found pre-eminent 
 above others in faith or purity of manners, and dis- 
 tinguished from the crowd by some peculiarity of 
 continence or abstinence. 
 
 " Among the Jews in ancient times, such were 
 the Nazarenes, who devoted themselves to the service 
 of the Lord in conformity to the law, who, according 
 to the testimony of St. Jerome, are represented in 
 the Old Testament as monks ; at a later period, the 
 three philosophic sects, which Josephus in the eigh- 
 teenth book of his Antiquities, calls Pharisees, Sad- 
 ducees, and Essenes; among us, the monks, who 
 imitate the common life of the apostles, or the primi- 
 tive and solitary life of John ; finally, among the 
 Gentiles, those who are called philosophers, for they 
 applied the term wisdom, or philosophy, not so much 
 
110 LIVKS AND LETTERS OF 
 
 to an acquaintance with science as to sanctity of life, 
 as we may be easily convinced by the etymology of 
 the word and the testimony of the saints themselves. 
 Such is, among others, that of St. Augustine, in Book 
 XVIII. of the de Civitate Dei, in which he points out 
 the distinction between philosophic sects : ' The 
 Italian school had for its founder Pythagoras of 
 Samos, from whom it is said the name of philosophy 
 took its rise. Previous to him, those men were called 
 sages, who seemed to excel others by a kind of life 
 worthy of laudation ; but he, when interrogated one 
 day in regard to his profession, responded that he 
 was a philosopher, that is, a seeker or lover of wis- 
 dom, inasmuch as he seemed to be extremely arro- 
 gant, who made a profession of being wise.'"* 
 
 * What a speech for an injured girl to make to her lover 
 who hoped to mend all by marriage ! In her the most 
 astonishing erudition and sagacity are combined. She con- 
 tinues her quotation of authorities; but of the rest of the 
 speech we give a paraphrase rather than a translation. Like 
 every noble woman, she would be loved wholly for her own 
 sake. Her lover must adhere to her, because he loves her, 
 not because he is bound by any laws, human or divine. Any 
 fault she can pardon, but the one fault of being indifferent 
 towards her. Her love is so intense that bindimr it with any 
 out ward chain of marriage seems superfluous, and like mock- 
 ery. Few, like Heloise, can fulfil the law of marriage by 
 lu-iiiiT above the law. Church and State, then, must not cease 
 to demand public vows from those who would enter into the 
 conjugal relation. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. Ill 
 
 " From this passage it is evident that the sages of 
 antiquity were called philosophers, not so much on 
 account of their superior knowledge, as on account of 
 their goodness. As to their continence and sobriety, 
 I shall not attempt to collect the proofs ; I should 
 appear like one attempting to instruct the goddess 
 of wisdom herself. But if laymen and gentiles have 
 lived thus, although they were free from all religious 
 vows, you, who are a clerk, and bound to the duties 
 of a canon, ought not to prefer shameless pleasures to 
 your sacred ministry ; to precipitate yourself into 
 an ingulfing Charybdis, and, braving every shame, 
 plunge irrevocably into an abyss of impurity. If the 
 prerogatives of the church weigh lightly with you, 
 maintain at least the dignity of philosophy. If you 
 have no religious scruples, let the sentiment of de- 
 cency temper your rashness. Remember that Socrates 
 was a married man, and how bitterly he expiated 
 such an offence to philosophy ; others, warned by his 
 example, should be made more cautious." 
 
 She also represented to Abelard the danger that 
 would await him on his return to Paris, and, with un- 
 paralleled generosity, declared to him that the title 
 of lover would be more precious to her and more 
 honorable to him than that of wife ; that she wished 
 to retain liim through his tenderness for her, and not 
 to hold him enchained in the bonds of matrimony. 
 Would not their meetings, after momentary separa- 
 
112 LIVES AM) LKTTKKS OF 
 
 tions, be the more charming, because more rare? 
 .Finally, perceiving that her efforts to convince Abe- 
 lard and change his resolution were unavailing, sigh- 
 ing deeply and weeping, she terminated her speech in 
 these prophetic * words : " It is the only thing that 
 remains for us to do in order to destroy ourselves, and 
 bring upon ourselves a misery as deep as the love that 
 preceded it." 
 
 Recommending their young child to the sister of 
 Abelard, they returned secretly to Paris. A few 
 days later, having passed the night in celebrating 
 vigils in a certain church, at the dawn of morning 
 they received the nuptial benediction in the presence 
 of Fulbert and several of his friends and theirs, f 
 
 * The instinctive judgment of woman, that results from 
 quickness of perception and fineness of organization, that she 
 cannot clearly express, because it is intuitive; that sometimes 
 makes her seem obstinate because her conviction lies deeper 
 than the understanding, and is therefore to herself inexpli- 
 cable, this instinctive judgment is often better than the 
 articulate judgment of man, that loses in penetration more 
 than it gains in clearness of form. 
 
 f Nocte secretis orationum vigiliis in quadam ecclesid 
 celebratis, ibidem summo man&, avunculo ejus atque quibus- 
 dam nostris vel ipsiusamicis assentibus, nuptiali benedictione 
 confsederamur. JEpistola Abcelardi, p. 48. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 113 
 
 XX. 
 
 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 Alas how changed ! what sudden horrors rise I 
 A naked Lover bound and bleeding lies ! 
 Where, where was Eloise ? her voice, her hand, 
 Her poniard, had opposed the dire command. 
 Barbarian, stay I that bloody stroke restrain ; 
 The crime was common, common be the pain. 
 I can no more ; by shame, by rage suppressed, 
 Let tears and burning blushes speak the rest 
 
 POPE'S "Eloiae to Abelard? 
 
 AFTER their marriage, Heloise returned to the 
 house of her uncle, and Abelard went to his own 
 habitation. He saw her but seldom, and then in 
 some disguise, or in the most secret manner. Every 
 precaution was taken to keep his marriage with the 
 niece of Fulbert a secret. 
 
 Concealment is impossible ; " murder will out ; " 
 " every hidden thing shall be revealed." It soon began 
 to be rumored that the great philosopher had been 
 shorn of his locks by a fair Delilah, who, after de- 
 priving him of his strength, had entangled him in the 
 net of matrimony. Officious friends of Fulbert de- 
 clared that the only way to retrieve the honor of his 
 
LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 house was to make public the marriage of his niece 
 with her seducer. Perhaps the canon never intended 
 to keep his promise ; perhaps he was influenced by his 
 friends; at all events, his sworn faith was broken. 
 Every opportunity was embraced by those connected 
 with his house, to make known the secret marriage of 
 Heloise and Abelard. 
 
 The friends of the philosopher grieved over his 
 folly in relinquishing his chances of preferment in the 
 church by espousing his mistress. How foolish to lay 
 his hand on the distaff, when the crosier was within 
 his reach, and the mitre was not beyond his ambitious 
 hopes ! 
 
 Far otherwise was it with the friends of Heloise, 
 Her honor had been retrieved, and every thing had 
 been attained that even ambition could desire. Many 
 a noble lady would have considered herself honored 
 by the offered hand of Abelard ; how great, then, was 
 the fortune of the obscure niece of Fulbert, in obtain- 
 ing him for a husband ! Her marriage was soon made 
 the subject of conversation in every house in Paris ; 
 and many, moved by envy, comforted themselves by 
 recounting the dishonorable and unpleasant circum- 
 stances that attended it. 
 
 Abelard and Heloise, however, strenuously denied * 
 their marriage. Who should know so well as they ? 
 
 * Epistola Abaelardi, p. 50. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 115 
 
 Fulbert was telling a falsehood, in the vain hope of 
 saving the honor of his house. Heloise, with con- 
 summate art, looked wholly ignorant of their meaning, 
 when her friends began to congratulate her on her 
 new dignity ; she laughed at the ridiculous story, and 
 solemnly protested that it was false. Abelard re- 
 turned to his scholars, and again rejoiced their hearts 
 with his devotiom to philosophy, and charmed them 
 anew with his brilliant and eloquent lectures. How 
 absurd to suppose that such a master of learning, such 
 a miracle of genius, such a princely professor, whose 
 fame reached to the ends of the civilized world, for 
 whom the beautiful and the high-born were sighing, 
 would surrender dignities, and relinquish all hope of 
 advancement, by uniting himself in the bonds of wed- 
 lock with a poor girl ! The story was soon discre- 
 dited, and the efforts of Fulbert were counteracted. 
 
 When the old man found that he had not only 
 failed, in his endeavor to make public the secret 
 marriage, but was also bearing himself the imputation 
 of falsehood, he was greatly exasperated. The full sense 
 of his injury returned, and his rage vented itself on 
 the hapless Heloise. Was she not a senseless ingrate, 
 careless of her own reputation, and regardless of the 
 honor of her protector and benefactor ? Heloise had 
 a husband, and, like every woman that greatly loves, 
 was ready to sacrifice every thing for the sake of the 
 beloved. She bore ill-treatment in patience, until she 
 
116 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 feared that she might be deprived of the occasional 
 visits of Abelard; she then made known to him the 
 unpleasantness of her situation. Again he removed 
 her by night, in the habit of a nun. The nuns of 
 Argenteuil, with whom, as we have already seen, she 
 had spent the years of her childhood, received with 
 joy their ancient pupil. At the request of Abelard, 
 they permitted Heloise to assume, with the exception 
 of the veil, the dress of the convent. 
 
 Fulbert and his friends supposed that Abelard had 
 removed Heloise to the convent, in order to get rid 
 of her. A plan of vengeance was soon agreed upon. 
 Four hired assassins, with directions to maim, but 
 not to kill, proceeded by night to the house of the 
 philosopher. One of his servants had been bribed, 
 and showed them the way to his sleeping apartment.* 
 The perpetrators of the deed fled. Two of them 
 were caught, and, with the treacherous servant, were 
 severely punished. f 
 
 * "Und& vehementer indignati, et adversum me conju- 
 rati, nocte quddam quiescentem me atque dormientem in 
 eecreta hospitii mei camera, quodam rnihi servientem per 
 pcru niam corrupto, crudelissimfi, et pudentissima ultione 
 pun ir runt, et quam summa admiratione mundus exec-] 
 vi ! licet corporis mei partibus amputatis quibus id, quod 
 plangebnnt, commiseram." Epistola Abcelardi, p. 50. 
 
 ( "Quibus mox in fugam conversis, duo, qui compre- 
 hend! potuerunt, oculis et gentialibus privati sunt. Quorum 
 alter ille fuit supra dictus serviens qui, cum in obsequio meo 
 mecum maueret, cupiditate ad proditionem ductus est." 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 117 
 
 " When the morning came," says Abelard,* " the 
 whole city was assembled around my dwelling. How 
 much they were stunned with astonishment how 
 much they afflicted themselves with lamentations 
 how much they vexed me with their clamor how 
 much they disturbed me with complaints, it is diffi- 
 cult, even impossible to express. The churchmen 
 chiefly, and especially my disciples, crucified me with 
 their insupportable cries of lamentation, so that their 
 compassion was more cruel than the pain of my 
 wound, so that I felt shame more keenly than bodily 
 torture. I thought of the glory which had been lost 
 in a moment, of the just judgment of God that had 
 overtaken me, of the treachery for treachery which 
 had been rendered me by Fulbert, of the triumph 
 that awaited my enemies, of the grief that my parents 
 and friends would feel ; I thought how the public 
 would be occupied with my infamy how I could ap- 
 pear abroad, when I should be a monstrous spectacle 
 to all, pointed at by every finger, and spoken of by 
 every tongue." 
 
 We pity thee, Abelard ; yet it seems to be the 
 hand of eternal justice that is laid upon thee. Words 
 of solemn import were unheeded by thee words 
 written by the finger of the Infinite, pride goeth 
 before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall. 
 
 * Epistola Abselardi, p. 52. 
 
118 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 This is but the beginning of calamities torture of 
 soul, far more insupportable than torture of body, 
 awaits tLee. No hero, no martyr art thou, suffering 
 for obedience to the just and the true ; but a violator 
 of the high law of brotherhood, bearing the penalty of 
 misdeeds. We must remind thee that the universe is 
 constructed on a basis of rectitude, and resign thee to 
 thy fate.* 
 
 * Many will charge us with severity towards Abelard ; 
 but we cannot, in conscience, address him otherwise. We 
 believe in driving money-changers out of the temple of 
 God, in crying " woe" into the ears of Scribes and Pharisees, 
 in laving the rod upon the back of fools. Mercy should 
 always temper justice ; but we open wide the flood-gates of 
 evil, and are most unmerciful when we dethrone justice, and 
 shield the criminal from the penalty of his crime. Our times 
 are cursed with a kind of nerveless sentimentality, that whines 
 over the scoundrel, and has no pity for society that the 
 scoundrel scourges beyond measure. Would to heaven that 
 the punishment which overtook Abelard, might be sternly 
 visited, by legislative enactment, upon every lawless breaker 
 of the household gods 1 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 119 
 
 XXI. 
 
 THE VEIL AND THE COWL. 
 
 Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day, 
 When victims at yon altar's foot we lay ! 
 Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell, 
 When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell? 
 As with cold lips I kissed the sacred veil, 
 The shrines all trembled, and the lamps grew pale ; 
 Heav'n scarce believed the conquest it surveyed, 
 And Saints with wonder heard the vows I made : 
 Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew, 
 Not on the Cross my eyes were fixed, but you! 
 Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call, 
 And if I lose thy love, I lose my all 
 
 POPE'S " Elviaa to Abelard." 
 
 ABELARD had no courage left to encounter the world. 
 His philosophy could not heal his wounded heart. 
 His bruised spirit was bowed with recollections of 
 deeds that conscience condemned, and there was re- 
 maining within him no strength to withstand the ridi- 
 cule of his enemies. The convent alone promised 
 him refuge from those that laughed at his misfortunes, 
 and an asylum where he could hope to find any peace 
 for his agitated mind and troubled soul. 
 
120 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 His resolution was conveyed to Heloise, and he 
 proposed that she should follow his example. She 
 was then but nineteen years of age just in the bloom 
 of youth. She loved Abelard, and him alone ; her 
 heart had chosen him for "better or for worse." It 
 was hard to give up the world, but she had no power, 
 no wish to resist the will of him to whom she had al- 
 ready yielded whatever is most precious within the 
 gift of woman. A generous man, it would seem to 
 us, ought to have been contented with her assurance 
 of abiding affection, with a proposal to live the life of 
 a voluntary recluse, without obliging her to take 
 upon herself the obligation of eternal vows, but the 
 jealous Abelard did not wish to leave any chance for 
 others to possess that which he could not enjoy. He 
 demanded her compliance, and she, of course, having 
 no will, in the excess of her love, but his will, was 
 obedient. " At your command," said she, long after- 
 wards, " I changed my habit as well as my inclination, 
 in order to show you that you were the only master 
 of my heart." 
 
 Even this was not enough to satisfy him. He re- 
 quired her not only to take the veil, but to take it 
 previously to his bowing his own head to receive the 
 cowl. Abelard could go no further ; there was 
 nothing more that he could ask, nothing more that she 
 could give. " When you were hastening to devote 
 yourself to Grod," she said, " I followed you ; yes, I 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 121 
 
 preceded you. For, as if mindful of the wife of Lot, 
 who looked behind her, in the sacred habit and monas- 
 tic profession, you bound me to God before you bound 
 yourself. In that one instance, I confess, I grieved 
 and blushed for your mistrust of me ; but I, God 
 knows, should not have hesitated to follow you* at 
 your command, if you had been hastening to perdi- 
 tion." 
 
 The day soon came when Heloise was to take the 
 veil, and for ever relinquish the world. Great was the 
 crowd that gathered at Argenteuil. The Bishop of 
 Paris officiated. The holy veil was blessed and laid 
 upon the altar. The gates of the cloister were opened, 
 and Heloise appeared. Her features still bore the 
 impress of lofty intelligence and heroism, but grief 
 had added a softness and a sweetness all its own. She 
 wore a look of resignation to her fate, rather than of high 
 religious enthusiasm and eagerness to leave the world. 
 The crowd was at first silent, but soon every heart 
 throbbed with compassion for the fair young Heloise, 
 who was about to take upon herself vows that may 
 not be broken, at the command of an ungenerous 
 lover. The passage to the altar was impeded ; friends 
 spoke to her of her charms and urged her not to pro- 
 ceed. Her bosom was convulsed with sobs, tears 
 showered down her cheeks, yet her thoughts were 
 only of him whom she loved too well. She was heard 
 to utter, at a moment when her soul should have been 
 
122 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 occupied with thoughts of God, the apostrophe of 
 Cornelia in Lucan : " my husband, greatest of men, 
 who didst deserve a far happier bride than I. Fate 
 had thus much power over thy illustrious head ! Why, 
 wretch that I am, did I marry thee to thy undoing ? 
 Now art thou avenged ; willingly do I sacrifice myself 
 to expiate my crime." * 
 
 The crowd gave way before her ; she mounted the 
 altar, covered her face with the consecrated veil, and, 
 with a firm voice, pronounced the vows that released 
 her from all things human, that in the language of 
 the church, made her the spouse of Christ. 
 
 A few days after Heloise had taken the veil at 
 Argenteuil, Abelard entered the Abbey of Saint 
 Denis. It was rather his object to escape the gaze 
 of men, than to find a place sacred to religious medi- 
 tation, and the worship of God.f He takes with him 
 his pride and his restless spirit ; foes will multiply on 
 every hand, in contention with whom the best of his 
 life must be wasted. Heloise, through long years of 
 silent sorrow, will think much of God, but more of 
 him whose image is constantly before her, whom her 
 great heart so profoundly loves. 
 
 * O maxime conjux! 
 
 O thalamis indigne rneis ! hoc juris habebat 
 In tantum fortuna caput ? Cur irnpio nupsi, 
 Si miserum factura fui ? Nunc accipe poenas, 
 Sed quas sponte luam. LUCAN, 1. viii 
 
 f Epistola Abselardi, p. 54. 
 
ABELARD AND HELO1SE. 123 
 
 XXII. 
 
 NO OBJECT AND NO REST: A MONODRAMA 
 
 AT the Abbey of St. Denis, meditations of vengeance,* 
 at first, wholly occupied the mind of Abelard. He 
 imagined that the bishop of Paris and the canons had 
 united in a plot to destroy him, and it was with diffi- 
 culty that he was restrained from undertaking a jour- 
 ney to Rome, in order to accuse them before the 
 Pope. Men are prone to impute to the machinations 
 of others the calamities that follow their own mis- 
 deeds. 
 
 The clerks, and the Abbe of St. Denis, urged the 
 new comer to resume his lectures, to instruct the poor 
 and humble servants of God, with the same zeal that 
 he had displayed in teaching the noble and the rich. 
 Abelard hesitated. He was seeking retirement from 
 the world, and wished to shun the sight of men. They 
 expected, on their part, from the acquisition of the 
 illustrious philosopher, new renown for the abbey that 
 had been, since its foundation by Dagobert, a pet of 
 
 * Vie d'Abelard, p. 70. 
 
124 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 the kings of France, and was one of the institutions 
 of the monarchy. The new monk, who had been ac- 
 customed to rule, complained of the irregular life of 
 the brothers, and accused the abbe himself of grave 
 disorders.* His imprudent reproaches soon made him 
 obnoxious to the whole fraternity, and they, in hopes 
 of getting rid of him, urged him to yield to the im- 
 portunities of his disciples, and commence again the 
 work of instruction. With much reluctance he com- 
 plied with the request of friends and foes, and, in 
 1 120, established himself in the priory of Maisoncelle, 
 which was situated on the lands of the Count of 
 Champagne. 
 
 An auditory of three thousand students, it is said, 
 soon collected to listen to the lectures of the renowned 
 master. That obscure place could not supply them 
 with lodgings or food. Misfortune had saddened the 
 heart of Abelard, and his teaching was more deeply 
 tinged with religion than it had ever been before. 
 Like Origen, however, he explained every thing ; he 
 philosophized theology, thus to speak, and placed rea- 
 son above faith, f Other schools were drained of 
 their pupils, and the masters were made hostile by 
 jealousy towards a successful rival. His right to 
 teach was questioned, and the substance of his teach- 
 ing was declared to be unsound. The clergy, of every 
 
 * Ep. Abelard, p. 58. f E P- Abaelardi, p.60 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 125 
 
 rank and order, was stirred up against him. Sur- 
 rounded by grateful and obedient disciples, and long 
 since accustomed to despise his enemies, Abelard 
 thought to brave the storm and risk the combined op- 
 position of teachers and ecclesiastics, without taking 
 any pains to defend himself against their machina- 
 tions. 
 
 In the mean time he wrote his work entitled Intro- 
 duction to Theology, which was a kind of resume, in 
 some sort a digest, of his lectures. Its success was 
 great, and called forth many attacks from the ecclesi- 
 astics. In answer to them, he published a biting in- 
 vective against those ignorant of dialectics, who took 
 his dogmas for sophisms. 
 
 Elsewhere, however, two ancient foes of Abelard 
 were quietly plotting his destruction. Alberic and 
 Lotalphus,* who had been his fellow pupils at the 
 school of Anselm of Laon, were at the head of the 
 schools of Eheims, and had not forgotten the van- 
 quisher of their ancient teacher. Alberic was arch- 
 deacon of the cathedral, prior of St. Sixtus, and was 
 in high credit with Raoul, his archbishop. The two 
 professors prevailed upon the archbishop to come to 
 an understanding with the bishop of Palestrina, who 
 was then fulfilling the functions of a legate of the 
 Holy See in the states of Gaul, to convoke, under the 
 
 * Vie d'Abelard, p. 78. Ep. Abselardi, p. 62. 
 
126 LIVES AND LETTERS OP 
 
 name of a council or provincial synod, a conventicle 
 at Soissons, for the purpose of trying Abelard. He 
 was accused of applying the principles of nominalism 
 to the dogma of the Trinity. It was in the year 1121, 
 when the philosopher repaired to Soissons, perfectly 
 willing to engage in any public discussion on the topic. 
 The clergy and people of that place had been preju- 
 diced against him, and some of his disciples came 
 near being stoned. The philosopher put his book in 
 the hands of the legate, deferring to his judgment, 
 and expressing, beforehand, his willingness to retract 
 any thing that might be at variance with the Catholic 
 faith. The embarrassed legate returned the book, 
 and referred him to the archbishop and his counsel- 
 lors. They did not seem to find any thing heretical, 
 and deferred judgment until the close of the council. 
 
 The public, moved perhaps by mere curiosity, 
 wished to see Abelard, and he appeared day after day, 
 exposing his doctrines and winning admiration. " He 
 harangues the public," it was said, "and no one an- 
 swers him ! The council draws to a close, a council 
 assembled chiefly on his account ; and in regard to 
 him no question is raised ! Will the judges acknow- 
 ledge that the error was on their side ?" 
 
 Alberic, with some of his followers,* called on 
 Abelard one day, and after paying him some empty 
 
 * Vie d' Abelard, p. 87. Ep. Abcelardi, p. 6-4. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 127 
 
 compliments, finally expressed his astonishment at a 
 certain doctrine which he had found in the philoso- 
 pher's book. 
 
 " If you wish," replied Abelard, "I will give you 
 a reason for it." 
 
 " We make no account," said Alberic, "of human 
 reasons, as well as of our sense in such matters ; we 
 ask the words of authority." 
 
 Abelard opened the book, and showed him that 
 the doctrine in question had been substantiated by a 
 citation from St. Augustine, a recognized authority in 
 the church. 
 
 Alberic's disciples were surprised and confused, 
 and he answered that " it was necessary to understand 
 the passage rightly." 
 
 "Fine news!" instantly replied Abelard; "but 
 you demand a text and not sense. If you wish sense 
 and reason, I am ready to give them." 
 
 Alberic, highly enraged, responded that, in this 
 affair, neither authorities nor reasons should serve 
 him, thus intimating,; perhaps, that they were plotting 
 against him in secret, and that they were quite sure 
 of success in effecting his destruction. 
 
 The last day of the council arrived, and nothing 
 decisive, as yet, had been done touching Abelard and 
 his book. The bishop of Chartres, who was friendly 
 to Abelard, perceiving their embarrassment, took ad- 
 vantage of it, and exhorted to moderation. He re- 
 
128 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 minded them of the high position and great talents 
 of Abelard, and advised that the accused should be 
 allowed to respond. This counsel was received with 
 murmurs, for no one could hope for any success in a 
 debate with the subtle dialectician. It was then re- 
 commended that the philosopher should be conducted 
 back to St. Denis by the abbe, who was then present, 
 and that he should be tried, at some subsequent pe- 
 riod, by a larger council. The legate assented to 
 this advice, and all seemed to concur. The enemies 
 of Abelard, however, who perceived that thus he 
 would be placed beyond their influence, persuaded the 
 archbishop to bring the affair to an issue at once. The 
 accused was called, and appeared before the council. 
 It was alleged that he was guilty of the heresy of Sa- 
 bellius, that is, of having denied or weakened the re- 
 ality of three persons in the Trinity. He was judged 
 without discussion, and condemned without examina- 
 tion. He was compelled to throw his book, with his 
 own hand, into the flames. After a day of suffering 
 and humiliation, Abelard was placed in the keeping 
 of the abbe of Saint Medard, and conducted by him, 
 as a prisoner, to his convent. 
 
 The brothers of Saint Medard treated the con- 
 demned philosopher more like a guest than a prisoner. 
 They showed him every attention, and were uniformly 
 kind. Nothing, however, could console him. His 
 despair reached such a pitch of madness, that he 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 129 
 
 accused God himself of having abandoned him.* 
 Strangely were the heroes of thought treated in the 
 twelfth century ; strangely have they been treated in 
 every age. 
 
 The judgment of the council, however, did not 
 meet with general approbation. Many disavowed 
 their own vote, and the legate publicly attributed the 
 affair to the jealousy of the French ; repenting of the 
 whole proceeding, he finally returned Abelard to his 
 own convent. 
 
 At St. Denis fresh trials awaited the restless 
 and disappointed monk. He had not been for- 
 gotten in the mean time by his old enemies in the ab- 
 bey. Reading, one day, in the commentary of Bede 
 the Venerable upon the Acts of the Apostles, that 
 Denis, the Areopagite, had been bishop of Corinth, 
 and not bishop of Athens, he was imprudent enough 
 to express a doubt that the one whom the monks re- 
 garded as the founder of their abbey, had ever set 
 foot in Gaul.f This at once raised a storm. When 
 questioned by the indignant brothers, he was rash 
 enough to defend the authority of Bede against that 
 of Hilduin, whose testimony was quoted in opposition 
 to him. Touching this legend, was questioning the 
 religion of the crown, and the indignant fraternity 
 refused to accept any reparation. In full assembly 
 
 * Ep. Abselardi, p. 78. f E P- Ab^lardi, p. 80. 
 
130 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 the abbe threatened to send him to the King, who 
 would demand a signal reparation for an offence so 
 monstrous, and ordered that, in the mean time, he 
 should be strictly watched. Abelard fled by night, 
 and gained the territory of Thibauld, the Count of 
 Champagne. He wrote back to the abbe of St. 
 Denis, and to his congregation, making concessions, 
 but they were of no use. The Count interfered in 
 vain to effect a reconciliation. The fugitive, who was 
 enjoying great hospitality at Provence, in the priory 
 of St. Agoul, was threatened with excommunica- 
 tion. 
 
 The aspect of affairs was fortunately changed by 
 the death of the abbe of St. Denis. His successor 
 was more of a politician than an ecclesiastic, and 
 things took a favorable turn. Abelard asked permis- 
 sion to separate himself from the abbey. The new 
 abbe consented that he might live in any retreat that 
 he chose, but demanded that he should join no other 
 community. The condition was accepted, and every 
 thing was ratified in the presence of the King and his 
 council. 
 
 Abelard retired to a wilderness place, on the 
 banks of the Ardusson, in the territory of Troyes.* 
 He was accompanied by a single clerk. With the 
 permission of the bishop of Troyes, he constructed 
 
 * Ep. Ab. p. 88. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 131 
 
 an oratory out of the branches of trees, which he ded- 
 icated to the Trinity. His retreat was soon known, 
 and a new generation of scholars flocked to hear the 
 renowned master. He expressed his desire to remain 
 alone, but they importuned him for lessons, which at 
 length he consented to give. Eager students con- 
 structed in the forest huts like the cell of their mas- 
 ter. At the end of the first year he was surrounded 
 in the wilderness with six hundred disciples. No fee 
 was demanded for his lectures, but the necessities of 
 life were supplied by those to whom he freely gave 
 the treasures of his mind. 
 
 The number of his students increased, and it be- 
 came necessary to enlarge their place of worship. A 
 respectable building was erected, which was solemnly 
 dedicated to the Comforter, to the Paraclete. Such 
 a dedication was an innovation that could not be tol- 
 erated in one already suspected. New enemies arose, 
 more formidable than the old, who were representa- 
 tives of the principle of authority, and instinctively 
 hated the representative of the principle of reason. 
 
 Chief among these enemies were St. Norbert and 
 St. Bernard. 
 
 Norbert,* who sprang from a distinguished family, 
 who had spent his youth in pleasures, became a priest 
 in 1116 He was an ardent missionary of faith and 
 
 * Vie d'Abelard, p. 115. 
 
132 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 penitence. In 1120, he laid the foundation of a reg- 
 ular order of monks, and at the end of four years 
 found himself at the head of nine flourishing abbeys. 
 In 1126, he became archbishop of Magdebourg. 
 " Powerful and revered in the church," says M. De 
 Remusat, "protected by great princes, he joined to 
 an indefatigable activity a singular faith in his own 
 inspiration, in a sort of personal revelation, which led 
 him to undertake prophecies and miracles. Persuad- 
 ed of the speedy coming of Antichrist, he pursued 
 with redoubtable zeal every one who seemed to him 
 to menace faith and unity." Abelard numbers Nor- 
 bert among his persecutors, and such was the mystic 
 character of the zealot's mind, that he must have been 
 incapable of excusing and appreciating the wholly in- 
 tellectual Christianity of the great theological dialec- 
 tician. 
 
 Abelard's greatest antagonist was St. Bernard. 
 " Like Abelard, he was of noble birth. Originally 
 from Upper Burgundy, from the country of Bossuet 
 and Buffon, he had been brought up in that powerful 
 abbey of Citeaux, the sister and rival of Cluny, which 
 sent forth such a host of illustrious preachers, and 
 which, fifty years later, originated the crusade against 
 the Albigeois. But Citeaux was too splendid and too 
 wealthy for St. Bernard ; and he descended into the 
 poorer region of Champagne,* and founded the mo- 
 
 * Not very far from the Paraclete. 
 
ABELARD AND HELO1SE. 133 
 
 nastery of Clairvaux in the Valley of Wormwood. 
 Here he could lead at will the life of suffering to 
 which he cleaved, and from which nothing could tear 
 him, for he would never hear of being any other than 
 a monk, when he might have been archbishop or pope. 
 Forced to reply to the various monarchs who consult- 
 ed him, he found himself all-powerful in his own de- 
 spite, and condemned to govern Europe. It was a 
 letter of St. Bernard's, which caused the King of 
 France to withdraw his army from Champagne ; and 
 when the simultaneous elevation of Innocent II. and 
 of Anaclete to the Papal throne, had given rise to a 
 schism, the French church referred the decision to 
 St. Bernard, and he decided in favor of Innocent. 
 England and Italy opposed his choice : the abbot of 
 Clairvaux wrote to the King of England ; then, taking 
 the pope by the hand, led him through all the cities 
 of Italy, which received him on bended knee. The 
 people rushed to touch the saint, and would struggle 
 with each other but for a thread drawn out of his 
 gown. His whole road was marked by miracles. 
 
 " But, as we learn from his letters, these things 
 were not his chief business. He lent, but did not 
 give himself to the world his heart and treasure 
 were elsewhere. He would write ten lines to the 
 King of England, and ten pages to a poor monk. 
 Abstracting himself from all outward concerns a 
 man of prayer and sacrifice, no one knew better how 
 
134 LIVES AND LETTKKS OF 
 
 to be alone, though surrounded by others ; his senses 
 took no note of external objects. Having, his biog- 
 rapher tells us, walked the whole day along the lake 
 of Lausanne, he inquired in the evening whereabouts 
 , the lake might be. He would mistake oil for water, 
 and coagulated blood for butter. Almost every thing 
 he took his stomach rejected. He quenched his hun- 
 ger with the Bible, his thirst with the Gospel. He 
 could scarcely stand upright ; yet found strength to 
 preach the crusade to a hundred thousand men. He 
 seemed rather a being of another world than mortal, 
 when he presented himself to the multitude with 
 his white and red beard, his white and fair hair, 
 meagre and weak, hardly a tinge of life on his 
 cheeks, and with that singular transparency of com- 
 plexion so admired in Byron. So overpowering 
 was the effect of his preaching, that mothers kept 
 their sons from hearing him, wives their husbands ; 
 or all would have turned monks. As for him, 
 when he had breathed the breath of life into the mul- 
 titude, he would hasten back to Clairvaux, rebuild 
 his hut of boughs and leaves, and soothe in studies 
 of the Song of Songs, the interpretation of which was 
 the occupation of his life, his love-sick soul. 
 
 " Think with what grief such a man must have 
 learned the success of Abelard, and the encroach- 
 ments of logic on religion, the prosaic victory of rea- 
 eon over faith, and the extinguishment of the flame 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 135 
 
 of sacrifice in the world it was tearing his God from 
 him."* 
 
 These two men preached against Abelard, throw- 
 ing doubts upon his faith and suspicions upon his 
 life.f The abbe of Clairvaux was not, it is probable, 
 at this period, acquainted with the enemy of faith, and 
 champion of reason, but had heard of his adventures, 
 and knew of his logical duels with schoolmen and 
 ecclesiastics. It must be remembered, too, that the 
 Valley of Wormwood and the Paraclete were not far 
 distant from each other, so that the two abbeys may 
 be regarded as having been rivals. It is certain that 
 the philosopher wasan fear of the saint. During the 
 last days of his stay at the place of his retreat, he 
 constantly expected to be dragged before a council as 
 a heretic. Such was the state of his mind, caused by 
 apprehension, that he even thought of seeking refuge 
 on infidel ground, among the enemies of Christ. \ 
 
 About the year 1125, the abbey of Saint Gildas 
 lost its head, and, after the consent of the abbe and 
 monks of Saint Denis had been obtained, the vacant 
 post was offered to Abelard. He accepted the offer, 
 comparing himself, in escaping from the enmity of 
 France, to St. Jerome, fleeing from the injustice of 
 Rome. 
 
 * Michelet. f Ep. Ab. p. 96. 
 
 \ Ep. Ab. p. 102. Inter inimicos Christi Christian^ 
 vivere. 
 
136 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 Saint Gildas* was in Brittany, situated on the 
 summit of a promontory, overlooking the ocean, whose 
 waves broke mournfully on the rocks beneath. The 
 eloquent professor, the learned philosopher, the ac- 
 complished lover, who was withal a poet and a charm- 
 ing singer, went among an irregular, disorderly, vio- 
 lent, ferocious tribe of monks and savages, who could 
 understand nothing, who knew not how to obey. Ab- 
 elard became the subject of a tyrannical king, and the 
 head of an abbey that had allowed itself to be de- 
 spoiled to purchase venality for its misconduct. Sur- 
 rounded by barbarians, he was powerless. No wonder 
 that he became melancholy, and poured out his sad- 
 ness in songs as plaintive as the wild winds that 
 howled around his habitation.! 
 
 * Vie D'Abelard, p. 120. 
 
 f Six of these elegiac songs, Odce febiles, in which the 
 author breathes out his own sorrows under the transparent 
 veil of biblical fictions, have been found in the library of the 
 Vatican at Rome. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 137 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 HELOISE AGAIN. THE MONODRAMA CONTINUED 
 
 "Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care, 
 Plants of thy hand, and children of thy prayer. 
 From the false world in early youth they fled, 
 By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led. 
 You raised these hallowed walls ; the desert smiled, 
 And Paradise was opened in the Wild. 
 No weeping orphan saw his father's stores 
 Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors ; 
 No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n, 
 Here bribed the rage of ill-requited heav'n ; 
 But such plain roofs as Piety could raise, 
 And only vocal with the Maker's praise." 
 
 POPE'S " Eloisa to Abelard" 
 
 IN the mean time, Heloise, it would seem, had been 
 almost forgotten by her wandering spouse. We have 
 found no mention of her name, in tracing his life thus 
 far, since he entered the abbey of St. Denis. Her 
 memory, however, may have been buried in his heart 
 during these years of persecution and sorrow, and 
 cherished there in faithfulness and silence. 
 
 At the convent of Argenteuil, the character and 
 energy of Heloise soon placed her in the highest 
 
138 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 rank. She was made prioress, and the church spoke 
 of her with respect. But she was not destined to 
 remain there a long time in quiet possession of her 
 authority, and in the enjoyment of her honors. 
 
 It was found, by an examination of the ancient 
 charters, that the monks of St. Denis could lay claim 
 to Argenteuil. The history of these charters it is 
 not necessary to trace. The legal right was with the 
 monks, and, in order to make sure the claim, the 
 abbe of St. Dennis accused the nuns of Argenteuil of 
 grave irregularities. At his instance, a bull was 
 obtained, in 1127, by which the nuns were dispos- 
 sessed. The next year they were violently ejected. 
 Some of the sisterhood entered the abbey of Notre- 
 Dame-des-Bois, on the banks of the Marne ; others, 
 among whom was Heloise, sought, here and there, an 
 asylum.* 
 
 News of this reached Abelard at St. Gildas. 
 Already, in the midst of his sorrows, had he felt 
 remorse for leaving the Paraclete, for abandoning his 
 followers, for deserting his last friends. Imme- 
 diately on receiving information that the prioress of 
 Argenteuil was wandering in search of a religious 
 home, he returned to the country of Champagne, and 
 invited her to occupy his abandoned oratory. The 
 invitation was accepted, and to Heloise and her com- 
 
 * Vie d' Abelard, p. 12G. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 139 
 
 pardons he made a perpetual and irrevocable cession 
 of all the property belonging to the deserted Paraclete. 
 This donation was approved by the bishop of Troyes, 
 in whose diocese the abbey was located ; less than 
 two years afterwards, was approved by the pope, 
 and declared inviolable under penalty of excommuni- 
 cation. 
 
 This approval was given by the new pope, Inno- 
 cent II., the successful rival of Anaclete. When the 
 two were elected to fill the papal chair, Innocent, not 
 finding sufficient support in Italy, found it necessary 
 to seek an asylum in France. He disembarked with 
 his cardinals at the port of St. G-ildas, and was sup- 
 ported by Abelard, as well as by St. Bernard. When 
 he was firmly seated on the papal throne, he did not 
 forget one of the most distinguished abbes of France, 
 who had been his friend in the hour of need, and 
 granted every thing that was requested, in regard to 
 transferring the abbey of Paraclete to Heloise and her 
 followers. 
 
 Heloise was twenty-nine years of age when she 
 took possession of that celebrated institution. Her 
 title, at first, was that of prioress, but a bull, bearing 
 the date of 1136, designated her as abbess. 
 
 At first, the abbess and her sisters had to endure 
 many privations, but their resources were soon aug- 
 
 * Vie d' Abelard, p. 128. 
 
140 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 merited, through the respect and affection of the 
 neighboring people.* " God knows," says Abelard, 
 " they have been more enriched, I think, in a single 
 year, than I should have been in a hundred years, if 
 I had continued to dwell at Paraclete ; for if their sex 
 is weaker, the poverty of females is more touching, 
 and more easily moves the heart ; and their virtue is 
 more pleasing to God and men. And, then, the Lord 
 awarded to the eyes of all so visible a grace in this 
 woman, my sister, who was at their head, that the 
 bishops loved her as their daughter, the abbes as 
 their sister, the laymen as a mother ; and all equally 
 admired her piety, her prudence, and in all things an 
 incomparable sweetness of patience." f 
 
 Abelard returned to the government of his savage 
 subjects at St. Gildas ; but, now and then, visited the 
 nuns at Paraclete, giving them his counsel and sup- 
 port, preaching to them, and affording them at times 
 temporal as well as spiritual aid. He saw Heloise 
 but rarely, and spoke with her but little. Continu- 
 
 * "Abelard," says M. Michelet, "had nothing but his 
 genius. Born noble, rich, eldest of his family, he left every 
 thing to his brothers. Nevertheless he did not wish to re- 
 ceive any thing from lords and kings for the purpose of 
 building the house of Heloise. His disciples ran to his aid. 
 Simple priests, indigent scholars, mendicants of science, they 
 found treasures for their master. 'Soon/ said tin- spouse of 
 Abelard, 'we knew not what to do with the offering-.' 
 Memoire sur V Education des Femmes au Moyen Age. 
 
 f Ab. Op., ep. i., p. 34. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 141 
 
 ally watched and suspected, by some he was blamed 
 for neglecting the new sisterhood, and by others for 
 visiting them at all. 
 
 In addition to the " heart-ache," caused by un- 
 grounded suspicions, fresh troubles arose for him at 
 the abbey. Misfortunes " come not single spies but 
 in fierce battalions." His life was in danger. He 
 feared to travel, for he believed that assassins were 
 lying in wait for him. He celebrated mass with pre- 
 caution, apprehensive of poison in the communion 
 cup. He went to Nantes, to visit the count, who was 
 sick, and lodged at the house of one of the brothers, 
 that dwelt in that city. A monk, who accompanied 
 him, ate of food that he did not dare to touch him- 
 self, and was poisoned. He even left the abbey with 
 a few faithful brothers, and lived in isolation. 
 
 In the mean time, a severe fall from a horse se- 
 riously impaired his already declining health. Ex- 
 communication was at length resorted to, and some 
 of the refractory monks were expelled from the 
 abbey, but order was not restored. Fearing assassi- 
 nation, he gained the sea by a subterranean passage, 
 and escaped, it is said, under the conduct of one of 
 the lords of the country. From the asylum which he 
 reached, he wrote, for the consolation of an unfortu- 
 nate friend, that celebrated letter, which is entitled, 
 Historia Calamitatum, history of his misfortunes. 
 
 The Historia Calamitatum is a romantic auto- 
 
142 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 biography, in which the author not only narrates tl.: 
 principal events of his external life, but also recounts 
 the adventures of his mind and the emotions of his 
 heart. It marks an epoch in the life of Abelard. 
 With it ends that fulness of biographic detail which 
 thus far has not been wanting. The history of his 
 calamities fell, by chance, into the hands of Heloise, 
 and called forth the first of those celebrated letters, 
 that have been eagerly read by so many generations ; 
 that have not lost their freshness and charm during 
 the tumultuous changes of nearly eight hundred years. 
 These letters, so rich in romantic interest, will 
 form, in their chronologic order, several of the subse- 
 quent chapters. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 143 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 LETTER OF HELOISE TO ABELARD. 
 
 "Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose, 
 That well-known name awakens all my woes ; 
 Oh, name for ever sad ! for ever dear ! 
 Still breath'd in sighs, still ushered with a tear. 
 I tremble too, where'er my own I find, 
 Some dire misfortune follows close behind. 
 Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow, 
 Led through a sad variety of woe : 
 Now warm with love, now withering with my bloom, 
 Lost in a convent's solitary gloom I 
 There stern religion quench'd th' unwilling flame, 
 There died the best of passions, Love and Fame. 
 
 " Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join 
 Grief to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine. 
 Nor foes nor fortune take this power away ; 
 And is my Abelard less kind than they ? 
 Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare, 
 Lovo but demands what else were shed in pray'r ; 
 No happier task these faded eyes pursue ; 
 To read and weep is all they now can do. 
 
 "Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief; 
 Ah, more than share it, give me all thy grief. 
 Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid, 
 Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid ; 
 
144 LIVES AND LETTERS 0* 
 
 They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires, 
 Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires, 
 The virgin's wish without her fears impart, 
 Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart, 
 Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, 
 And waft a sigh from Indus to the pole. 11 
 
 POPE'S " EJoisa to Abelard" 
 
 To her lord, yes, to her father ; to her husband, yes, to her 
 brother ; his servant, yes, his daughter ; his wife, yes, 
 his sister. 
 
 HELOISE TO ABELARD. 
 
 THE letter, dearest, which you recently sent to a 
 friend of yours, for the purpose of consoling him, has 
 by chance fallen into my hands. From a glance at 
 the superscription I recognized it as yours, and began 
 to read it with so much the more avidity as the more 
 ardently I cherish the writer himself. I wished at 
 least to reproduce from his words the image of the 
 one that I have lost. Full of gall and wormwood, I 
 remember, was that letter which related the lamenta- 
 ble history of our conversion, and of your continual 
 afflictions. 
 
 You amply fulfilled the promise made to that 
 friend at the commencement of your letter, that, in 
 comparison with yours, he should regard his misfor- 
 tunes as nothing, or as of little account. Having 
 exposed the persecutions directed against you by 
 your masters, and the treachery to which you were a 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 145 
 
 victim (in corpus tuum summcz proditionis injuria), 
 you proceeded to a recital of the execrable envy and 
 the excessive hatred of your disciples, Albericus of 
 Rheims, and Lotulphus of Lombardy. 
 
 You did not forget to mention that, by their sug- 
 gestions, your glorious work on theology was com- 
 mitted to the flames ; that you yourself were con- 
 demned, as it were, to a prison. Then follows an 
 account of the machinations of your abbe, and of your 
 false brethren ; an account of the calumnies, from 
 which you had most to suffer, of those pseudo-apos- 
 tles, moved against you by envy ; and an account of 
 the scandal every where raised by the name Paraclete 
 given, contrary to custom, to your oratory : finally, 
 an account of those insufferable and hitherto unre- 
 mitted persecutions of your life, by that most cruel 
 tyrant, and those execrable monks, whom you call 
 your children, closes this sad history. 
 
 No one, I think, could either read or listen to 
 these things without tears. How must it be, then, 
 with me ! The very fidelity of your narrative has the 
 more fully renewed my sorrows. These sorrows have 
 been deepened, too, on account of your perils, which 
 you represent as continually increasing. We are all 
 compelled to despair of your life, and daily our trem- 
 bling hearts and agitated bosoms expect, as the last 
 news, the report of your death. 
 
 In the name of Christ, who hitherto has protected 
 7 
 
146 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 you for his service, whose humble servants we are, 
 and thine, we beseech you to write us frequently, in- 
 forming us by what perils you are surrounded ; since 
 we alone remain to you, to participate in your grief 
 or in your joy. Those who condole with us usually 
 afford some consolation to our sorrowing hearts, and a 
 burden laid upon several is more easily borne, or 
 seems more light. If the tempest should subside a 
 little, then hasten your letters, for they will be mes- 
 sengers of joy. Whatever may be the subject of 
 your letters, they will afford us not a little comfort ; 
 they will at least prove that you are mindful of us. 
 
 How pleasant the letters of absent friends are, 
 Seneca himself teaches us, by an appropriate example, 
 writing thus in a certain place to his friend Lucilius : 
 " I thank you for writing to me often ; for you show 
 yourself to me in the only way you are able. As 
 soon as I receive your letter we are together." If 
 the pictures of absent friends are pleasant to us, 
 which renew their remembrance, which lighten the 
 pain of absence with a vain phantom of consolation, 
 how much more pleasant are the letters which bring 
 to us the true signs of an absent friend ! 
 
 Thanks to God, no envy can prohibit, no difficulty 
 can prevent you from giving us your presence in this 
 manner ; let no delay, I beseech you, come from your 
 negligence. 
 
 You have written to a friend a long letter of con- 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 147 
 
 solation. in view of his misfortunes, it is true, but 
 really touching your own. In narrating these with 
 diligence, for the purpose of consoling him, you have 
 greatly added to our desolation, and while you desired 
 to heal his wounds, you have inflicted new wounds of 
 grief upon us, and have deepened those already ex- 
 isting. Cure, I pray you you who are anxious to 
 cure the wounds which others have made cure those 
 which you have made yourself. You have calmed 
 the pains of a friend, and a companion, and have thus 
 paid the debt due to friendship and intimacy ; but to 
 us, who should be called worshippers, rather than 
 friends, daughters rather than companions, or by any 
 other name, if there be one still more sweet and holy, 
 to us, you are bound by a more sacred obligation. 
 
 As to the importance of the debt which obligates 
 you to us, it is not necessary to rest upon arguments 
 and testimonies, as though a doubtful thing were to 
 be proved, and if all were silent, the facts speak for 
 themselves. You, after God, are the sole founder of 
 this place, the sole constructor of this oratory, the sole 
 builder of this congregation ; you have built nothing 
 here upon a foreign foundation. All that is here is 
 your creation. This solitude, frequented only by 
 wild beasts and robbers, had known no habitation of 
 men, had never possessed a single dwelling. Among 
 the dens of wild beasts, among the retreats of robbers, 
 where the name of God was never called upon, you 
 
148 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 erected a divine tabernacle, and dedicated a temple to 
 the Holy Spirit. Nothing for this work did you re- 
 ceive from the riches of kings or princes, although 
 you might have demanded and obtained every thing; 
 in order that whatever was done might be attributed 
 to yourself alone. Clerks or scholars, coming in a 
 crowd to listen to your instruction, furnished you with 
 all necessary things ; and those who were living on 
 ecclesiastical benefices, who had been accustomed to 
 receive rather than to present offerings, and who, 
 previously, had possessed hands for taking and not for 
 giving, here became importunate and prodigal in pre- 
 senting offerings. 
 
 Yours, therefore, truly yours, is this new planta- 
 tion in the field of the Lord, and frequent watering is 
 still necessary for its young plants, in order that they 
 may nourish. Feeble enough, from the very nature 
 of the female sex, is this plantation ; it is infirm, 
 though it were not new. Therefore it demands more 
 diligent and assiduous culture ; according to the word 
 of the Apostle : " I have planted, Apollos watered ; 
 but God gave the increase." The Apostle had plant- 
 ed and founded in faith, through the doctrine of his 
 preaching, the Corinthians, to whom he was writing. 
 Apollos, a disciple of the Apostle himself, had watered 
 them by his holy exhortations, and thus the divine 
 grace bestowed upon them an increase of virtues. 
 Uselessly do you cultivate by your admonitions and 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 149 
 
 sacred exhortations a foreign vine, which you have 
 not planted, and which is changed for you into bitter- 
 ness. Remember what you owe to your own you, 
 who are so careful of another's. You teach and ad- 
 monish rebels, but meet with no success. In vain 
 you scatter before swine the pearls of divine elo- 
 quence. Consider what you owe to the obedient 
 you who are exhausting yourself for the disobedient. 
 Remember what you owe to your daughters you who 
 are wasting so much upon enemies. And, omitting 
 others, think how much you are indebted to me ; that 
 the common debt which you owe to all the women 
 who have devoted themselves to God, you may pay to 
 her who has devoted herself wholly to you. 
 
 How many and how important treatises, and with 
 what diligence, the holy Fathers have composed, to 
 teach, exhort, or even to console religious women, 
 you, with your abundant knowledge, know better than 
 I with my little store of learning. Therefore, with 
 no ordinary astonishment have I remarked your long 
 oblivion in regard to the tender commencements of 
 our conversion, because, moved neither by reverence 
 for God, nor love for us, nor by the example of the 
 holy Fathers, you did not try to console me, while 
 fluctuating in my faith, and worn down with unabating 
 grief, either by coming to rejoice my ear with the 
 sound of your voice, or by sending a letter to comfort 
 my heart. 
 
150 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 You knew that your obligations to me were the 
 stronger for our having been united in the sacrament 
 of marriage ; and tie immoderate love which, as every 
 one knows, I have always borne for you, has increased 
 your indebtedness to me. 
 
 You know, dearest, all know, how much I lost in 
 losing you. An infamous and hitherto unheard of 
 crime, in depriving you of my love, tore me from my- 
 self. Incomparably greater is the grief caused by 
 the manner of the loss, than that caused by the loss 
 itself. The greater the cause of grieving is, so much 
 the greater remedies for the purpose of consolation 
 must be applied. I expect consolation from no other, 
 for you, who alone have caused me to grieve, can alone 
 console me. You alone are able to sadden me, to 
 make me joyous, or to comfort me. And you alone 
 are under obligations to comfort me, for so far did I 
 comply with your wishes, that, in order not to offend 
 you in any thing, I had the courage to destroy myself 
 in obedience to your command. I went even farther, 
 and, strange to say, my love for you rose to such a 
 height of delirium that it sacrificed, without hope of 
 regaining it, the sole object of its desire. At your 
 command I changed my habit as well as my inclina- 
 tion, in order to show you that you were the only 
 master of my heart. 
 
 God knows I never sought any thing in you except 
 yourself; you, you alone, not your possessions did I 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 151 
 
 desire. Neither the rights of matrimony, nor any 
 dowry have I expected; neither my own pleasures 
 nor my own wishes, but yours, as you yourself know, 
 have I studied to fulfil. 
 
 Although the name of wife seems more holy and 
 more valid, another has always been sweeter to me, 
 that of friend ; or, if you will not be shocked, that 
 of concubine or mistress. The more I humbled my- 
 self before you, the more, as I thought, should I ele- 
 vate myself in your favor, and thus injure the less the 
 glory of your excellence. 
 
 I thank you for not having wholly forgotten my 
 sentiments, in this regard, in the letter addressed to 
 your friend for his consolation. You did not disdain 
 to mention some of the reasons by which I endea- 
 vored to dissuade you from our marriage, from inau- 
 spicious nuptials : but you passed over in silence most 
 of the reasons which caused me to prefer love to mar- 
 riage, liberty to chains. I call G-od to witness that 
 if Augustus, supreme master of the world, had offered 
 me the royal honor of his alliance, I should have ac- 
 cepted with more joy and pride the name of your mis- 
 tress than that of his empress. Neither riches nor 
 power constitute the superiority of a man : riches and 
 power are the gift of fortune, while merit alone estab- 
 lishes the claim to superiority. 
 
 The woman who more willingly marries a rich 
 than a poor man, and who seeks in a husband posses- 
 
152 LIVES AND LETTERS OP 
 
 sions rather than himself, surely has a venal soul, 
 Surely to her who is induced to marry from such con- 
 siderations, a reward rather than love is owed. Cer- 
 tain it is that she is in pursuit of fortune, and not in 
 pursuit of a husband, and that, had it been possible, 
 she would have prostituted herself to a richer. We 
 find the clearest proof of this truth in the words of 
 Aspasia, as reported by ^Eschines, the disciple of Soc 
 rates. This feminine philosopher, wishing to recon- 
 cile Xenophon and his wife, ends her exhortations by 
 the reasoning which follows : " As soon as you have 
 realized that there exists not upon earth a better man 
 or a more amiable woman, you will know how to re- 
 cognize and enjoy the good fortune which has hap- 
 pened to you in common, that the husband has the 
 best of women, and the wife the best of men." 
 
 This sentiment, which seems to be almost the re- 
 sult of inspiration, must be the utterance of wisdom 
 herself rather than of philosophy. It is a divine 
 error, and a happy fallacy in the married, when per- 
 fect satisfaction and sympathy protects against any 
 violation the ties of matrimony, not so much by the 
 continence of their bodies as by the chastity of their 
 souls. 
 
 But that which error confers upon others, a mani- 
 fest truth conferred upon me. But those qualities, 
 which none but a wife can discover in her husband, 
 were so conspicuous in you, that the whole world did 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 153 
 
 not so much believe as know that they existed. My 
 love was then so much the more true, as it was the 
 farther from resting upon error. For who among 
 kings, who among philosophers, could equal you in 
 fame ? What country, what city, what village did 
 not ardently desire to see you ? Who, I ask, when 
 you appeared in public, did not hasten to look at you, 
 and follow you at your departure with eager eyes ? 
 
 But you possessed two things, by which you were 
 able to entice the minds of any females ; I mean a 
 charming voice in singing, and a fascinating manner 
 in conversation. We know that other philosophers 
 have excelled least of all in these accomplishments. 
 As though it were a pastime, for the purpose of re- 
 creation, after the stern labors of philosophy, you 
 composed a multitude of verses and amorous songs, 
 the poetic thoughts and musical graces of which 
 were every where responded to ; so that the sweetness 
 of the melody did not permit even the illiterate to be 
 unmindful of you. Especially on this account were 
 women sighing for you in love. And since the greater 
 part of these verses chanted our loves, my name was 
 soon made known in many regions, and many females 
 were inflamed with jealousy against me. 
 
 What endowment of mind or body did not adorn 
 your youth? What woman, then envying me, does 
 not my misfortune now compel to pity me, when I am 
 deprived of so many pleasures ? What man, or what 
 
154 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 woman, although at first my enemy, does not due com- 
 passion now soften toward me ? 
 
 And I am indeed innocent, as you know. Crime 
 is not in the act, but in the intention. Justice does 
 not regard the things that are done, but the intention 
 with which they are done. What my feelings have 
 always been toward you, you alone, who have proved 
 them, can judge. To your examination I commit 
 all things, upon your testimony I rest my cause. 
 
 Tell me one thing, if you are able, why, since our 
 entrance upon a religious life, which you resolved 
 upon without consulting me, you have so neglected 
 me, so forgotten me, that you have never come to en- 
 courage me with your words, nor in your absence 
 have consoled me with a letter : tell me, I say, if you 
 are able, or I will say what I think, what indeed all 
 suspect. It was desire rather than friendship that 
 drew you to me, passion rather than love. When, 
 therefore, that ceased which was the object of your 
 desire, every thing else which you exhibited on account 
 of it, equally vanished. 
 
 This conjecture, dearest, is not so much mine as 
 that of all, not so much special as common, not so 
 much private as public. Would that it seemed so to 
 me alone, and that your love might find some defend- 
 ers, by whom my grief might be somewhat calmed ! 
 that I might be able to imagine reasons for excu- 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 155 
 
 sing you, and persuading myself that to you I am still 
 an object of interest ! 
 
 Attend, I pray you, to that which I request, and 
 it will seem small and very easy for you. Since your 
 presence is denied me, give me words of which you 
 possess such an abundance, and thus afford me at 
 least the sweetness of your image. In vain shall I 
 expect to find you bountiful in things, if I find you 
 avaricious in words. Hitherto I have believed that I 
 have merited many things from you, having com- 
 plied with every thing for your sake, and persevering 
 still in absolute submission to you. When I was in 
 the bloom of youth, it was not religious devotion, but 
 your command, that drew me to the asperity of 
 monastic life. If for this I have merited nothing in 
 your eyes, how vain has been my labor. No reward 
 for this must be expected by me from God, out of 
 love to whom it is evident that I have as yet done 
 nothing. 
 
 When you were hastening to God I followed you, 
 yes I preceded you. For, as if mindful of the wife 
 of Lot, who looked behind her, in the sacred habit 
 and the monastic profession you bound me to God be- 
 fore you bound yourself. In that one instance, I con- 
 fess, I grieved and blushed for your mistrust of me. 
 But God knows I should not have hesitated to follow 
 you, at your command, if you had been hastening to 
 perdition. For my heart was not with me, but with 
 
156 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 you. But now, more than ever, if it is not with you 
 it is nowhere, since it cannot exist without you. Deal 
 with it gently, I beseech you. But gently you will 
 have dealt with it, propitious it will have found you, 
 if you return favor for favor, little for much, words 
 for things. Oh that your love were less sure of me, 
 that it might be more solicitous ! The more secure I 
 have made you, the more have I encouraged your neg- 
 ligence. Remember, I beseech you, what I have 
 done ; and recollect how much you are indebted to me. 
 
 While I was enjoying the delights of love witli 
 you, it was regarded by most as uncertain whether I 
 was following the impulse of my heart or the instinct 
 of pleasure. But now the end explains the begin- 
 ning. I have denied myself all joys that I might be 
 obedient to your wish. I have reserved to myx H' 
 nothing, unless it be the hope that thereby I might 
 become more completely yours. What then must be 
 your iniquity, if, as my sacrifices increase, your grati- 
 tude decreases ; if, when I sacrifice every thing, you 
 entirely forget your obligations especially when the 
 demand made is so small, and for you so easy to be 
 complied with. 
 
 Therefore, by the God to whom you have conse- 
 crated yourself, I beseech you to give me your pres- 
 ence in the manner which is possible to you, that is, 
 by writing to me some consolation. If for no other 
 reason, do it for this end, that, thus reanimated, I 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 157 
 
 may devote myself with more alacrity to the service 
 of God. Formerly, when you sought me for earthly 
 pleasures, you visited me with frequent letters, and 
 by your frequent songs you placed Heloise in the 
 mouths of all. Every place, every house, resounded 
 with my name. How much more rightly might you 
 now excite me toward G-od, than you did then towards 
 earthly pleasures. Remember, I beseech you, what 
 you owe to me, consider what I ask ; and I terminate 
 this long letter by a short ending : 
 Adieu, my only beloved ! 
 
158 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 XXV. 
 
 LETTER OF ABELARD TO 
 
 To ffeloise, his dearest sister in Christ, Abelard, her brother in 
 the same. 
 
 INASMUCH as, since our conversion from the 
 world to God, I have not written you, as yet, any 
 thing by way of consolation or exhortation, it must 
 not be imputed to my negligence, but to your wisdom, 
 in which I always have the greatest confidence. For 
 I have not believed that she was in need of such aids, 
 to whom Heaven has abundantly distributed its best 
 gifts who, by words as well as by example, is able 
 to teach the erring, to sustain the weak, to encourage 
 the timid. 
 
 You were, long since, accustomed to do these 
 things, when you were only a prioress under an abbess. 
 If you now bestow the same care upon your daughters 
 that you then bestowed upon your sisters, I believe it 
 is a sufficient reason why I should regard any in- 
 struction or exhortation on my part as superfluous. 
 But if it seems otherwise to you in your humility, and 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 159 
 
 you are in need of my direction and teaching in re- 
 gard to those things that pertain to G-od, inform me 
 upon what subject you wish me to write, that I may 
 answer you upon that point, as the Lord shall give 
 me ability. 
 
 But, thanks to G-od, who, breathing into your 
 heart solicitude on account of the weighty and immi- 
 nent perils to which I am exposed, has made you par- 
 taker of my affliction ; so that by the intercession of 
 your prayers, the divine compassion may protect me, 
 and shortly put Satan under my feet. Especially for 
 this end, I have hastened to send the form of prayer 
 which you, my sister, once dear to me in the world, 
 now most dear to me in Christ, earnestly solicited 
 from me. By repeating this, you will give to the 
 Lord a sacrifice of prayer, in order to expiate my 
 great and manifold transgressions, and to avert the 
 perils which continually threaten me. 
 
 But as to the favor which the prayers of the faith- 
 ful obtain with God and his saints, especially of 
 women, for those that are dear to them, and of wives 
 for their husbands, many testimonies and examples 
 occur to me. Convinced of their efficacy, the apostle 
 admonishes us to pray without ceasing. We read 
 that the Lord said to Moses : " Let me alone, that 
 my wrath may wax hot." And to Jeremiah : " There- 
 fore pray not thou for this people, neither lift up cry 
 nor prayer for them, neither make intercession to me." 
 
160 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 By these words, God himself clearly shows that the 
 prayers of saints put upon his own anger a rein which 
 checks it, and hinders him from inflicting upon the 
 wicked the punishment they deserve. He whom jus- 
 tice naturally conducts to vengeance, is turned by the 
 supplications of his servants, and, as if by a certain 
 force, is as it were involuntarily restrained. So to 
 him that is praying, or about to pray, it is said : 
 " Let me alone, and do not make intercession to me." 
 The Lord commands us not to pray for the impious. 
 The just man prays, notwithstanding the prohibition 
 of the Lord, and obtains from him what he asks for, 
 and changes the sentence of the angry judge. So to 
 the supplication of Moses is subjoined the words : 
 " And the Lord repented of the evil which he thought 
 to do unto his people." 
 
 It is written elsewhere, concerning the universal 
 works of God : " He commanded, and they were 
 created." But in this place it is to be remembered 
 that he said his people had merited affliction, and 
 that, prevented by the virtue of prayer, he did not 
 fulfil what he had said. Learn, then, how great is 
 the efficacy of prayer, if we pray as we are com- 
 manded; since what the Lord had commanded him 
 not to pray for, the prophet nevertheless obtained by 
 praying, and turned the Lord from what he had said. 
 Another prophet again says to him : " In wrath re- 
 member mercy." 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 161 
 
 Let those princes of the earth hear this and be in- 
 structed, who pursue with more obstinacy than justice 
 the infractions of their decrees, and blush at seeming 
 remiss if they become compassionate, and wicked if 
 they change an edict, or do not fulfil the tenor of an 
 imprudent law, although they might amend words by 
 deeds. They might be compared to Jephtha, who 
 made a foolish vow, and more foolishly fulfilled it, by 
 sacrificing his only daughter. 
 
 He who wishes to become a member of the Eternal 
 says with the Psalmist : "I will sing of mercy and 
 judgment : unto thee, Lord, will I sing." " Mercy, 
 as it is written, exalteth judgment." In regard to 
 which the Scripture elsewhere declares : " For he 
 shall have judgment without mercy that showed no 
 mercy." 
 
 The Psalmist himself, observing this sentiment, 
 overcome by the supplications of the wife of Nabal 
 the Carmelite, for the sake of mercy, broke the oath, 
 which on account of justice he had made, to destroy 
 her husband and his whole household. David, there- 
 fore, preferred prayer to justice ; and the supplication 
 of the wife effaced the crime of her husband. 
 
 Let this example, my sister, encourage your ten- 
 derness, and be for it a pledge of security ; for if the 
 prayer of this woman obtained so much from a man, 
 do not doubt that God will hear your prayer in my 
 behalf. Surely God, who is our Father, loves his 
 
162 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 children more than David loved a supplicating woman. 
 And he indeed was esteemed a pious and merciful 
 man ; but piety itself and mercy itself is God. And 
 the woman who supplicated David belonged to the 
 profane world, and the sanctity of the religious pro- 
 fession had not made her the spouse of God. 
 
 If indeed your intercession cannot deliver me, the 
 holy community of virgins and widows who are with 
 you will obtain that which might not be awarded to 
 your prayers alone. In fact, he who is truth itself 
 has said to his disciples : " Where two or three are 
 gathered together in my name, there am I in the 
 midst of them." And again: "If two of you shall 
 agree on earth, as touching any thing that they shall 
 ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is 
 in heaven." Who cannot see how much the frequent 
 prayers of a pious congregation may avail with God ? 
 If, as St. James affirms, " the effectual fervent prayer 
 of a righteous man availeth much," what may not be 
 hoped for from the multitude of a holy congregation ? 
 
 You know, dearest sister, from the thirty-eighth 
 homily of St. Gregory, the marvellous effects which 
 the prayers of certain men produced upon their bro- 
 ther, in spite of his resistance and incredulity. What 
 is there carefully written down concerning the extreme 
 bodily peril of this man, concerning the most miser- 
 able anxiety of his soul, and the despair and weari- 
 ness of his life, has not escaped your attention. And 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 163 
 
 oh that this might invite you, and the assembly of 
 your sisters, more confidently to pray that he may 
 keep me alive for you, through whom, according to 
 the testimony of Paul, women received their dead 
 raised to life again ! 
 
 For if you turn over the pages of both testaments, 
 you will find that the great miracles of resuscitation 
 were exhibited only, or by preference, to women, and 
 that, either for them or upon them, these miracles 
 were performed. The Old Testament mentions that 
 two dead persons were revived on account of maternal 
 prayers one by Elijah, the other by Elisha. The 
 New Testament contains an account of the resuscita- 
 tion of three persons by the Lord, which, being exhi- 
 bited to women, most especially confirm the language 
 of the apostle which we quoted : " Women recovered 
 their dead raised to life again." 
 
 Indeed, at the gate of the city of Nain, he resus- 
 citated and returned to his mother the son of a widow, 
 touched with pity for her. He also raised Lazarus, 
 his friend, from the dead, at the earnest supplications 
 of his sisters, Mary and Martha. When he accorded 
 the same favor to the master of the synagogue, in 
 answer to the prayer of her father, " Women received 
 their dead raised to life again ; " since, being resusci- 
 tated, she had received her own body again, as the 
 others had received the bodies of their relatives. Few 
 persons indeed interceded with their prayers, yet 
 
1G4 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 these resuscitations were granted. The manifold 
 prayers of your devotion will easily obtain the preser- 
 vation of my life. 
 
 Your abstinence as well as continence, which is, 
 as it were, a sacrifice to God, will find him so much 
 the more propitious as it is regarded by him with the 
 more grace. And perhaps the greater part of those 
 who were restored to life were not faithful. We are 
 not told that the widow, for whom the Lord revival 
 her son without her asking it, was faithful. But we 
 indeed are not only bound to the faith by integrity, 
 but we are also united by the same religious vows. 
 
 I will now omit your monastic congregation, in 
 which very many virgins and widows bear devotedly 
 the yoke of the Lord ; to you alone will I go to you, 
 whose sanctity I know is very powerful with God, 
 whose succor is due to me first of all, especially in the 
 midst of the adversities which overwhelm me. He- 
 member, therefore, always in your prayers him who is 
 especially thine, and persevere in your prayer with 
 the more confidence on account of the justice of your 
 petition, which will render it the more acceptable to 
 God, to whom we must pray. Hear, I beseech you, 
 with the ear of the heart, what you have frequently 
 heard with the outward ear. It is written in Proverbs : 
 " A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband." 
 And again : " Whoso findeth a wife, findeth a good 
 thing, and obtaineth favor of the Lord." And in an- 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 165 
 
 other place : " Houses and riches are the inheritance 
 of fathers: and a prudent wife is from the Lord." 
 And in Ecclesiastes [Apocrypha] : 
 
 " Blessed is the man that hath a virtuous wife." 
 
 And a few lines after : 
 
 " A good wife is a good portion." 
 
 And according to apostolic authority : 
 
 " The unbelieving husband is sanctified by the 
 wife." 
 
 The divine grace has permitted our country of 
 France to experience this truth, since, by the prayer 
 of his wife Clotilda, rather than by the preaching of 
 saints, King Clovis, being converted to the faith of 
 Christ, the whole kingdom was so subjected to the 
 divine law, that, by the example of the higher classes, 
 the lower classes were invited to perseverance in 
 prayer. This perseverance is especially recommended 
 to us in the parable of the Lord : 
 
 " Which of you shall have a friend, and shall go 
 unto him at midnight, and say unto him, Friend, lend 
 me three loaves ; for a friend of mine in his journey 
 is come to me, and I have nothing to set before him ? 
 And he from within shall answer and say, Trouble 
 me not ; the door is now shut, and my children are 
 with me in bed ; I cannot rise and give thee. I say 
 unto you, Though he will not rise and give him, be- 
 cause he is his friend, yet because of his importunity 
 he will rise and give him as many as he needeth." 
 
1C6 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 By this importunity of prayer, thus to speak, 
 Moses, as I mentioned above, softened the severity of 
 divine justice, and changed its sentence. 
 
 You know, dearest, how much affection your con- 
 vent heretofore was accustomed to show me in prayer, 
 when I was present. At the close of the canonical 
 hours, the sisters were accustomed to offer for me a 
 special supplication to the Lord. After the psalmody 
 of the anthem and the response, they added the fol 
 lowing prayers and collect : 
 
 " Rcsponsum. Forsake me not, withdraw not 
 thyself from me, Lord." 
 
 " Versus. Be thou, Lord, always ready to 
 defend me." 
 
 " Preces. Preserve thy servant, my God, who 
 putteth his trust in thee. Lord, hear my prayer, 
 and let my cry come unto thee." 
 
 " Oratio. God, who, through the least of thy 
 servants, hast been pleased to gather together in thy 
 name thy handmaidens, we beseech thee to grant unto 
 him, as well as us, to persevere in thy will. Through 
 our Lord Jesus Christ," etc. 
 
 But now in my absence from you, I have the more 
 need of your prayers, since I am overwhelmed with 
 anxiety on account of increasing peril. I supplicate 
 and beseech you, and beseech and supplicate you, that 
 I may experience now in my absence the sincerity of 
 the tenderness which you exhibited to me when I was 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 167 
 
 with you, by your adding at the end of the canonical 
 hours this formula of prayer : 
 
 " Responsum. Forsake me not, Lord, the Fa- 
 ther and Governor of my life, lest I fall before my 
 adversaries, and mine enemy rejoice over me." 
 
 " Versus. Take thy arms and thy shield, and arise 
 in my defence, lest he rejoice." 
 
 " Preces. Preserve thy servant, my God, who 
 putteth his trust in thee. Send unto him, Lord, 
 the help of thy Holy One ; and from Sion protect 
 him. Be to him, Lord, a tower of fortitude in the 
 presence of his enemies. Lord, hear my prayer, 
 and let my cry come unto thee." 
 
 " Oratio. God, who through thy servant hast 
 been pleased to gather together thy handmaidens, we 
 beseech thee to protect him from all adversity, and to 
 return him safe to thy handmaidens. Through our 
 Lord Jesus Christ," etc. 
 
 If the Lord should deliver me into the hands of 
 my enemies, and they prevailing over me, should de- 
 stroy me, or, by any fortune whatever, should I, absent 
 from you, go the way of all flesh, I beseech you 
 to transfer my body, whether it may have been 
 buried or may lie exposed, to your cemetery, where 
 our daughters, yes, our sisters in Christ, more fre- 
 quently beholding my tomb, may be invited to pour 
 forth their prayers for me to the Lord. I suppose 
 that no place can be safer and more salutary for a 
 
108 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 contrite and penitent soul, than that which is appro- 
 priately consecrated to the true Paraclete, that is, to 
 the Comforter ; and is especially adorned with that 
 name. Neither do I believe that there is a more 
 appropriate place for Christian burial, among the 
 faithful, than the cloisters of females devoted to 
 Christ. It was women who were solicitous concerning 
 the burial of the Lord Christ Jesus, who, both before 
 and after his burial, used precious ointments, who 
 faithfully kept watch at the sepulchre, and wept the 
 loss of their spouse. They also were first consoled 
 by the appearance and the words of the angel that 
 announced the resurrection of Christ, and soon after 
 they merited to taste the joys of his resurrection, to see 
 him twice appear, and to touch him with their hands. 
 
 Finally, above all things, I ask you, who are now 
 too solicitous on account of the perils to which my 
 body is exposed, to be especially solicitous in regard 
 to the safety of my soul, to exhibit to me when I am 
 dead how much you have loved me during my life, 
 by awarding to me the special and particular benefit 
 of your prayers. 
 
 Live, you and your sisters live, and remember 
 me in Christ.* 
 
 * In the original, a couplet: 
 
 " Vive, vale, vivantqne tuae, valoantqne sorores, 
 Vivite, sed Christo, quteso, mei mem- 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 169 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 LETTER OF HELOISE TO ABELARD. 
 
 ** Ah wretch ! believed the spouse of God in vain, 
 Confessed within the slave of love and man. 
 Assist me, heav'n ! but whence arose that pray'r? 
 Sprung it from piety, or from despair ? 
 Ev'n here, where frozen chastity retires, 
 Love finds an altar for forbidden fires. 
 I ought to grieve ; but cannot what I ought ; 
 I mourn the lover, not lament the fault ; 
 I view my crime, but kindle at the view, 
 Repent old pleasures, and solicit new ; 
 Now turned to heav'n, I weep my past offence, 
 Now think of thee, and curse my innocence. 
 Of all afflictions taught a lover yet, 
 Tis sure the hardest science to forget! 
 How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense, 
 And love th' offender, yet detest th' offence ? 
 How the dear object from the crime remove, 
 Or how distinguish penitence from lovo ? 
 Unequal task ! a passion to resign, 
 For hearts so touched, so pierced, so lost as mine. 
 Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state, 
 How often must it love, how often hate ! 
 How often hope, despair, resent, regret, 
 Conceal, disdain, do all things but forget. 
 
 8 
 
170 
 
 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 But let heaven seize it, all at once 'tis fired ; 
 Not touch'd, but rapt ; not waken'd, but inspired ! 
 Oh come ! oh teach me nature to subdue, 
 Renounce my love, my life, myself and you. 
 Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he 
 Alone can rival, can succeed to thee." 
 
 TOPE'S "Eloiaa to Abdard: 
 
 To her only one after Christ, hit only one in Christ. 
 TO ABELARD HELOISE. 
 
 I AM astonished, dearest, that, transcending the cus- 
 tom of epistles, even contrary to the natural course 
 of things, in the address of your letter, you have 
 placed me before yourself; a woman before a man, 
 a wife before her husband, a handmaid before her 
 lord, a nun before a monk, a deaconess before an 
 abbe. Surely it is the right and becoming order, 
 when we write to superiors or to equals, to place their 
 names before our own. But if we are writing to 
 inferiors, the order of names must follow the order of 
 dignity. 
 
 We have also been not a little astonished that 
 you should increase the desolation of those to whom 
 you ought to have offered the remedy of consolation, 
 and that you should excite the tears which you ought 
 to have wiped away. For who of us could read 
 without weeping what you wrote near the end of your 
 letter : "If the Lord should deliver me into the 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 171 
 
 Lands of my enemies, and they, prevailing over me 
 should destroy me . . . .? &c." dearest! how 
 could your heart conceive such a thing, and how could 
 your lips endure to speak it ? Never may the Lord 
 so forget his poor servants as to make them survivors 
 of thee ! Never may he grant us a life, which would 
 be more insupportable than every species of death ! 
 It belongs to you to celebrate our obsequies, to com- 
 mend our souls to God, and to send before you to 
 him those that you have assembled in his name, that 
 you may no longer be solicitous concerning them, and 
 that you may follow us with the more joy on account 
 of your greater security in regard to our safety. 
 
 Spare, I beseech you, my lord, spare such words, 
 by which you make those that are already miserable, 
 most miserable ; and do not rob us before death of 
 that little of life which remains to us. Sufficient 
 unto the day is the evil thereof ; and that day, full of 
 bitterness, will bring anguish enough with it to all 
 whom it shall find. " For why is it necessary," says 
 Seneca, " to anticipate evils, and to lose life before 
 death?" 
 
 You ask, my only one, should any accident 
 shorten your days, while you are absent from us, that 
 we may cause your body to be removed to our ceme- 
 tery, in order that you may receive the greater bene- 
 fit of our prayers, which will be constantly called 
 forth by memory of you. But how, indeed, could 
 
172 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 you suppose us capable of forgetting you ? But 
 what time will be fit for prayer, when the highest per- 
 turbation shall permit no quiet ? when neither the 
 soul shall retain the sense of reason, nor the tongue 
 the use of speech? when the mind insane, thus to 
 speak, towards God himself, having already irritated 
 rather than appeased him, shall not appease him by 
 prayers so much as it shall irritate him by com- 
 plaints ? Then nothing will remain for us unfortu- 
 nates but to weep ; it will not be permitted us to 
 pray, and it will be necessary for us to follow rather 
 than to bury you ; and we shall be in a condition to 
 be interred instead of being able to inter another. 
 We, who will have lost our life in you, shall in no 
 way be able to live, when you are gone. And oh that 
 we may not be able to live so long ! The mention of 
 your death is a kind of death to us. But what must 
 be the reality of your death, if it shall find us still 
 living? May God never permit that, as your sur- 
 vivors, we may pay the debt to you, or that to you we 
 may leave the patrimony, which from you we expect ! 
 Oh that, in this, we may precede, and not follow you ! 
 
 Spare us, then, I beseech you ; spare at least thy 
 only one, by omitting to use such words, which pierce 
 our souls like swords of death, which render the anti- 
 cipation of death more terrible than death itself. 
 
 The soul that is overwhelmed with grief is not 
 quiet, neither is the mind that is filled with perturba- 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 173 
 
 tions open to divine influences. Be unwilling, I be- 
 seech you, to hinder us from serving God, to whom 
 you have devoted our lives. It is to be desired that an 
 inevitable event, which, when it comes, brings deep sor- 
 row with it, may come unexpectedly, lest that which 
 no human foresight can turn aside, may torment us 
 long beforehand with useless fear. Full of this 
 thought the poet thus prays to Grod : 
 
 "Sit subitum quodcumque paras, sit cseca futuri, 
 Mens hominum fati. Liceat sperari timenti."* 
 
 But if you were lost, what hope would there be 
 left to me ? or what cause would there be for remain- 
 ing in this pilgrimage of life, where I have no remedy 
 for its ills but you, and no remedy in you except the 
 fact that you live ? All other pleasures from you are 
 denied me. Your presence, which could sometimes 
 return me to myself, it is not permitted me to enjoy. 
 
 Oh ! if I may say it, Heaven has been cruel to me 
 beyond all conception. inclement clemency ! un- 
 fortunate fortune ! she has so far consumed her weapons 
 against me, that she has none left for others against 
 whom she rages ! Against me she has exhausted her 
 full quiver, so that others in vain fear her resentment. 
 
 * " May whatever thou preparest be unexpected, may the 
 mind of men be blind to future fate. May it be permitted to 
 him who fears to hope." These lines are from Lucan. 
 
174 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 Neither would she find a place in me for another 
 wound, if she had a single arrow left. Among so 
 many wounds she fears to inflict one more, lest my 
 punishments be ended with death. And although she 
 does not cease to work at my destruction, yet she fears 
 the death which she hastens. 
 
 I am the most miserable of the miserable, the 
 most unhappy of the unhappy! I was elevated by 
 your love above all women; but thrown down thence, 
 my fall in my person and yours, has been proportion- 
 ed to my elevation. The greater the elevation is. the 
 more terrible is the ruin ! Among noble and power- 
 ful women, whom has fortune been able to place before 
 me, or to make equal to me ? Whom has she so cast 
 down and overwhelmed with grief ? What glory did 
 she confer on me in you ! In you what ruin did she 
 bring upon me! How she has carried to extremes 
 both favor and disgrace, so that she has observed mod- 
 eration neither in good nor in evil ! She made me be- 
 forehand more fortunate than all, in order that she 
 might make me the most miserable of all ; that, when 
 meditating upon the extent of my loss, lamentations 
 might consume me, equal to the griefs that had op- 
 pressed me ; that a bitterness on account of things 
 lost might succeed, equal to the love of things possess- 
 ed which had preceded; and that the joy of the high- 
 est pleasure might terminate with the deepest sorrow 
 and pain. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 175 
 
 And, in order that more indignation should spring 
 from the injury, all the rights of equity have been vi- 
 olated in regard to us. For while we were enjoying 
 the pleasures of a solicitous love,* we were spared the 
 vengeance of heaven. But when we corrected unlaw- 
 ful relations with those lawful, and covered the base- 
 ness of fornication with the honor of marriage, the 
 angry hand of the Lord was laid heavily upon us, and 
 the conjugal couch could not procure pardon for its 
 chaste pleasures from him who had so long tolerated 
 pleasures that were impure. 
 
 A man caught in any act of adultery would suffi- 
 ciently expiate his crime by the punishment which you 
 have endured. What others incur by adultery, you 
 have incurred by the marriage by which you were ex- 
 pecting to make satisfaction for all injuries. What 
 adulterous females bring upon their paramours, your 
 own wife brought upon you. Neither was this when 
 we were wholly abandoned to our earliest pleasures, 
 but when, separated for a time, we were living more 
 chastely ; you at Paris, presiding over the schools, 
 I at Argenteuil, by your order, in the company of 
 the nuns. This separation should have protected 
 us, for we had imposed it on ourselves; you, in order 
 to devote yourself more studiously to your pupils, I, in 
 order to devote myself more freely to prayer or medita- 
 
 * " Ut turpiore, sed expressione vocabulo utar, fornicatio 
 vacaremur." 
 
176 LIVK.S AND LiiiiKiiS OF 
 
 tion of Holy Scripture ; arid while we were living so 
 much the more holy as we were the more chaste, you 
 alone expiated with your blood the crime which was 
 common to us both. You alone bore the punishment ; 
 both were in fault ; you were the least culpable, and 
 you bore all the pain. 
 
 In lowering yourself, and elevating me and all of 
 my family to the honor of your alliance, you rendered 
 sufficient satisfaction to God and men, not to deserve 
 the chastisement which those traitors inflicted upon 
 you. how unfortunate I am, that I should have 
 been born to be the cause of so great a crime ! fa- 
 tal sex ! It will always be the destruction of the 
 greatest men ! Hence it is written in Proverbs, con- 
 cerning the shunning of women : " Hearken unto me, 
 therefore, ye children, and attend to the words 
 of my mouth. Let not thine heart incline to her 
 ways, go not astray in her paths. For she hath cast 
 down many wounded : yea, many strong men have 
 been slain by her. Her house is the way to hell, go- 
 ing down to the chambers of death." And in Eccle- 
 siastes : " And I find more bitter than death the 
 woman whose heart is snares and nets, and her hands 
 as bands : whoso pleaseth God shall escape from her, 
 but the sinner shall be taken by her." 
 
 At the beginning, the first woman seduced man, 
 and was the cause of his being driven out of paradise : 
 she who had been created by the Lord as an aid to 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 177 
 
 him, became the means of his destruction. That 
 bravest Nazarite, the man of the Lord, whose concep- 
 tion had been announced by an angel, was overcome 
 by Delilah alone, and, delivered up to his enemies, and 
 deprived of his eyes, was driven by her to such an 
 extent of grief, that he destroyed himself, in a com- 
 mon ruin with his enemies. Solomon, the wisest of 
 men, was so infatuated with a single woman that he 
 had espoused, and was driven by her to such a state 
 of insanity, that he whom the Lord had chosen for 
 building his temple, his father, David, notwithstand- 
 ing his justice, having been found unworthy of doing 
 this, was plunged by her into idolatry until the end 
 of his life, abandoning the worship of the true God, 
 whose glory he had celebrated, whose commandments 
 he had taught, with the words of his mouth and his 
 writings. The saintly Job experienced his last and 
 sorest trial in his wife, who excited him to curse God. 
 The subtle tempter knew well, for he had often 
 proved it, that the easiest ruin for men is found in 
 their wives. 
 
 Extending his ordinary malice to us, you, whom 
 he had not been able to destroy by fornication, he 
 tried with marriage ; he found in good the instrument 
 of destruction which he had not been able to find in 
 evil. 
 
 I thank God for one thing at least, that I do not at 
 
 all resemble the women that I have cited ; that the 
 
 8* 
 
1 78 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 tempter has not made me consent to the fault, for the 
 commission of which, nevertheless, I was made the 
 cause. Although I am justified by the purity of my 
 intentions, I have in no way incurred the penalty of 
 consenting to this crime; nevertheless I have com- 
 mitted many sins, which do not allow me to believe 
 myself entirely innocent of it. Inasmuch as I served 
 the pleasures of carnal delights, I therefore have de- 
 served what I now suffer, and the consequences of my 
 previous sins have justly become punishments. 
 
 that I could do penance worthy of this crime, 
 that the length of my expiation might in some sort 
 balance the pains of your punishment ; and that what 
 you have suffered for a moment in body I might suffer 
 during my whole life in contrition of mind, and that 
 this might satisfy you at least, if not God ! 
 
 To confess to you the infirmity of my most 
 wretched mind, I find no penance with which I am 
 able to appease God, whom I am always accusing 
 of the greatest cruelty, on account of this injury; 
 and, opposed to his dispensation, I offend him more 
 with my indignation, than I appease him with the 
 satisfaction of my penance. It cannot be said that 
 penance has been made for him, however great may 
 be the bodily affliction, if the mind still retains a wil- 
 lingness to sin, and is still swayed by its primitive 
 desires. It is easy to confess our faults, to accuse 
 ourselves of them, or even to afflict our bodies with 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 179 
 
 external pains. It is extremely difficult to tear the 
 mind away from the desires of the highest pleasures. 
 This is the reason why Job, after having said: 
 " Therefore I will not refrain my mouth," that is, I 
 will loose my tongue, and open my mouth in confes- 
 sion, that it may accuse me of my sins, immediately 
 added: " I will speak in the anguish of my spirit." 
 Gregory, in an exposition of this passage, says : 
 " There are some who confess faults with an open 
 mouth, but they know not how to confess with con- 
 trite hearts, and rejoice while saying things to be be- 
 wailed." It is not sufficient to avow our faults, it is 
 necessary to avow them in bitterness of soul, in order 
 that this very bitterness may punish us for whatever 
 the tongue accuses us, through the judgment of the 
 mind. 
 
 But this bitterness of true repentance is very rare, 
 as St. Ambrose has remarked : " I have found more 
 who have preserved innocence, than who have truly 
 repented." But those pleasures of love, which we 
 enjoyed together, were so sweet to me, that they can 
 neither displease me, nor glide from my memory. 
 Wherever I go, they present themselves to my eyes, 
 with all their allurements. Neither are their illusions 
 wanting to me in my dreams. 
 
 During the solemnity of divine service, when 
 prayer ought to be the more pure, the enticing phan- 
 toms of those pleasures so take possession of my most 
 
180 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 miserable soul, that I am occupied with those 
 delights, rather than with my prayer. When I ought 
 to be grieving for the commission of sins, I am rather 
 sighing for the return of pleasures that are lost. Not 
 Dnly the things which we did, but the times and places 
 *n which we did them, have been with your image so 
 fixed in my mind, that during my waking hours, all is 
 lived over again in imagination, and in my dreams, all 
 the past returns. Sometimes the cogitations of my 
 mind are manifested in my motions and expressions, 
 and words escape me which betray the irregularity of 
 my thoughts. 
 
 truly miserable I am, and most worthy of that 
 complaining of a grieving soul ! " wretched man 
 that I am, who shall deliver me from the body of this 
 di-ath?" And would that I could truly add what 
 follows : "I thank God, through Jesus Christ our 
 Lord." 
 
 This grace, dearest, has come to you, and a single 
 corporeal plague has protected you against many 
 plagues of soul, and God is found to be the most pro- 
 pitious in that wherein he is believed to be most ad- 
 verse to you. He is like a physician, who does not 
 spare pain, provided he can save the life of his patient.* 
 
 * His autem in me stimulos carnis, hsec incentiva libidinis, 
 ipse juvenilis fervor rotatis, et jucundissimanim experientia 
 voluptatum, plurirroim acceduut, et tanto amplius suzi me ini- 
 pngnatione opprimunt, quanto infirmior est natura quam 
 oppugnant. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 181 
 
 I am called chaste, because it has not been per- 
 ceived that I am a hypocrite. Purity of the flesh is 
 taken for virtue, as though virtue belonged to the 
 body instead of the soul. I am praised by men, but 
 I have no merit with God, who proves the heart and 
 reins, and sees in secret. 
 
 L am praised for being religious in these times, 
 when there is only a small part of religion that is not 
 hypocrisy; when he is most extolled who does not 
 offend the judgment of men. Doubtless, it is in some 
 manner laudable, and in some manner appears accept- 
 able to God, not to scandalize the church by the bad 
 example of an outward act, whatever the motive may 
 be ; for thus we do not give infidels an occasion of 
 blaspheming the name of the Lord, and carnal men 
 an occasion of defaming the order to which we belong. 
 And this, too, is a gift of divine grace which gives 
 not only the power to do good, but also the power to 
 abstain from evil. But the latter precedes in vain, 
 when the former does not succeed, as it is written : 
 " Abhor that which is evil, cleave to that which is 
 good." And in vain is either done, if it is not done 
 through the love of God. 
 
 But in every stage of my life, God knows that I 
 have feared more to offend you than to offend him, 
 that I have sought more to please you than to please 
 him. Thy command, and not the love of God, led 
 me to assume religious habit. See how unhappy a 
 
182 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 life is mine a life more wretched than all others, if 
 here I endure so many things in vain, without the ex- 
 pectation of any reward in the future. Thus far my 
 simulation has deceived you, as well as others ; you 
 have regarded that as religion which was nothing but 
 hypocrisy ; so commending yourself to my prayers, 
 you ask from me what I expect from you. 
 
 Do not, I beseech you, put so much confidence in 
 me, lest you should cease to succor me with your 
 prayers. Do not suppose me well, lest you should 
 deprive me of the pleasure of a remedy. Do not be- 
 lieve that I am not needy, lest you should defer to 
 aid me in my necessity. Do not suppose me strong, 
 lest I should fall ere you can sustain me. Many 
 have been injured by flattery, and the support 
 which they need she has taken away. Through the 
 prophet Isaiah, the Lord exclaims : " my people, 
 they which lead thee cause thee to err, and destroy 
 the way of thy paths." And through the mouth of 
 the prophet Ezekiel : " Woe to the women that sew 
 pillows to all arm-holes, and make kerchiefs upon the 
 head of every statue, to hunt souls."* On the other 
 hand, it is said by Solomon : " The words of the wise 
 are as goads, and as nails fastened by masters of as- 
 semblies, which are given from one shepherd." 
 
 Desist, I beseech you, from praising me, lest you 
 
 * A figure, say the commentators, to represent the lulling 
 of men to sleep by deceitful predictions. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 183 
 
 incur the known baseness of adulation, and the crime 
 of mendacity ; or, if you believe there is any thing 
 good in me, do not praise me, lest the praise itself 
 vanish in the breath of vanity. No skilful physician 
 judges of an interior disease by an inspection of ex- 
 ternal appearances. Nothing that is common to repro- 
 bates and the elect, obtains any merit with God. The 
 really just often neglect those external practices that 
 strike the attention of all, whilst no one conforms to 
 them with greater ease than the hypocrite. 
 
 The heart of man is corrupt and ever inscrutable. 
 Who can understand it ? There are ways which seem 
 right to men ; but their issues lead to death. The 
 judgment of men is rash in those things which are 
 reserved solely for the examination of God. Hence 
 it is written: " Praise no man during his lifetime." 
 For, in praising a man, we are liable to destroy the 
 virtue itself which makes him worthy of praise. 
 
 But your praise is so much the more perilous to 
 me, as it is the more grateful ; and I am so much the 
 more taken and delighted with it, as I am the more 
 studious to please you in all things. Distrust me, I 
 beseech you, instead of confiding in me, that I may 
 always be assisted with your solicitude. The danger 
 is greater now than ever, for there is remaining in you 
 no remedy for my incontinence. 
 
 Do not exhort me to virtue, do not provoke me to 
 combat, in saying, " Virtue is perfected by trial ; " 
 
184 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 and, " He only shall be crowned, who shall have 
 strived to the last." I do not seek the crown of vic- 
 tory. It is enough for me to shun peril. It is safer 
 to shun peril than to wage war. In whatever corner 
 of heaven God may place me, it will satisfy me. No 
 one will there envy another, since for each one, what 
 he obtains will be sufficient. 
 
 My position in this respect is fortified by autho- 
 rity. Let us hear St. Jerome : " I confess my weak- 
 ness ; I am unwilling to contend in hope of victory, 
 lest in some way I may lose victory. Why should 
 we abandon the certain, and contend for the uncer- 
 tain? 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 185 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 EPISTLE OF ABELARD TO HELOISE. 
 
 To the Spouse of Christ, the Servant of the same. 
 TO HELOISE ABELARD. 
 
 YOUR last letter, I remember, is summed up in four 
 points, into which you have disposed the vivid expres- 
 sion of your complaints. At first, indeed, you com- 
 plain that, contrary to the custom in letters, even 
 contrary to the natural order of things, my letter di- 
 rected to you placed you before me in the salutation. 
 In the second place, you complain that I increased 
 your desolation, when I ought to have offered consola- 
 tion, and that I excited the tears which it was my duty 
 to wipe away, by saying : " If the Lord should deliver 
 me into the hands of my enemies, and they prevailing 
 over me should put me to death," etc. In the third 
 place, conies up again that old and perpetual com- 
 plaint of yours against Providence, about the mode 
 of our conversion to G-od, and the cruelty of the 
 treachery practised against me. Finally, you accuse 
 
186 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 yourself, in opposition to my praise, and earnestly 
 supplicate me to address you no more in that manner. 
 
 I have determined to answer your objections 
 singly, not so much for my own justification as for 
 your instruction and encouragement; that you may 
 assent to my commands the more freely, when you 
 shall learn that they are reasonable; that you may 
 listen so much the more attentively in regard to 
 things which pertain to you, as you shall find me the 
 less reprehensible in regard to things which pertain 
 to myself; and that you may fear so much the more 
 to contemn me, as you shall find me the less worthy 
 of reprehension. 
 
 In regard to the preposterous order of my saluta- 
 tion, as you call it, you will recognize, by giving dili- 
 gent attention to it, that I have acted in accordance 
 with your own sentiment. For, what all can see, you 
 have yourself said, that when we write to superiors 
 their names must come first. You know that you be- 
 came my superior, and that you began to be my mis- 
 tress* from the time when you were made the spouse 
 of my master, according to the words of St. Jerome, 
 writing to Eustochia : " This is the reason why I 
 write, my mistress Eustochia. Surely I ought to 
 call the spouse of my master my mistress." It is a 
 happy nuptial exchange, that you, at first the wife of 
 
 * Domina mea esse ccepisti It is hardly necessary to say 
 that the word mistress is used in its highest sense. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOTSE. 187 
 
 a wretched human creature, should be elevated to the 
 couch of the highest king. Neither is the privilege 
 of this honor extended to your former husband alone, 
 but to all other servants of the same king. Be not 
 astonished, therefore, if I commend myself to you as, 
 living or dead, the subject of your prayers ; for it is 
 every where admitted that the intercession of a spouse 
 with her lord is more powerful than that of a servant, 
 and that the voice of a mistress has more authority 
 than that of a slave. 
 
 As the model of these, the queen and spouse of 
 the Sovereign King is described with care in these 
 words of the Psalmist : " Upon thy right hand did 
 stand the queen, in gold of Ophir." In other words, 
 she remains familiarly by her spouse, and walks side 
 by side with him, whilst all others keep far away, or 
 follow at a respectful distance. Filled with the sen- 
 timent of her glory and her prerogative, the spouse 
 in Canticles exultingly says : " I am black, but comely, 
 ye daughters of Jerusalem." And again: " Look 
 not upon me because I am black, because the sun 
 hath looked upon me." 
 
 It is true that these words describe in general the 
 contemplative soul, which is specially named the 
 spouse of Christ, yet they pertain still more expressly 
 to you, as the habit which you wear proves. 
 
 Surely the exterior garment of black, or coarser 
 material, like the mourning habit of good widows, who 
 
188 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 bewail their deceased husbands whom they loved, 
 shows that you, according to the Apostle, are truly 
 widowed and desolate in this world, and ought to be 
 supported from the revenues of the church. The 
 grief of those widows, on account of the death of 
 their Lord, is commemorated in the Scripture, where 
 they are described as sitting by the sepulchre and 
 weeping. 
 
 The Ethiopian is black, and so far as the exterior 
 is concerned, appears to other women deformed ; nev- 
 ertheless, she does not yield to them in interior beau- 
 ties, but in most respects is more beautiful and whiter.* 
 
 * Habet autem ^Ethiopissa exteriorem in carne nigredinem, 
 et quantum ad exteriora pertinet, caeteris apparet ferainis de- 
 formior; cum non sit tamen in interioribus dispar, sed in 
 plerisque etiam formosior, atque candidior, sicut in ossibus 
 seu dentibus. Quorum videlicet dentium candor in ipso etiam 
 commendatur sponso, cum dicitur: "Et dentes ejuslacte can- 
 didores." 
 
 Nigra itaque in exterioribus, sed formosa in interioribus 
 est; quia in hac vita crebris adversitatum tribulatiouibus 
 corporaliter afflicta quasi in carne nigrescit exterius, juxtd 
 illud Apostoli : " Omnes qui volunt pie vivere in Christo tri- 
 bulationem patientur." Sicut enim candido prosperum, ita 
 non incongrue nigro designatur adversum. Intus autem, 
 quasi in ossibus, candet, quia in virtutibus ejus anima pollet, 
 sicut scriptum est : " Omnis gloria ejus filise regis ab intus." 
 Ossa quippe, qua? interiora sunt, exteriori oarne circuindata, 
 et ipsius carnis, quam gerunt, vel sustentant, robur ac fortitu- 
 do. sunt, ben6 auimam exprimunt, quae carnem ipsam, cui 
 inest, vivificat, sustentat, movet, atque regit, atque ei omnem 
 valetudinem ministrat. Cujus quidem est candor, sive decor, 
 ipsse, quibus adornatur, virtutes. Xigra quoque est in exte- 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 189 
 
 Indeed this blackness, the effect of corporeal 
 tribulations, easily detaches the minds of the faithful 
 from the love of mundane things, and elevates them 
 
 rioribus, quia dum in hac perigrinatione adhuc exnlat, vilem 
 et abjectam se tenet in hac vita; ut in ilia sublimentur, qure 
 est abscondita cum Christo in Deo, patriam jam adepta. Sic 
 vero earn sol verus decolorat, quia coelestis amor sponsi earn 
 sic humiliat, vel tribulationibus cruciat ; ne earn scilicet pros- 
 peritas extollat. Decolorat earn sic, id est dissimilem earn a 
 caeteris facit, quae terrenis inhiant, et saeculi quaerunt gloriam ; 
 ut sic ipsa ver& lilium convallium per humilitatem efficiatur: 
 non lilium quidem montium, sicut illae videlicet fatu vir- 
 gines, quae de munditia carnis, vel abstinenti exteriore, apud 
 se intumescentes, aestu tentationum aruerunt. Bene autem 
 filias Hierusalem, id est, imperfectiores alloquens fideles, qui 
 filiarum potius, quam filiorum nomine digni sunt, dicit : " No- 
 lite me considerare qu6d fusca sim, quia decoloravit me sol." 
 Ac si apertius dicat : Quod sic me humilio, vel tam viriliter 
 adversitates sustineo, non est mesB virtutis, sed ejus gratiae 
 cui deservio. 
 
 AHter solent haeretici, vel hypocritae, quantum ad faciem 
 hominum spectat, spe terrenae gloriae sese vehemeuter humil- 
 iare, vel multa inutiliter tolerare. De quorum hujusmodi 
 abjectione, vel tribulatione, quam sustinent, vehementer mi- 
 randum est ; cum sint omnibus miserabiliores hominibus, qui 
 nee prsesentis vitae bonis, nee futuree fruuntur. Hoc itaque 
 sponsa diligenter considerans dicit: "Nolite mirari cur id 
 faciam." Sed de illis mirandum est, qui inutiliter terrenaa 
 laudis desiderio asstuantes terrenis se privant commodis, tam 
 hie quam in futuro miseri. Qualis quidem fatuarum virgi- 
 num continentia est, quaa 4 janua sunt exclusae. 
 
 Bene" etiam, quia nigra est, ut diximus, et formosa, dilec- 
 tam, et introductam se dicit in cubiculum regis, id est, in se- 
 creturn vel quietem contemplationis, et lectulum ilium, de 
 
190 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 to the desires of eternal life, and frequently draws 
 them from the tumultuous life of the world to the se- 
 cret of contemplation. This is what happened to 
 Paul at the beginning of that kind of life which we 
 have embraced, that is, the monastic life, as St. Je- 
 rome writes. This poverty of habit seeks solitude 
 rather than the world, and is the surest safeguard of 
 that denial of and that retreat from the world, which 
 most especially become our profession. For rich dress, 
 most of all things, excites us to appear in public, 
 which is sought by no one except for the gratification 
 of vanity, and the pomp of the world, as St. Gregory 
 has shown in these words : " No one thinks of adorn- 
 
 quo eadem alibi dicit: "In lectulo meo per noctes quaesivi 
 quein diligit anima mea." Ipsa quipp6 nigrediuis deformitas 
 occultum potius quam manifestum, et secretum magis quam 
 publicum amat. Et quae talis eat uxor, secreta potius viri 
 gaudia quam manifesta desiderat, et in lecto magis vult 
 eentiri quam in mensa videri. Et frequenter accidit, ut nig- 
 rarum caro feminarum, quanto est in aspectu deformior, tanto 
 sit in tactu suavior: atque ide6 earum voluptas secretis gau- 
 diis quam publicis gratior sit et convenientior, et earum viri, 
 ut illis oblectentur, magis eas in cubiculum introducunt, quam 
 ad publicum educunt. 
 
 Secundum quam quidem metaphoram bene spiritualis 
 sponsa cum prsemisisset : " Xigra sum, sed forrnosa," statim 
 adjunxit: " Ideo dilexit me rex, et introduxit me in cubicu- 
 lum suum," singula videlicet singulis reddens. Hoc est, quia 
 formoso, dilexit, quia nigra, introduxit. Formosa, ut dixi, intus 
 virtutibus quas diligit sponsus : nigra exterius corporalium 
 tribulationum adversitatibus. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 191 
 
 ing himself in a solitary place, but where he can be 
 seen." But the chamber of which the bride speaks, 
 is that to which the spouse himself invites us for 
 prayer, as this passage from the Gospel testifies : 
 " But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, 
 and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father 
 which is in secret." As if he had said: not in the 
 highways and in public places, like the hypocrites. 
 He calls the closet a place secret from the tumult 
 and observation of the world, where it is possible to 
 pray more quietly and more purely. Such are 
 the secret places of monastic solitudes, where we 
 are commanded to shut the door, that is, to obstruct 
 every passage, lest for some reason the purity of 
 prayer be obstructed, and the eye trespass upon 
 the unhappy soul. We are grieved to see still, 
 among the people of our habit, so many despisers 
 of this counsel, or rather of this divine precept, 
 who, when they are celebrating the divine offices, the 
 choirs and chancels being thrown open, impudently 
 present themselves before the faces of women as well 
 as men, and especially when in the solemn ceremonies 
 they degrade the precious ornaments of the priest- 
 hood by engaging in rivalry with men of the world to 
 whom they show themselves. In their opinion the 
 festival is so much the more beautiful, as it is the 
 richer in external ornament, and the more sumptuous. 
 In regard to their blindness, which is so deplorable 
 
192 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 and so contrary to the religion of Christ's poor, it is 
 better to pass over it in silence, since it would be im- 
 possible to speak of it without shame. Always juda- 
 izing, they follow their own habit as a rule, and make 
 the word of God a dead letter by their traditions, for 
 they conform to custom instead of duty. Neverthe- 
 less, as St. Augustine remembers, the Lord has said : 
 " I am Truth," and not, " I am custom." To their 
 prayers, those which they make with open door, who- 
 ever wishes, commends himself. But you, who have 
 been introduced by himself into the chamber of the 
 celestial king, and are quiet in his spiritual embraces, 
 the door being always shut, you are wholly devoted 
 to him. As you adhere the more closely to him, and 
 as the Apostle says : " He that is joined unto the 
 Lord is one spirit," I have the more confidence in 
 the purity and efficacy of your prayer, and the more 
 ardently solicit your aid. I trust that the dearness 
 of our mutual affection will increase the fervor of 
 your petitions in my behalf. 
 
 As to the pain which I have given you by men- 
 tioning the danger which threatens me, and the death 
 which I fear, I have in that only answered your de- 
 mand, ever your prayer. The following are the very 
 words of the first letter which you sent : 
 
 " In the name of Christ, who hitherto has pro- 
 tected you for his service, whose humble servants we 
 are and thine, we beseech you to write us frequently, 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 193 
 
 informing us by what perils you are surrounded ; since 
 we alone remain to you, to participate in your grief or 
 your joy. Those who condole with us usually afford 
 some consolation to the sorrowing, and a burden laid 
 upon several is more easily borne, or seems more light." 
 
 Why then do you reproach me for having made 
 you participate in my anxiety, when you have com- 
 pelled me to do it by your supplications ? In view 
 of this desperate life which, with torture, I am living, 
 does it become you to rejoice ? Do you wish to par- 
 ticipate in my joy only, and not in my grief? Do 
 you wish to rejoice with the rejoicing, and not to 
 weep with the weeping ? There is no greater differ- 
 ence between true and false friends than this, that 
 the former are faithful in adversity, while the latter 
 remain only so long as prosperity lasts. Leave off 
 your reproaches, then, I beseech you, and suppress 
 these complaints that a_re wholly foreign to the heart 
 of charity. 
 
 Or if you are still pained in this respect, you 
 must consider that, placed in such imminent peril, 
 and in daily despair of my life, it behooves me to be 
 solicitous in regard to the safety of my soul, and to 
 provide for it, while it is still permitted. If you love 
 me truly, you will not complain of this precaution. 
 And if you have any hope of divine mercy toward 
 me, you should even desire that I may be freed from 
 
 the miseries of this life, which, as you see, are insup- 
 9 
 
194 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 portable. You know well, that whosoever should free 
 me from this life, would put an end to my torments. 
 What pains may await me hereafter is uncertain, but 
 from how great pains I should be delivered is certain. 
 
 The end of a wretched life is always sweet, and 
 those who suffer with others in their misfortunes, and 
 condole with them in their sorrows, desire that these 
 misfortunes and sorrows may be terminated, and even 
 to their own hurt, if they sincerely love those whom 
 they see in trouble, and they are not mindful of an 
 event that brings grief to themselves if it brings 
 deliverance to their friends. So a mother who sees 
 her child wasting away with a painful and incurable 
 disease, desires that death may come to terminate the 
 suffering which she cannot bear to look upon, and pre- 
 fers that it should die rather than be the companion 
 of misery. And whoever is greatly delighted with 
 the presence of a friend, nevertheless rather wishes 
 that he should be absent and happy, than present and 
 miserable, for, not being able to remedy his pains, he 
 cannot bear the sight of them. 
 
 It is not permitted you to enjoy my presence, even 
 in misery. And when my presence would be useless 
 to you for any purposes of pleasure, I do not see why 
 you should prefer for me a most miserable life to a 
 happier death. If you desire that my miseries should 
 be prolonged for your own interest, you are evidently 
 my enemy rather than my friend. If you shrink 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 195 
 
 from seeming to be my enemy, I pray you, as I have 
 already said, desist from your complaints. 
 
 But approve the praise which you reprobate ; for 
 in this very thing you show yourself more worthy of 
 it ; for it is written : "He that shall humble himself, 
 shall be exalted." And Heaven grant that your 
 thought may accord with what you have written. If 
 such were your real sentiments, your humility is true, 
 and will not vanish before my words. But take care, 
 I beseech you, that you do not seek praise by seem- 
 ing to shun it, and that you do not reprobate that 
 with your lips which in heart you desire. In this re- 
 gard, St. Jerome writes thus to the virgin Eustochia : 
 " We yield ourselves freely to our adulators, and al- 
 though we reply that we are undeserving, and blush, 
 nevertheless the soul within rejoices in praise." 
 Such a one Virgil describes in the lascivious Galathea, 
 who sought the pleasure that she desired by appearing 
 to fly, and incited her lover the more toward herself 
 by feigning a repulse : 
 
 "Et fugit ad salices, et se crepit ante videri." 
 
 Flying, she desires to be seen before she con- 
 ceals herself, for by this flight she is the more sure 
 of obtaining the caresses of the youth, which she 
 seems to shun. So when we appear to shun the praise 
 of men, we provoke it the more, and when we pretend 
 to wish to conceal ourselves that no one may see in us 
 
196 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 any thing to praise, we excite the more the praises of 
 those who are not wary, for thereby we seem the more 
 worthy of praise. 
 
 And these things I speak, because they frequently 
 happen, not because I suspect any such thing in you, 
 for I do not doubt your humility ; but I wish to have 
 you shun even these words, lest you may seem to 
 those who do not know you to seek glory, as St. Je- 
 rome says, by shunning it. Never will my praise in- 
 flate you, but will always incite you to better things, 
 and your zeal for the attainment of the virtues for 
 which I praise you, will be earnest in proportion to 
 your desire of pleasing me. My praise is not to you 
 a testimony of religion, that you should thereby be 
 inspired with pride. No one must be judged by the 
 panegyrics of friends, nor by the vituperations of en- 
 emies. 
 
 Finally, it remains to speak to you of your old 
 and perpetual complaint, of your presuming to accuse 
 God on account of the mode of our conversion, in- 
 stead of wishing to glorify him, as it is just. I be- 
 lieved that the bitterness of your soul had vanished, 
 on account of the striking proofs of the divine mercy 
 towards us. The more dangerous this is to you it 
 consumes the body as well as the soul the more it 
 excites my pity and my regret. If, as you profess, 
 you study above all thing to please me, then, that you 
 may not torture me, that you may please me supreme- 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 197 
 
 ly, reject that biterness from your heart. With this 
 you cannot please me, nor can you with me arrive at 
 beatitude. Could you bear that I should go thither 
 without you you who profess your willingness to fol- 
 low me even to perdition ? But seek religion for this 
 one thing at least, that you may not be separated 
 from me when, as you believe, I am hastening to God ; 
 and that you may seek it the more earnestly, call to 
 mind how blessed it will be for us to set out together, 
 and how much the sweetness of our companionship 
 will add to our felicity. Think of what you have said ; 
 remember what you have written, that in the manner 
 of our conversion God has showed himself, as it is 
 manifest, so much the more propitious to me, as he is 
 believed to have been the more averse. But in this 
 his holy will is pleasing to me, because it is to me 
 most salutary, and to you as well as to me, if the ex- 
 cess of your grief admit a reasonable judgment. Do 
 not complain that you are the cause of so great a 
 good, nor doubt that God predestined you to be the 
 source of it. Weep not on account of my sufferings, 
 for it would also be necessary for you to weep on ac- 
 count of the sufferings of the martyrs and the death 
 of the Lord. Could you more easily bear what has 
 happened to me, and would it offend you less, if it 
 had justly happened to me ? No, surely, for then it 
 would be the more ignominious for me, and the more 
 glorious for my enemies, since justice would procure 
 
198 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 praise for them, and my fault contempt for me. No 
 one would then accuse them for their act ; no one 
 would be moved with pity for me. 
 
 But, to assuage the bitterness of your grief, I 
 could show the justice as well as the utility of what has 
 happened to us, and I could show you that God was 
 more right in punishing us after marriage than when we 
 were living an irregular life.* 
 
 You also know that, when I transferred you into 
 my native country, you were clothed in the sacred 
 
 * "Ut tamen et hoc modo hujus amaritudinem doloria le- 
 niamus, tarn juste quam utiliter id monstrabimus nobis acci- 
 disse, et rectius in conjugates quam in fornicantes ultura 
 Deum fuisse. Nosti post nostri confederation em conjugii, cum 
 Argenteoli cum sanctimonialibus in claustro conversabaris, 
 me die quddam privatim ad te visitandam venisse, et quid ibi 
 tecum meae libidinis egerit intemperantia in quadam etiam 
 parte ipsius refectorii, cum quo alias diverteremus, non hab- 
 eremus. Nosti, inquam, id impudentissime' tune actum esse 
 in tarn reverendo loco et summa? Virgin! consecrate. Quod, 
 etsi alia cessent flagitia, multo graviore dignum sit ultione. 
 Quid pristinas fornicationes et impudentissimas referam pol- 
 lutiones quse conjugium pnecesserunt ? Quid summam denique 
 proditionem meam, qua de te ipsa tuum, cum quo assidue 
 in ejus domo convivebam, avunculura tarn turpiter seduxi? 
 Quis me ab eo jnst6 prodi non censeat, quern tarn impudenter 
 ante ipse prodideram ? Putas ad tantorum criminum ultio- 
 nem momentaneum illius plagse dolorem sufficere ? Imo tantis 
 malis tantum debitum esse commodum? Quam plagam di- 
 viiui' sufficere justitiaB credis ad tantam contaminationem, ut 
 diximus, sacerrimi loci suse matris? Cert& nisi vehementer 
 erro, non tarn ilia saluberrima plaga in ultionem horuni con- 
 versa est, quam qua? hodid indesiuenter sustineo. 
 

 ABELARD AND HELOISE. 199 
 
 habit, that you pretended to be a nun, and by such a 
 pretence profaned the sacred institution to which you 
 now belong. Judge thence how properly the divine 
 justice, or rather the divine grace, has drawn you in 
 spite of yourself into that religious state, of which you 
 did not fear to make a jest ; it has imposed on you as 
 a punishment that very habit which you daringly as- 
 sumed, in order that the falsehood of pretending to be 
 a nun might be remedied by the truth of being a nun 
 in reality. 
 
 If to the divine justice you join the consideration 
 of our interest, you will acknowledge God did every 
 thing for the sake of our good, and not for the sake 
 of his own vengeance. See, dearest, see how with the 
 strong nets of his mercy the Lord has taken us from 
 the depths of that sea so perilous, from what a devour- 
 ing Charybdis he has delivered his creatures in distress, 
 already wrecked in the whirlpool, and contending 
 against the saving hand, so that either of us might ut- 
 ter that cry of wonder and love: " The Lord was soli- 
 citous concerning me ! " Think and reflect upon the 
 dangers which surrounded us, and whence the Lord 
 snatched us : and unceasingly with hymns of gratitude 
 recount how much the Lord has done for our souls ; 
 and console by our example the transgressors who 
 despair of his mercy, showing all what can be done 
 by penitence and prayer, when so many benefits 
 have been conferred on the impenitent and the hard- 
 
200 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 eried. Observe the most exalted counsel of the Lord 
 in regard to us, and how he tempered his justice with 
 mercy ; how prudently he made use of evils, and di- 
 vinely overcame impiety, for, by the just infliction of 
 a bodily punishment upon me, he saved two souls. 
 Compare our danger and the manner of our deliver- 
 ance. Compare the disease and the remedy. Behold 
 the cause of so much indulgence, and admire the pity 
 and the love of God.* 
 
 * Kosti quantis turpitudinibus immoderata mea libido 
 corpora nostra addixerat, ut nulla honestatis vel Dei reveren- 
 tia in ipsis etiam diebus Dominic passionis, vel quantarum- 
 cumque solemnitatum ab hujus luti volutabro me revocaret. 
 Sed et te nolentem, et prout poteras reluctantem et dissua- 
 dentem, qiue natura iulirmior eras, ssepius minis ac flagellis 
 ad consensum trahebam. Tanto enim tibi concupiscentia- ar- 
 dore copulatus eram, ut miseras illas et obscoenissimaa volup- 
 tates, quas etiam nominare confundimur, tarn Deo quam mihi 
 ipsi pra3ponerem : nee tarn aliter consulere posse divina 
 videretur dementia, nisi has mihi voluptates sine spe ulla 
 omnino interdiceret. 
 
 Unde justissime et clementissime, licet cum summa tui 
 avunculi proditione, ut in multis crescerem, parte ilia corporis 
 sum minutus, in qua libidinis regnum erat, et tota hujus con- 
 cupiscentiai causa consistebat: ut justie illud p^ccteretur 
 membrum, quod in nobis commiserat totum, et expiaret pa- 
 tiendo quod deliquerat oblectando: et ab his me spurcitiis, 
 quibus me totum quasi luto immerseram, tarn mente quam 
 corpore circumcideret : et tant6 sacris etiam altnribus 
 idoniorem efficeret, quanto me nulla hinc amplius carnaiium, 
 contagia pollutionum revocarent. Quam clementer etiam in 
 eo tantum me pati voluit mernbro, cujus privatio et animse 
 saluti consuleret, et corpus non deturparet, nee ullam offici- 
 orum ministrationem pra?pediret ; imo ad omnia qute honest^ 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 201 
 
 I merit death, and God gives me life. I am call- 
 ed, and I resist. I persist in my crimes, and unwill- 
 
 geruntur, tanto me promptiorem efficeret, quanto ab hoc con- 
 cupiscentue jugo maximo amplius liberaret. Cum itaque 
 membris his vilissimis, qua3 pro summae turpitudinis exercito 
 pudenda vocantur, nee proprium sustinet nomen, me divina 
 Gratia mundavit, potius quam privavit, quid aliud egit quam 
 ad puritatem munditise conservandam sordida removit et 
 vitia ? 
 
 Hanc qnidem mnnditiae puritatem nonnullos sapientium 
 vehementissime appetentes inferre etiam sibi manum audivi- 
 mus, ut hoc a se penitus removerent concupiscence flagitium, 
 pro quo etiam stimulo carnis auferendo et Apostolus perhibetur 
 Dominum rogasse, nee exauditum esse. In exemplo est ille mag- 
 nus christianorum philosophus Origenes, qui, ut in se penitus 
 incendium exstingueret, manus sibi inferre veritus non est: ac 
 si illos ad litteram vere beatos intelligeret, qui seipsos prop- 
 ter regnum coelorum castraverunt, et tales illud veraciter im- 
 plere crederet, quod de membris scandalizantibus nobis 
 prsecipit Dominus, ut ea scilicet a nobis abscindamus et proji- 
 ciamus, et quasi illam Isaise prophetiam ad historiam magis 
 quam ad mysterium duceret, per quam caeteris fidelibus 
 eunuchos Dominus prafert, dicens: "Eunuchi si custodierint 
 sabbata mea, et elegerint qua3 volui, dabo eis in domo mea et 
 in muris meis locum, et nomen melius a filiis et filiabus. No- 
 men sempiternum dabo eis, quod non peribit." Culpam ta- 
 men non modicam Origenes' incurrit, dum per poenam cor- 
 poris remedium culpa3 quserit. 
 
 Zelum quippfe Dei habens, sed non secundtim ecientiam, 
 homicidi incurrit reatum inferendo sibi manum. Suggestions 
 diabolica, vel errore maximo, id ab ipso constat esse factum, 
 quod miseratione Dei, in me est ab alio perpetratum. Culpam 
 evito, non incurro. Mortem mereor, et vitam assequor. Yo- 
 cor, et reluctor. Insto criminibus, et ad veniam trahor invi- 
 tus. Orat Apostolus, nee exauditur. Precibus instat, neo 
 impetrat. Verfe Dominus sollicitus est mei. Vadam igitur 
 et narrabo quanta fecit Dominus anima3 mea3. 
 
202 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 ingly am driven to pardon. The Apostle prays, and 
 is not heard ; he persists in prayer and does not pre- 
 vail. Truly the Lord is solicitous concerning me. I 
 will go therefore and proclaim how much the Lord has 
 done for my soul. 
 
 Come and join me ; be my inseparable companion 
 in one act of grace, since you have participated with 
 me in the fault and in the pardon. For the Lord is 
 not unmindful of your safety ; yes, he is most especial- 
 ly mindful of you, for he has clearly foreordained that 
 you should be his by a certain divine presage, since 
 he designated you as Heloise from his own name which 
 is Elohim. 
 
 He, I say, has mercifully ordered that by one of us 
 both should be saved, when the devil was trying to de- 
 stroy us both by one. A little while before the ca- 
 tastrophe, the indissoluble law of the nuptial sacrament 
 had bound us together, and while I desired to retain 
 you always to myself, you loved by me beyond mea- 
 sure, the Lord was preparing the circumstances 
 which should turn our thoughts toward heaven. 
 
 For if we had not been married, my retreat from 
 the world, or the counsel of your relatives, or the at- 
 traction of pleasure, would have retained you in the 
 world. Behold how much the Lord has been mindful 
 of us, as if he had reserved us for some great purpose, 
 as if he had been indignant or grieved that those tal- 
 ents for science and literature, which he had intrusted 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 203 
 
 to us both, were not used exclusively for the honor of 
 his name ; or as if he were in fear in regard to his most 
 unfaithful servant, as it is written : " Women cause 
 even the wise to apostatize." Of this, Solomon, the 
 wisest of men, is a proof. 
 
 Your talent of prudence indeed brings daily in- 
 crease to the Lord ; already to the Lord you have 
 given many spiritual daughters, whilst I have remain- 
 ed fruitless, and have labored in vain among the chil- 
 dren of perdition. what a terrible misfortune ! 
 What a lamentable loss, if, given up to the impuri- 
 ties of carnal pleasures, you should bear with grief a 
 small number of children for the world, instead of 
 bearing with joy so great a number for heaven. You 
 would be nothing more than a woman, you who now 
 transcend even men, and who have exchanged the 
 malediction of Eve for the benediction of Mary. 
 What profanation if those sacred hands, which now 
 are employed in turning the holy page, were condemn- 
 ed to the vulgar cares which are the lot of woman ! 
 
 Be no longer afflicted, then, my dear sister, I be- 
 seech you ; cease to accuse a father who corrects us so 
 tenderly ; attend rather to what is written : " Whom 
 the Lord loveth, he chasteneth." And in another 
 place : " He that spareth his rod hateth his son." This 
 is transitory and not eternal; it purifies us, and does not 
 destroy. 
 
 Take courage, listen to this sovereign word, that 
 
204 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 comes from the mouth of Truth itself: "In your pa- 
 tience possess ye your souls." Hence Solomon has 
 said : " He that is slow to anger is better than the 
 mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit, than he that 
 taketh a city." 
 
 Are you not moved to tears and bitter compassion, 
 when you behold the only Son of God seized by the most 
 impious, dragged away, mocked, scourged, buffeted, 
 spit upon, crowned with thorns, hung upon the infa- 
 mous cross between two thieves, finally in such a hor- 
 rible and execrable manner suffering death, for your 
 salvation and that of the world? Him, my sister, who 
 is thy spouse and the spouse of the whole church, 
 keep continually before your eyes, and in your heart. 
 Gaze upon him as he goes to his crucifixion, bearing 
 his own cross. Be one of the multitude, one of the 
 women, who were beating their breasts and weeping, 
 as St. Luke narrates in these words : "And there fol 
 lowed him a great company of people, and of women, 
 which also bewailed and lamented him." He turned 
 towards them with benignity, and mildly predicted to 
 them the vengeance that should follow his death, and 
 taught them how to guard themselves against it. 
 " Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep 
 for yourselves, and your children ; for behold the days 
 are coming, in the which they shall say, Blessed are 
 the barren, and the wombs that never bore, and the 
 paps which never gave suck. Then they shall begin 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 205 
 
 to say to the mountains : Fall on us ; and to the 
 hills : Cover us ; for if they do these things in a 
 green tree, what shall be done in the dry?" 
 
 Sympathize with him who freely suffers for your 
 redemption, and participate with him in the pains of 
 the cross which he bears for you. Approach in spirit 
 his sepulchre, weep and mourn with the holy women, 
 who, as I have already said, were sitting at the 
 sepulchre, weeping their Lord. Prepare with them 
 perfumes for his burial ; but let them be better, let 
 them be spiritual, instead of material; for such he 
 requires of you, since he was not able to receive them 
 from the others. Suffer for him, then, with all the ar- 
 dor of your zeal, with all the strength of your devotion. 
 
 The Lord himself, by the mouth of Jeremiah, ex- 
 horts the faithful to participate in his sorrows : " Is 
 it nothing to you, all ye who pass by ? Behold, and 
 see, if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow." It 
 is as if he should say : " Is there a death worthy of 
 being lamented in view of that which I am suffering, 
 in order to expiate the crime of others, while I am 
 myself innocent?" But he is the way whereby the 
 faithful may return from exile to their native land. 
 
 This cross, from which he cries out, is the ladder 
 that he has erected for us. Upon this the only Son 
 of God was slain, 'he was offered as a sacrifice, because 
 he was willing. Learn to suffer with him, and fulfil 
 what the prophet Jeremiah predicted concerning de- 
 
206 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 voted souls : " They shall mourn as for the death of 
 an only child, and they shall weep for him as it is 
 customary to weep for a first-born." 
 
 Behold, my sister, what profound affliction the 
 friends of a king profess for the loss of his only and 
 first-born son. Look upon the desolation of the 
 family, and the grief of the whole court ; but it is the 
 spouse of this only son who is the deepest mourner, 
 whose grief is beyond bounds. 
 
 Such, my sister, be your affliction, such be your 
 grief for the death of that spouse, to an alliance with 
 whom you have been fortunately elevated. He has 
 purchased you, not with his possessions, but with him- 
 self. With his own blood he has bought you and 
 redeemed you. Behold how much right he has to 
 you, and how precious you are in his sight. 
 
 Thus the apostle, comparing the value of his 
 soul, and the inestimable price of the sacrifice which 
 was offered for its salvation, renders homage to 
 the grandeur of the benefaction, and cries out : 
 " God forbid that I should glory, save in the cross 
 of our Lord Jesus Christ, by whom the world 
 is crucified unto me, and I unto the world." You 
 are more than heaven, more than earth, since the 
 Creator of the world has given himself for your ran- 
 som. But what mysterious treasure has he, then, 
 discovered in you he to whom nothing is necessary, 
 if, in order to possess you, he has consented to all the 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 207 
 
 tortures of his agony, to all the opprobrium of his 
 punishment ? What has he sought in you, if not 
 yourself? Behold your true lover, who desires only_ 
 you, and not what belongs to you. Behold yourjtrue_ 
 jriend, who said in dying for you : " Greater love hath 
 no manjhanjhigj that a man lay down his life for his 
 friends." It was he, and not I, who truly loved you. 
 My love, which drew us both into sin, was only desire,* 
 it does not merit the name of love. I have, you say, 
 suffered for you, and perhaps it is true ; but I have 
 rather suffered by you, and even against my will ; not 
 for the love of you, but by the violence that was done 
 me ; not for your safety, but for your despair. On 
 the contrary, Christ willingly, and for your salvation, 
 suffered for you, and by his suffering he cures all 
 languor, removes all passion. Towards him, then, 
 and not towards me, be directed all your devotion, all 
 your compassion^ Grieve on account of the injustice 
 and cruelty that befall the innocent ; and not that a 
 just vengeancejell on me, for it is rather a favor for 
 which we should both thank Heaven 
 
 You are unjust, if you do not love justice ; and 
 great is your sin, if you voluntarily oppose the divine 
 will, and reject the gifts of grace. Bewail your Re- 
 deemer, and not your seducer, him who has served 
 you, and not him who ruined you, the Lord who 
 
 * Miseras in te meas volnptates implebam, et hoc erat 
 totum quod amabam. 
 
208 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 died for you, and not the servant who still lives, and 
 who has just been truly delivered from death. 
 
 Take care not to merit the reproach by which 
 Pompey silenced the complaints of Cornelia : 
 
 .... Vivit post prselia Magnus, 
 
 Sed fortuna perit ; quod defies illud amastL* 
 
 Submit, my sister, submit, I beseech you, with 
 patience to the trials, which have mercifully befallen 
 us. It is the rod of a Father, and not the sword of 
 a persecutor. The father strikes to correct, lest the 
 enemy should strike to kill. He wounds to prevent 
 death, and not to cause it. He wounds the body and 
 cures the soul. He ought to have put to death, and 
 he gives life. He arrests the malady, and makes the 
 body sound. He punishes once, not to punish for ever. 
 By the wound which has caused one to suffer, he saves 
 two from death. Two sin, one is punished. 
 
 This indulgence of the Lord in regard to us, is an 
 effect of his compassion for the feebleness of your sex, 
 but in some sort it was your due. You were more 
 infirm by nature, but stronger in continence, and 
 therefore less guilty. I thank the Lord, who has 
 freed you from punishment, and has reserved you for 
 
 * " Pompey survives the battle, but his fortune has 
 perished ; what you deplore you loved." 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 209 
 
 the crown.* Although you would refuse to hear it, 
 and would hinder me from saying it, nevertheless it is 
 a manifest truth. The crown is the reward of one who 
 strives continually, and he alone will obtain it who 
 strives to the end. 
 
 There is indeed no crown remaining for me, for 
 there is no longer any cause for striving.! Yet if 
 there is no crown laid up for me, I still suppose it a 
 great good for me to incur no penalty, to escape eter- 
 nal punishment by temporary pain. The men who 
 abandon themselves to the passions of this miserable 
 life, are compared in Scripture to beasts. 
 
 I complain the less that my merit should be de- 
 creased, while I am certain that yours is increasing. 
 We are indeed one in Christ, one by the bond of 
 marriage. Whatever pertains to you, I do not regard 
 as foreign to myself; but Christ is yours, because 
 you have been made his spouse. And now, as I 
 mentioned above, you hold me as a servant, whom 
 formerly you acknowledged as your lord ; but a ser- 
 vant joined to you by spiritual love, rather than sub- 
 jected to you by fear. Hence, my confidence in your 
 
 * Cum me un& corporis mei passione semel ab omni sestu 
 hujus concupiscentiae, in qua un& totus per immoderatum in- 
 continentiam occupatus eram, refrigeravit ad martyrii coro- 
 nam. 
 
 \ Deest materia pugnse, cui ablatus est stimulus concu- 
 piscentise. 
 
210 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 intercession is great; I can obtain that by your 
 prayer, which I cannot obtain by my own ; especially 
 at this time, when a multitude of cares and imminent 
 dangers distract my mind, and allow no quiet mo- 
 ments for prayer. I am far from imitating that mes- 
 senger of Candace, queen of the Ethiopians, who 
 went from so great a distance to Jerusalem to adore 
 God in his temple. To him on his return the Apostle 
 Philip was sent to convert him to the faith, of 
 which he was worthy, on account of his prayer and 
 assiduous reading of the Scripture. As he was always 
 occupied during his journey, the divine grace, not- 
 withstanding the anathema pronounced against riches 
 and idolaters, permitted that he should fall on a way 
 that would furnish the Apostle the most abundant 
 means to work his conversion. 
 
 That nothing may impede my request, or hinder 
 it from being fulfilled, I hasten to send you a prayer 
 which I have composed, which with uplifted hands 
 you will offer to Heaven for us both. 
 
 PRAYER. 
 
 " God, who, from the very beginning of the 
 creation of man, woman having been formed out of 
 the side of man, hast sanctioned the great sacra- 
 ment 'of the conjugal union, and who, by thy own 
 birth, and by thy first miracle, hast raised it to 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 211 
 
 higher honors, and hast allowed me, even in my frailty 
 or in my incontinence, as it may please thee, to 
 partake of the grace of this sacrament ; reject not the 
 prayers of thy handmaid, which, a suppliant, I pour 
 out in the presence of thy majesty for my own sinsj 
 and for the sins of him who is dear to me. Pardon, 
 thou who art most benign, who art benignity it- 
 self, pardon our manifold crimes, and let the multi- 
 tude of our transgressions be swallowed up in the 
 immensity of thy unspeakable compassion. Punish 
 us now, I beseech thee, for we are guilty, and spare 
 us hereafter ; punish us in time, that we may not be 
 punished in eternity. Use against thy servants the 
 rod of correction, and not the sword of anger ; chas- 
 tise the flesh, but save our souls. Come as a purifier, 
 not as an avenger ; with mercy, rather than with jus- 
 tice ; as a pitying father, not as a severe master. 
 
 " Try us, Lord, and measure our strength, as the 
 prophet requests, when he beseeches thee to examine 
 his power of resistance, and to proportion to it the 
 temptation. Through the blessed Paul, thou hast 
 promised to thy faithful ones that they shall not be 
 tempted beyond their strength. 
 
 " When it pleased thee, Lord, and as it pleased 
 thee, thou didst join us, and thou didst separate us. 
 Now, Lord, what thou hast mercifully begun, mer- 
 cifully complete. And whom thou hast once sepa- 
 rated in the world, eternally join together for thyself 
 
212 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 in heaven, thou, who art our hope, our portion, 
 our expectation, our consolation. Blessed be thy 
 name, Lord, for evermore. " 
 
 Farewell in Christ, spouse of Christ; in Christ 
 farewell, and in Christ live. Amen. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 213 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 LETTER OF HELOISE TO ABELARD. 
 
 " Yet here for ever, ever must I stay ; 
 Sad proof how well a lover can obey I 
 Death, only death, can break the lasting chain ; 
 And here, e'en then, shall my cold dust remain, 
 Here all its frailties, all its flames resign, 
 And wait till 'tis no sin to mix with thine. 1 ' 
 
 POPE'S " Eloiaa to Abelard? 
 
 To her master, his servant. 
 
 THAT you may have no reason for accusing me of dis- 
 obedience, I shall check, as you have commanded, 
 the language of immoderate grief. I will try to sup- 
 press, at least in writing to you, those expressions of 
 weakness and sorrow against which it is so difficult, 
 or rather impossible, to fortify myself in an interview. 
 For nothing is less in our power than the mind, and 
 this we are rather compelled to obey, than able to 
 command. When we are under the influence of 
 strong emotions, we cannot so effectually repress 
 
214 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 them, that they may not be exhibited in action, and 
 manifest themselves in words, which are the ready 
 signs of the soul's passions. As it is written : " Out 
 of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh." 
 Therefore I shall not allow my hand to write those 
 things which I could not prohibit my tongue from speak- 
 ing. Oh that my heart were as able to command its 
 grief, as my hand is to command its writing ! 
 
 Some solace you are able to confer, although you 
 cannot wholly cure my grief. One thought drives 
 out another, and the mind, when new objects engage 
 the attention, is forced to abandon or to suspend its 
 haunting memories. A thought has so much the 
 more power to occupy the mind, and turn it aside 
 from other things, as its object is more honorable, 
 and seems to us more essential. 
 
 We supplicate you, therefore, all of us, the ser- 
 vants of Christ, and your children in Christ, we 
 supplicate you to accord to us, in your paternal good- 
 ness, two things, which seem to us absolutely neces- 
 sary First, to teach us the origin of the female 
 monastic institution, the rank and authority of our 
 profession ; Second, to frame and send to us a rule, 
 appropriate to our sex, * 
 
 * Not another word of these letters will we translate, 
 fieloise is here leaving herself, and nothing can tempt us to 
 follow her. She discourses with great learning about some- 
 thing foreign to her own heart ; but, as dearly as we love 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 215 
 
 her, we shall not allow her, at the command of Abelard, to 
 fling monastic dust in our eyes. Her warm, love-laden heart, 
 is beating thick and fast ; her soul-lit eyes are swimming in 
 tears ; her spirit does not obey, if her hand does ; we will 
 look at her, and not at the pale dead words that she writes. 
 Hitherto she has written of herself, and to translate her 
 burning language, has been a constant delight. With Abe- 
 lard we have been on good terms, tolerating his pedantry; 
 and, for the sake of his many sorrows, pardoning the want 
 of something that the hearts of women and poets can feel, 
 that cannot be reduced to a formula, and construed to 
 thought. 
 
 Abelard's answer to this letter is a treatise on monastic 
 institutions, and possesses no interest for any mortal in the 
 nineteenth century. 
 
216 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 THE CURTAIN FALLS/ 
 
 As a stone that is rolled from a mountain starts slow- 
 ly, at first turned out of its way by every inequality 
 of surface, but gathers force as it goes, at length leap- 
 ing all barriers ; so our narrative in the beginning 
 shaped its course in the midst of details, but now it 
 must touch upon here a point, and there a point, and 
 hasten to a close.* It was pleasant to dwell with Abe- 
 lard in his youth, when a noble ambition was calling 
 forth his energy ; it was pleasant to dwell with him in 
 his early manhood, when he was conquering in heroic 
 battle those who would silence a rising man ; it was 
 pleasant to dwell with him when he was strangely re- 
 lated to one of the noblest of women ; there was a 
 grave satisfaction in following him over the arid 
 wastes of his first years of monastic life, in journeying 
 with him through the burning sands of persecution ; 
 for we knew that there was an oasis ahead, which 
 
 * This figure is borrowed from " Waverley." 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 217 
 
 promised a cool shade and refreshing fountains, a 
 resting-place where the weary for a little season might 
 have at least a sombre peace, a solemn hour of repose 
 in which to recount with melancholy pleasure the joys 
 of vanished days, and to make preparation for a "way 
 that must once be trod by all;" but before us now 
 the desert again lies, stretching away as far as the eye 
 can reach, inviting the wanderer with many a decep- 
 tive mirage. The man whose life has been so full of 
 strange vicissitudes is entering upon it, and his next 
 asylum will be where the wicked cease from troubling 
 and the weary are at rest. 
 
 The most tranquil period of Abelard's life was 
 during the few first years that followed his corres- 
 pondence with Heloise. The Abbess of Paraclete sent 
 him difficult questions in theology, which she could 
 not understand, and he employed his time in answer- 
 ing them. For her he also composed a book of hymns, 
 which are not destitute of poetic merit. He collected 
 his sermons and dedicated them to her, and at her de- 
 mand, wrote his Hexameron, a commentary on the 
 first chapter of Genesis. During this period he either 
 wrote or finished most of his works.* Persecution for a 
 season ceased. The enemies of reason, and the friends 
 of authority seemed to fear the influence of Abelard. 
 On the side of the philosopher were the prince of 
 
 Vide Ouvrages medits d? Abelard, bv Cousin. 
 10 
 
218 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 Champagne ; the duke of Brittany ; and the Garlands, 
 who formed a dynasty of ministers under Louis le Gros 
 and his sons. He was also favored by the king him- 
 self. His opinions had spread far and wide, making 
 for him a multitude of friends. Many of his old pu- 
 pils, who loved and admired their master, were then 
 holding places of authority in the schools, in litera- 
 ture, and in the church. The influence of Heloise 
 was great, and of course was used for the safety of 
 her lover. 
 
 About the year 1136, Abelard opened his school 
 again for a short time, on the hill of St. Genevieve, 
 near Paris. How long he remained, or why he left, 
 is unknown.* 
 
 In the mean time an incident occurred at the Par- 
 aclete which revived his quarrel with the church. 
 Saint Bernard visited Heloise and expressed his ad- 
 miration for the order of the convent, but took it upon 
 himself to complain of an alteration in the prayer, 
 made by Abelard. The complaint of course reached 
 him, and he was not the man to let it pass in silence. 
 He wrote* to Saint Bernard, defending his own version, 
 and rebuked the saint for saying daily bread instead 
 of super 'substantial bread. One was the representa- 
 tive of free thought, and the other of authority, in the 
 
 * Vie d' Abelard, p. 171. 
 
 f Ab. Op., Part ii., Ep. 5. P. Asel. ad Bern, elarsev. abb., 
 p. 244, et Serm. xiii., p. 858. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 219 
 
 Middle Age, and even so small a breeze was sufficient 
 to fan the slumbering fires of antagonism between 
 them. 
 
 It must be remembered, too, that Abelard had 
 made himself in many ways obnoxious to the church. 
 He was skilled in invective, and had used it unspar- 
 ingly against the ignorance and vices of the convents. 
 Even bishops did not escape his rash criticism. The 
 traffic in indulgencies was attacked, and some high 
 dignitaries in the church were accused of attempting 
 false miracles. His temper was irritable ; he loved 
 controversy, and was proud. It was easy to be seen 
 that his doctrines, if not in themselves heretical, at 
 least tended to innovation. 
 
 Gruillaume de Saint Thierry commenced the move- 
 ment on the part of the church. He wrote a common 
 letter to the bishop of Chartres and Saint Bernard, 
 calling attention to the heresies of Abelard. Bernard, 
 who dedicated his passions to the service of the church, 
 as the old chevaliers did their arms, gave a willing ear 
 to the accusation, and the bishop of Chartres acted 
 with him without energy, without resistance, for he 
 had no bitter feeling toward the philosopher. 
 
 Saint Bernard had one or two friendly conferences 
 with Abelard, which in reality amounted to nothing. 
 While they were together they did not greatly disagree, 
 but each carried away with him a sentiment of animos- 
 ity. Conflicting ideas cannot live together in the 
 
220 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 world at peace ; they set men and nations quarrelling, 
 The saint preached against the doctrines and the ex- 
 ample of the philosopher. Abelard defended himself 
 in a manner not the best adapted to conciliate. Ber- 
 nard wrote to the pope, using his skill, his zeal, his 
 energy* every art of which he was master, to preju 
 dice the holy see against the subtle and dangerous 
 champion of reason. 
 
 Abelard, when wearied with seeing himself defam- 
 ed in every quarter, demanded public proof of the 
 charges preferred against him. 
 
 At Sens, the archiepiscopal city of Champagne, 
 there was to be on the Octave of Pentecost, in 1140, 
 an exposition of the relics of the church. Louis VII, 
 who found great delight in relics, was to be a specta- 
 tor at the festival. Prelates and bishops, princes and 
 rulers, dignitaries in church and state were to be 
 present. 
 
 Abelard wrote to the Archbishop of Sens, asking 
 that those who were to assemble to witness the expo- 
 sition of the relics of his church might constitute a sy- 
 nod, or council, before which he might respond to his ad- 
 versaries and vindicate his faith. The Archbishop 
 consented, and wrote to Saint Bernard to appear and 
 make good his accusation of Abelard. The saint re- 
 fused, alleging his incompetence to engage in a tour- 
 
 * Hist, de Saint Bernard, par M. 1'abbe Ratisbonne, t. ii., 
 c. xxix., p. 31. Vide St. Bern. Op. Ep. clxxxviii., et seq. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE 221 
 
 nament with the philosopher, who had been accustomed 
 to the logical saddle, and who had been trained to the 
 use of the dialectic lance, from his very youth. He 
 added that Abelard's writings were sufficient to con- 
 demn him. He wrote, however, to the bishops, to be 
 on their guard against the enemy of Christ. 
 
 When the time of the festival came, there assem- 
 bled kings, archbishops, princes, bishops, distinguish- 
 ed masters of schools, and a great concourse of people. 
 Saint Bernard found it necessary to attend, if he would 
 not relinquish the accusation of heresy brought against 
 his rival and antagonist. Wherever he appeared 
 the masses bowed with reverence, for his appearance 
 was full of sanctity, and his mien was humble. On 
 the other hand, the crowd shrank from Abelard, for 
 his bearing was lofty, and his adversaries had taught 
 the common people to regard him as an enemy of all 
 that is sacred and true. 
 
 On the second day of the festival, the philosopher, 
 surrounded by his followers, appeared before the 
 waiting assembly. Saint Bernard was there, and held 
 in his hand the works of Abelard, out of which he had 
 picked seventeen passages that contained heresies, or 
 errors in faith. He ordered that these should be 
 read in a loud voice ; but Abelard, interrupting the 
 reader, said that he would hear nothing, that he ap- 
 pealed to the Pontiff of Rome, and went out of the 
 
222 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 assembly.* Every one was amazed; but order was 
 preserved, and the passages that had been extracted 
 from his writings were condemned as heretical. 
 
 Abelard doubtless saw condemnation written on 
 the faces of his judges, and, knowing that he had 
 friends at Rome, boldly appealed to the sovereign of 
 the church. " His adversaries," says Brucker,f 
 u could neither endure nor penetrate the clouds with 
 which he enveloped simple truths ; superstition, ignor- 
 ance, hypocrisy, envy found matter for the cruel per- 
 secution of a man so worthy of better times and a 
 better destiny. He has a right to be counted among 
 the martyrs of philosophy." 
 
 Those who condemned the doctrines of Abelard 
 were solicitous concerning the decision of Rome. Two 
 letters were addressed to the pope, one in the name 
 of the archbishop of Sens and his suffragans, the other 
 in the name of the archbishop of Rheims and his suf- 
 fragans. Both of these were written by Saint Ber- 
 nard. He also wrote to the pontiff on his own account. 
 There was also correspondence with some of the car- 
 dinals, with any who could be of service in defaming 
 or in counteracting the influence of Abelard. 
 
 The persecuted philosopher set out for Rome, 
 to plead his cause before the pope. He believed 
 
 * An account of this is contained in the 189th, 191st, 
 and 337th epistles of Saint Bernard, 
 f Hist. Grit. Phil., t. iii., p. 764. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 223 
 
 that he should not be condemned unheard ; but in this 
 he was destined to be disappointed. He was con- 
 demned as a heretic to perpetual silence, and the order 
 was given that his books should be burned. And this 
 was not all. He and Arnauld de Brescia were to be 
 confined separately, in such religious houses as seemed 
 most convenient. 
 
 In the mean time Abelard, who was growing old, 
 whose health was broken, had sought rest on his 
 journey, at the hospitable abbey of Cluny. Peter the 
 Venerable had kindly received him, and was treating 
 him as a distinguished- guest. Although bowed with 
 infirmities, he was still strong in hope. The news of 
 the decision of Rome broke his spirit. He then let 
 go the phantom of ambition, to whose shadowy em- 
 brace he had abandoned himself so long, at the expense 
 of all that is dearest in life. 
 
 The prematurely old man was fortunately in the 
 hands of one who knew how to pity his misfortunes 
 who knew how to pour upon the bleeding wounds of 
 his heart the oil and the wine of consolation whose 
 authority and wisdom could procure peace for him 
 with his enemies. The venerable Peter, who reminds 
 us of the good Fenelon, wrote to the pope, and ob- 
 tained permission for Abelard to spend the rest of his 
 days at Cluny. The philosopher wrote a confession 
 of faith, and the abbe of Cluny brought about a re- 
 conciliation between him and Saint Bernard. Every 
 
224 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 effort was made to sweeten the declining years of the 
 far-famed knight-errant of logic, who had fought so 
 many battles who had conquered so many enemies 
 who had himself at length fallen beneath the heavy 
 hand of Rome. 
 
 At Cluny, the habits of Abelard were austere. 
 The monks treated him kindly, and, so far as his fast- 
 declining health would permit, he gave them instruc- 
 tion in philosophy and religion. " It was the super- 
 intending providence of Heaven," says* Peter the 
 Venerable in a letter to Heloise, " which sent him to 
 Cluny in the last years of his life. The present was 
 the richest which could have been made us. Words 
 will not easily express the high testimony which Cluny 
 bears to his humble and religious deportment within 
 these walls. Never did I behold abjection so lowly, 
 or abstemiousness so exemplary. By my express de- 
 sire, he held the first place in our numerous commu- 
 nity ; but in his dress he seemed the last of us all. 
 When in our public processions I saw him walking 
 near me, collected and humble, my mind was struck ; 
 so great a man, thought I, by self-abasement is thus 
 voluntarily brought low ! Contrary to the practice of 
 many, who call themselves religious men, Abelard 
 seemed to take delight in penury; and the most 
 simple and unadorned habit pleased him most. He 
 
 * The Hist, of the Lives of Abelard and Heloise, by the 
 Rev. Joseph Berrington, p. 301. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 225 
 
 looked no further. In his diet, in all that regarded 
 the care of the body, he was reserved and abstemious. 
 More than what was absolutely necessary, he never 
 sought for himself, and he condemned it in others. 
 His reading was almost incessant ; he often prayed ; 
 and he never interrupted his silence, unless when, 
 urged by the entreaties of the monks, he sometimes 
 conversed with them, or in public harangues explained 
 to them the great maxims of religion. When able, he 
 celebrated the sacred mysteries, offering to God the 
 sacrifice of the immortal Lamb ; and after his recon- 
 ciliation to the apostolic see, almost daily. In a word, 
 his mind, his tongue, his hand were ever employed in 
 the duties of religion, in developing the truths of 
 philosophy, or in the profound researches of litera- 
 ture." 
 
 The abbe of Cluny, observing that the health of 
 Abelard was rapidly declining, sent him to the priory 
 of Saint Marcellus, near Chalons, which, as well as 
 the abbey, was in Burgundy. This priory was not 
 far from the river Saone, and on account of its healthy 
 location, was regarded as the best place for the resi- 
 dence of an invalid. On the 21st of April, 1 142, Peter 
 Abelard set out upon a new journey ; that fiery soul 
 of his vanished from the earth, into the viewless 
 Eternity, went to those realms over which methinks 
 troublesome Mother Church, notwithstanding her pre- 
 
 10* 
 
226 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 tensions, has no jurisdiction. Let him who is sure 
 that he is above ambition, whom passion has never 
 caused to err, who has never laid snares for an 
 enemy, who has never awakened in the breast of 
 unsuspecting woman a love that he could not nobly 
 and purely return ; let such a one stand upon the 
 grave of Abelard and curse him ; but we must let fall 
 for him a sincere tear. Pity him we must ; and with 
 our pity mingles much admiration. 
 
 Peter the Venerable blessings on the benevolent 
 old man ! conveyed the heavy news to Heloise, in the 
 kindest manner, tempering the sad narrative with the 
 sweetest spirit of consolation. The monks of Saint 
 Marcellus would not give up the body ; but the good 
 abbe of Cluny obtained it by stealth, and took it to 
 its rightful owner, the abbess of Paraclete. 
 
 Heloise lived 2 1 years longer, and continued to 
 be the object of the admiration and the veneration of 
 her age. She died May 16, 1164. "Heloise," says 
 the cautious and learned Charles de Remusat, " is, I 
 believe, the first of women." We will at least say 
 this, that no woman mentioned in history has loved so 
 deeply as she. Every woman, before she learns to 
 distrust man, loves, like Heloise, with the whole soul ; 
 but her soul was so finely tempered, her love was so 
 profound, that distrust itself was conquered ; in her 
 oyes the real lover was continually clothed with her 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 227 
 
 own ideal ; hence her love was eternal, like her own 
 creative spirit. Procul, procul, este profani ! but let 
 those who know what a great and constant love means, 
 circle near in silence, and lay gently upon the coffin's 
 lid the mystic branch of perennial green. 
 
228 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 XXX. 
 
 RETROSPECT. 
 
 O anime affannate 
 Venite a noi parlar. 
 
 DANTE. 
 
 IN order to be perfectly fair towards Abelard, we here 
 insert the most eloquent defence of him that has ever 
 been written.* 
 
 " Once, a long time ago, lived two personages 
 much enamored of each other. Never were lovers 
 more true, more beautiful, more unfortunate, etc." 
 
 In commencing his fable, the ancient chronicler 
 seems to enter with full sails upon our subject, for he 
 sums up in few words the entire life of Heloise and 
 Abelard. His personages are forgotten, but all the 
 world knows ours. The history of their misfortunes 
 has traversed the centuries ; each generation has 
 
 * Lettres d'Abselard et Heloise, traduits sur les manuscrits 
 de la bibliotheque royal, par E. Oddoul : precedes d'un essai 
 historique, par M. et. Mine. Guizot. Edition illustre par I. Gi- 
 goux. Paris: E. Houdaile, 1839. Vol. 2, at the commence- 
 ment. In translating this eulogy, we have omitted certain 
 portions that seemed less important 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 229 
 
 hailed in their united names the glorious symbol of 
 love. In view of these noble victims poets have been 
 inspired, tender hearts have been touched; and in 
 their course, at once triumphal and melancholy, the 
 two lovers have received every homage, here a flower, 
 there a tear. 
 
 The renown which they have acquired is not 
 usurped. How, in fact, can we help feeling a vivid 
 sentiment of admiration in presence of that high love 
 which neither time nor fortune can overcome ; of that 
 ardor of passion which neither blood nor tears can 
 extinguish, which survives hope, and which, as a last 
 testimony, breaks the very portals of the tomb j pas- 
 sion so exalted and superhuman, that tradition has 
 been able to express it only with the aid of the mar- 
 vellous ? 
 
 Heloise appears to us from the first with that 
 grandeur of character which did not quit her. It is 
 an entrance upon the stage truly heroic. Scarcely 
 has she had time to act or speak, before you are aware 
 that an invincible sentiment is to govern her whole 
 life, that this sentiment is her life itself. Abe- 
 lard does not take her ; she does not believe that she 
 is giving herself; one would say that she awaits him, 
 and that she belongs to him from all eternity, that she 
 has come into the world only to acccomplish this mis- 
 sion of loving beyond all verisimilitude. The antique 
 fatality, so terrible and so majestic, is here found 
 
230 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 again, brought back to the touching proportions of 
 love. To it Heloise abandons herself with her whole 
 soul ; and that impatience which pushes on the pre- 
 destined, and which frightens us in those who must 
 arrive at crime, offers us in her person a ravishing 
 spectacle. 
 
 As soon as the star of Abelard has shone in the 
 clear sky of her youth, like the Magi who went to 
 visit Christ, she collects her richest presents, and 
 comes to lay at his feet her beauty, her love, her rep- 
 utation the gold, the incense, and the myrrh. Still 
 she finds herself too poor ! In return, she asks no- 
 thing. If she obtains a look, a sweet word, it will 
 always be for her a favor, a grace. She does not cal- 
 culate the duration of this unequal exchange : the 
 thought of protecting herself against an injurious 
 abandonment is far from her mind. For a dowry, 
 she gloriously chooses shame, and rejects with sincere 
 tears the name of wife. Eager for any self-renuncia- 
 tion, she only fears remaining below that task of affec- 
 tion which she believed she could never fulfil with all 
 the devotion of her heart. Noble queen, more adorned 
 with her own voluntary dishonor than with a royal 
 wreath ! Saintly, sublime, and unaffected nature, that 
 touches the heaven without effort in wishing to remain 
 upon the earth, that increases in grandeur by all the 
 humility which it would impose on itself ! 
 
 Still later, after her marriage, she repels the feli- 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 231 
 
 citatioDS which are addressed to her. She refuses, 
 by a magnanimous falsehood, the honor of the rank 
 which belongs to her, and which all women are jealous 
 to maintain. She obstinately denies herself entrance 
 upon the world, and consents to suffer from her uncle 
 the anger and the vengeance of his wounded pride. 
 But, far from the dark valleys where selfishness 
 thrives, where none but bitter fruits grow, her foot, 
 whose trace the angels adore, treads the heights that 
 are flooded with light, that are clothed with perennial 
 flowers ; a celestial benediction is shed upon all her 
 sacrifices, and divine felicities spring for her from all 
 the griefs which are laid upon her by the world. 
 What does she now care for the murmur of men ? A 
 look of love has spread above her head a firmament, 
 whose unalterable azure could not be obscured by 
 the smoke of their scorn. 
 
 This complete forgetfulness of self, this generous 
 abdication of her own personality, which places 
 Heloise in turn in the rank of superior souls, is 
 also a valuable index for understanding Abelard. 
 What kind of a man must he have been who, with one 
 word, irrevocably fixed the destiny of the first woman 
 of her century ? He shows himself, he calls her : 
 Here I am, Heloise responds ; and from her virginal 
 sphere she descends toward him, as upon an inclined 
 plane. If any thing can give us a just idea of his 
 merit, it is surely the violent and enduring love with 
 
232 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 which he inspired Heloise. She would not have made 
 an ordinary man her God. On his side, Abelard 
 shows himself worthy of her. The terms which he 
 uses to paint his passion prove how deeply this nohle 
 love was rooted in his soul. It seems as though one 
 could hear his voice still trembling with all the emo- 
 tions which he had previously felt. 
 
 It is known nearly in what measure they loved : 
 an account of this love should now be rendered, each 
 should be assigned his part in the common expendi- 
 ture, and the position which they kept toward each 
 other should be clearly designated. This question 
 has always provoked a singular diversity of opinion. 
 
 This disagreement of minds, sometimes the most 
 eminent, upon a point which they have examined with 
 impartiality, is nevertheless explained in a natural 
 manner ; the question is here concerning sentiment, 
 that is, concerning something which defies all rules 
 and all methods. 
 
 In fact, if the events which carry with them their 
 own demonstration, are differently judged ; if they are 
 exposed to controversy, both in the causes which pro- 
 duced them, and in the consequences with which they 
 are fraught ; how will it be with thoughts, by no 
 means translatable into acts, scarcely expressible in 
 words, and which can therefore furnish only an uncer- 
 tain datum, and a floating basis for our decisions ? 
 Destitute of the inflexibility of accomplished fact, they 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 233 
 
 come to us only under a relative mode ; instead of 
 governing our appreciation by the power which is 
 their own, they are subject to feeling. It is then that 
 opinions are liable to be different. Our criterion is 
 no longer in the nature of the thing itself, which is 
 submitted to us ; it is in ourselves. The only way 
 which remains open to us is that of interpretation, 
 and how many issues it has ! 
 
 A complete latitude is therefore reserved for the 
 personal opinion of whoever would occupy himself 
 with a question like this. Whatever may be the au- 
 thority of those who have previously resolved it, their 
 affirmation can have only the force of conjecture. 
 
 We wish to make known the intimate thought of 
 the lovers, as it has been revealed to us by an atten- 
 tive examination of their letters. This study is not 
 without interest. Heloise and Abelard will for an 
 instant live again under our eyes. 
 
 The history of their good fortune is short. Two 
 years have scarcely passed away, when the memorable 
 vengeance of Fulbert comes to open to them a career 
 at once so sad and so glorious. 
 
 By the order of Abelard, Heloise, as we know, 
 entered a convent. 
 
 This circumstance has given rise to great eulogies 
 upon Heloise, and to a grave accusation against Abe- 
 lard. He has been reproached with having been 
 incapable of enduring that Heloise should remain 
 
234 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 free, when she ceased to belong to him. Let us ex- 
 amine his conduct. 
 
 After the accident of which he was the victim, 
 what was it necessary to do ? 
 
 Despair counselled a double death. Heloise would 
 doubtless have consented to die with him ; but he 
 was a Christian, and did not wish to combat misfor- 
 tune by crime. Separation having become necessary, 
 the convent was an asylum, sure and sacred, where 
 each of them might carry a thought with which could 
 never be associated any other image than that of God. 
 In pronouncing the same religious vows, they re- 
 nounced, for heaven, their conjugal tie, which seemed 
 broken upon earth. This was still for Abelard a kind 
 of joy. 
 
 Abelard once in the convent, was it proper that 
 Heloise should remain in the world ? was it not evi- 
 dently to recoil before the vow of chastity ? was it not 
 to disgrace the first epoch of their loves, and to show 
 also that she had followed the instinct of pleasure, 
 and not the impulsion of her own heart ? The world 
 pardons the faults of a great passion, but it rightly 
 brands vulgar disorders. Would not a refusal, on the 
 part of Heloise, to embrace a religious life, have 
 seemed like a tacit invitation to the desires of a new 
 lover ? 
 
 Abelard did not admit the possibility of a fall ; 
 but in fine this possibility existed, and when this idea 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 235 
 
 alone contained for him all the torments of the nether 
 world, was it necessary to risk, on the vain scruples 
 of delicacy, the sad repose which might still remain 
 to him ? 
 
 He knew also the warning of the Scripture : He 
 who does not shun danger , will succumb to it. 
 Would he have fulfilled his whole duty towards He- 
 loise, if he had not fortified her against these tempta- 
 tions ? Abandoned to the snares of the world, she 
 either would succumb, and then it was necessary to 
 render a feebleness impossible ; or she would come 
 out from them pure, and then there was nothing better 
 to do than to render more easy for her, by the solitude 
 of the cloister and its macerations, a victory which 
 the world would so sharply dispute with her, and 
 would doubtless make more difficult for her ? The 
 honor and the interest of Heloise, the love and the 
 conscience of Abelard, all dictated the course which he 
 took all justified the use which he made of his au- 
 thority. All that one can see in it, is a wise and 
 noble foresight. There is a long distance between 
 this sentiment, and a defiance equally offensive to 
 both. 
 
 A passage in one of the letters of Heloise has 
 served as a text for articulate reproach against Abe- 
 lard. Let us not be deceived by a few words that are 
 very vivid, and escape in the transport of passion. 
 The letters of lovers have always been full of those 
 
236 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 hard accusations and those deep reproaches which we 
 must be careful not to take as serious. This rancor 
 of words, this bitter and implacable style, is often 
 found in persons who perfectly agree. In our opinion, 
 then, the words of Heloise do not prove that Abelard 
 was jealous in the bad sense of the word, nor even 
 that Heloise really thought so. Between her and 
 him, her complaint had no other meaning than an as- 
 surance of devotion, than the protestation of a love 
 ready to be frightened, and which is irritated with 
 even the appearance of doubt and suspicion. 
 
 Let us return to Heloise at the moment in which 
 she took the veil at Argenteuil. No one less than I, 
 certainly, is disposed to rob her of eulogy. But there 
 are so many things to praise in this woman, that we 
 must not stop at secondary circumstances like this. 
 I know not over-well what is meant by the liberty of 
 Heloise, nor whether the consequences of this liberty 
 accord with the love which she had for Abelard, and 
 with the nobleness of sentiment of which she gave 
 so many proofs. She could not, during the life of 
 Abelard, marry a second time. Then, by what ac- 
 commodations could she reconcile the secret advanta- 
 ges of this liberty with the observance of sworn faith, 
 with the respect which in so high a degree she bore 
 for her husband ? No, indeed, Heloise does not wish 
 for this liberty. The world must have been for her a 
 real convent ; she is already dead to the world. If 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 237 
 
 she made a sacrifice, as she herself said, by that we 
 must understand her resignation to the bodily auster- 
 ities of the religious profession things whose utility 
 was poorly enough demonstrated for her, even after 
 ten years of practice. Neither let us forget, although 
 she has not mentioned it, that the convent had 
 snatched her child from her arms, and thus had immo- 
 lated the joys of the maternal sentiment. The nat- 
 ural repugnance which she felt for the convent doubt- 
 less yielded still to this other privation. Her sacrifice 
 was, then, great and real ; but the high opinion which 
 we entertain of Heloise forces us to believe that it 
 would not be at all consistent with that species of 
 suicide, the idea of which is gratuitously attributed 
 to her. 
 
 That which we love from the first is her obedience 
 to her husband, that respectful and absolute confidence 
 of the centurion, which asks no reason, and for which 
 one word is sufficient : Do this, says Abelard, and she 
 does it. 
 
 Formerly, in order to escape marriage, she could 
 oppose him with her reasonings, her prayers, and her 
 tears : resistance was then as great a proof of love as 
 submission itself: now, the least hesitation would be 
 a revolt and a crime, for she would inflict a mortal 
 wound upon Abelard. He has said : Go, and she 
 goes. Should the fiery gulfs of the earth be opened 
 beneath her feet, still she will go. 
 
238 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 Let us forget what was quite out of the ordinary 
 course in the conversion of Heloise. Other women 
 before, other women since, have accepted or sub 
 mitted to the same conditions of life, whose privation 
 would not have been remarked without the celebrity 
 of the pleasures of which they were the consequence. 
 The element of our admiration is not, then, in a fact 
 whose accomplishment must be referred to its neces- 
 sity ; we find it higher, in the thoughts with which 
 Heloise accompanies it. The more Abelard is 
 alarmed on account of his misfortune, the more she 
 wishes to reassure him by irrefragable proofs of devo- 
 tion. The more the horizon presents to the eyes of 
 Abelard sombre tints, the more does she wish to 
 enrich it with ideal hues, the more does she wish to 
 display there unlooked-for splendors. Under the 
 complaint of Cornelia appears to us the solemn en- 
 gagement which she took in her own heart ; and we 
 see that she has already fulfilled it during a period 
 of ten years with religious fidelity, when she expresses 
 it in her second letter, in words which those who have 
 read them will never forget : 
 
 " Would that I might do penance sufficient for 
 this crime, and that the length of my expiations 
 might balance in some sort the pains of your punish- 
 ment ! What you have suffered for a moment in 
 body, I would suffer all my life in the contrition of 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 239 
 
 my soul : at least, after this satisfaction, if any one 
 can still complain, it will be God, not you." 
 
 In view of such a sentiment, does it not seem 
 that Love himself has passed before us, and that 
 these words are a virtue gone out from the borders of 
 his divine garment ? We must here cry out with the 
 poet : 
 
 glorious trial of exceeding love, 
 Illustrious evidence, example high I 
 
 Magnanimity, its radiant in crown, has not a brighter 
 jewel. 
 
 Moreover, testimonies of this nature are not rare 
 in the extraordinary love of Heloise and Abelard. 
 
 The unanimous opinion of contemporaries had so 
 well established its glory, that it was traditionally 
 maintained in all its splendor nearly five hundred 
 years. The monument which alone could consolidate 
 it, and render it imperishable, did not begin to be 
 erected till 1616, under the hands of d'Amboise. 
 He collected the letters of the two lovers, buried 
 until then in some rare manuscripts of the thirteenth 
 century, and thus restored to us the testament of 
 their love and of their genius. 
 
 Unfortunately we have a deficiency to establish. 
 A part of their correspondence is wanting to us. 
 Those letters, written al tempo dei dubbiosi desiri, 
 at the time when each word is a hymn ; when the 
 
240 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 heart is so light in the breast, that it seems borne in 
 the hand of an angel ; when the ear is filled with 
 sweet murmurs, and the soul with unknown rap- 
 tures ; when the eyes, as far as their vision reaches, 
 every where meet none but pleasing views ; when the 
 virginal crowd of hopes can admire their own beauty 
 in a limpid memory ; when memory itself is a hope ; 
 when, in the chalice of the infinite, our intoxicated 
 lips quaff a potion of flame which never slakes the 
 spirit's thirst ; when the thought, ever the same, 
 with which the mind is nourished, seems to us a wor- 
 ship rendered to God, and each breath from the bosom 
 a vapor of incense which ascends to him ; those let- 
 ters, like a charming echo in which all the voices of 
 joy are mingled, that of the past which is the most 
 dreamy, that of the present which is the most loved 
 and the most tender, and that of the future which 
 unites both the others ; those letters we do not pos- 
 sess. 
 
 Two years have disappeared like a world en- 
 gulfed ; like an Atlantis sunk in the midst of the 
 waves, with its fragrant villas, its verdant asylums 
 sacred to Pales, its crowns of flowers plundered of 
 their leaves upon the festive table. Who shall 
 return to us the riches of those two vessels, whose 
 sails were filled with sweet sighs, which were laden 
 with ravishing messages, and which have not been 
 able to land upon the shore of posterity ! Irrepara- 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 241 
 
 ble loss ! Those two years left no traces, gracious 
 sisters, who took for themselves all the nuptial joys, 
 who fell asleep in the tomb by wrapping, like Polyx- 
 ena, the folds of their garment around their divine 
 beauty, and whom their sisters have continually wept ! 
 
 At an epoch wholly warmed with the divine fires 
 of enthusiasm, what immortal hues did not love 
 assume under the hand of Heloise and Abelard ! 
 Prosperity is the true domain of love. That it may 
 mount its car and rejoice the heavens with its pres- 
 ence, it must have its crown of luminous rays, its 
 orient must be sown with roses, its zenith must be of 
 fluid gold, and it must be clothed with a crimson robe 
 at its setting. We have the god without his attri- 
 butes. His altar is saddened by the fillets conse- 
 crated to his remains, and by the sombre branches of 
 the cypress. 
 
 However, if of those two correspondences, pro- 
 duced at such different times, and under such differ- 
 ent impressions, one was to be lost, we think that the 
 more precious remains to us. The first would have 
 charmed our eyes with sweet pictures, would have 
 deliciously recounted to us, 
 
 " Quanti dolci pensier, quanto disio 
 Men6 costoro al doloroso passo ;" 
 
 and, without doubt, instead of entering hastily upon 
 
 that life so arid and so wasted by suffering, it would 
 11 
 
242 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 have been sweet for us to traverse the fresh shades 
 of their short felicities. But the second appears far 
 more important in the eyes of most. The secret of 
 their hearts is in this, perhaps, more distinctly re- 
 vealed. 
 
 Is it not also true that continued prosperity can 
 interest us very little, can affect us scarcely at all ? 
 Suffering attracts us more, seems nearer to our na- 
 ture, and humanity is mostly found in mournful vicis- 
 situdes. Always favored by circumstances, the love 
 of Heloise would have occupied her whole life ; she 
 would have remained enveloped in the mysterious 
 joys of the connubial state and in the tranquil sweets 
 of maternity. Like so many other females, she 
 would have borne with her to the tomb the secret of 
 that divine force which was given her, and of that ad- 
 mirable sentiment which believes all, hopes all, endures 
 ally suffers all. A misfortune has revealed to us 
 that secret, and that misfortune has made us admire 
 all the treasures concealed in her soul. She has been 
 made a queen by a crown of thorns. 
 
 Sad and bitter royalty ! Admiration too dearly 
 purchased ! It is under the sackcloth of the nun that 
 we find the ardent and passionate woman ; it is only 
 by her tears that we can judge of the graces of her 
 smile. It was necessary that the vase should be 
 broken that we might be permitted to breathe its 
 celestial perfume. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 243 
 
 Heloise does not go to seek consolation in the 
 monastic life. No healing plant will grow for her in 
 the barren earth of the cloister, nor in the vase of 
 pious mortifications. For her there are but two 
 events in her life, the day when she knows that she 
 is loved by Abelard, and the day when she loses 
 him. All the rest is effaced for her eyes in a night 
 profound. Her tears at the moment of pronouncing 
 the religious vows are not given to fear, but to regret. 
 Half her soul is lost, and the future has no longer for 
 her either vague terrors or vague promises. Her 
 past days are accursed, accursed are her days to 
 come ; an unbroken grief equally covers them with 
 its black wings. Let her enter, then, with indiffer- 
 ence into those sad solitudes where nothing but sobs 
 is heard from earth, nothing but menaces from hea- 
 ven ; into that death which remembers life ! 
 
 Heloise is not stoical ; neither is the mysticism of 
 hope a pillow which can put to sleep her chagrins ; 
 there is no more repose for her. What matters it 
 that the wounded fawn has escaped to its retreat, if it 
 carries with it the fatal dart ? With the holy words 
 of the liturgy, her mouth, in spite of her, will mingle 
 words profane. All illusions will hover before her 
 eyes, and touch her with their wings of flame. By 
 day, during the solemnity of the sacrifices, fascinated 
 by an interior contemplation, her soul will wander 
 into the world of sweet reveries ; hearts that leap 
 
244 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 with joy, looks that cannot be broken off, words 
 half uttered, whose meaning is for heaven, lips that 
 seek each other, sighs that are mingled, eternity 
 floating between two moments, delicious disquiet, at 
 the foundation of which throbs 'and moans an infinite 
 desire, all the dreams that issue from the ivory gate, 
 will come to surround her with their magic circle, and 
 to reconstruct for her eyes the edifice of her vanished 
 joys. The night, continuing her dream, and reviving 
 the hours that passed too quickly away, will bring 
 back their light phantoms to seize her soul, and rock 
 it in their velvety arms; to repeat sweetly in her ear 
 the acclamations of the crowd, and the popular 
 triumphs of her lover, and also the sound of his foot- 
 step, as when he ascended the winding stairs of her 
 house on the banks of the Seine, and the longed-for 
 accents of his voice. 
 
 But, in the morning, the spectre of widowhood is 
 there awaiting her awakening, to deposit each day upon 
 her lips a bitterer dreg, in her eyes a more scalding 
 tear, in her heart a more painful regret, and upon her 
 face a more hopeless pallor. 
 
 Ten years of prayer, of abstinence, and of sleepless- 
 ness weighed upon that fiery nature without dampening 
 its ardor. In vain the walls of the cloister hung over 
 her with their gloomy shades ; in vain they enveloped 
 her with their sepulchral influences ; in vain they gath- 
 ered around her the folds of an anticipated shroud, 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 245 
 
 the impulse and the flame still survived under the sack- 
 cloth. Under the vaults of the convent she breathes 
 the ardent atmosphere of days that are no more. She 
 passes and repasses there, as it were under the magni- 
 ficent arches of an enchanted palace. There every 
 object has received something from her own soul, every 
 echo is filled with well-known voices that welcome her, 
 that retain her. A deposed queen, she marches again 
 into her kingdom, and the triumphant charm replaces 
 her a moment upon the throne she lost. 
 
 The deception is not long. Violently recalled to 
 the actual world, the recluse finds herself face to face 
 with the deplorable causes of her misfortune ; then 
 she is soured and vexed, she accuses men and destiny, 
 and, swelling the voice of her grief to the tone of au- 
 dacious murmurs, she would, like Job, lay her request 
 at the feet of the Eternal, and contest the matter with 
 him. 
 
 Why has she been so hardly chastised ? Why is 
 she widowed ? Ah ! our dove was scarcely made for 
 the monastic languors of which Colardeau speaks, and 
 how different was her vocation ! If you doubt it, 
 look at what she utters. The vitality of youth is 
 poured upon those breathing and native pages, where 
 memory is prodigal of its honey and its gall. Her 
 thought vibrates with all the thrills of the flesh, her 
 speech has a sex ; and that shivering with which she 
 is electrified, and which runs over her from head to 
 
246 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 foot, doubtless has not its origin in the cloister. The 
 pulsations of her blood can still be counted upon the 
 paper which she touched. (Ah ! Fulbert, what have 
 you done ?) Such passages are only a paraphrase of 
 the charming Song of Solomon. 
 
 But what a profound and pure sentiment there is 
 under this plastic form of her love ! How does it 
 breathe over the dust of this earth a divine breath, 
 which penetrates and ennobles it ! If her pen is sister 
 to the pencil of Rubens, we should still know not how 
 to forget its relationship with that of Raphael. From 
 those half-formed thoughts, whose bosom one sees 
 rising and trembling like an appeal of voluptuousness, 
 escapes an irradiation of modesty which covers and 
 protects them, like that golden cloud which, upon 
 Mount Ida, screened from the eyes of the other divini- 
 ties the loves of the powerful mother of Olympus. 
 
 What delicacy also, what discretion, what respect, 
 united with the most abandoned passion ! If any 
 word seems to go beyond the sacred limit which her 
 heart prescribes to itself, if any complaint tempered 
 in the fire of her sorrow seems to preserve its sharp- 
 ness, that sorrow stops short, and is forgotten, a 
 single sentiment remains the fear of having betrayed 
 her love by an expression too little guarded. As soon 
 as she returns upon herself by a recantation in those 
 adorable circuits ; behold her wholly occupied in ex- 
 plaining herself, and her soul grounds itself upon in- 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 247 
 
 describable endearments in order to retrieve an error 
 that she has never committed. 
 
 It is not in vain that we have loved the rare sub 
 mission of Heloise. She perseveres to the end, with- 
 out ever being wearied. When we see her weeping, 
 groaning, heaping reproaches upon imprecations, we 
 ask ourselves, where will the murmuring wave of her 
 anger subside ? One word from Abelard, and all is 
 calm. From the height of all that storm, she descends 
 in the timid silence of obedience, and the rage of her 
 rebellion is calmed, even to the humble posture of 
 supplication: " I will be silent pardon me." 
 
 Who could think that such a woman may have 
 been paid with ingratitude ? It is, however, what has 
 been pretended. Most have been severe towards 
 Abelard. It has been said that on his part the seduc- 
 tion of Heloise was a fault that had not even love for 
 an excuse, that it was done coldly, with deliberate 
 purpose, as a pastime, that he deceived the confidence 
 of Fulbert. There has been established between the 
 expressions of the spouses a sorry parallel for Abelard. 
 He has been treated as a loose pedant, a hard and 
 cold man, as a brute, in every way unworthy of the 
 love so vivid, so noble, so disinterested, of Heloise. 
 The charge is grave, for it has been made in history, 
 which increases the importance of every thing it 
 touches, and by hands which seem to partake with 
 history this privilege. We hasten to shun this charge 
 
248 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 as a testimony that it does not belong to us to com- 
 bat, we shall be more at our ease with the opinion 
 which it represents. 
 
 Since Boyle, it has been a habit among those 
 who have spoken of Abelard to equip against his love 
 a small reasoning, to put in the lists some phrases arnf- 
 ed from head to foot, and to give them full rein against 
 that unfortunate, who did not sufficiently love his 
 wife. I like this chivalrous exaltation, and this 
 harsh demand in favor of Heloise. We are happy 
 to find so many people disposed to do better than Ab- 
 elard. Without doubt, it is well to break a lance in 
 favor of beauty, the part is brilliant to play in France, 
 and such passages at arms will always be applaud- 
 ed; but at the moment when the champions lower 
 the visier, and bending upon the saddle-bows with 
 lance in rest, await only the signal for combat .... 
 hold, knights ! you are tilting against justice and 
 truth ; your adversary also bears the colors of your 
 own lady ; would you then destroy her lover out of 
 gallantry for her ? Your valor is likely to frighten 
 Heloise; she is not the one, I fear indeed, who has 
 put on for you your spurs. 
 
 What a fine history has been spoiled ! How has 
 that delicious legend been defloured, by making the 
 man a roue, and the woman a duped mistress ! 
 
 These are errors not very dangerous, it is true, 
 nevertheless, should they have no other inconvenience 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 249 
 
 than to mar the pleasures of our mind, they ought to 
 be removed. Say what you will of Abelard ; that he 
 knew not the Greek, nor the sense of the law Quin- 
 que Pedibus, pierce him in default of his theology, 
 wound his dialectics, bury to the hilt the sword of your 
 criticism in the softness of his character it is the side 
 poorly defended ; refuse him every other merit and 
 every other glory, but at least do not rob him of 
 his love for Heloise, do not make of him an incarnate 
 syllogism ; let the heart of the man throb beneath the 
 cuirass of the philosopher. 
 
 The language of Abelard seems to us at once fit- 
 ting and tender. He knows the ravage caused by the 
 Letter to a friend, which fell into the hands of Helo- 
 ise. Heloise is not strong, as she herself confesses ; 
 if he be a moment feeble, she is lost. See also with 
 what nobleness and what dignity he comes to heraid ! 
 How the exhortations of piety borrow in his mouth the 
 insinuating charm and the delicate persuasives of love ! 
 He has judged her situation, an end has been made 
 of earthly joys. But if there is no more hope, there 
 is still fear. Heloise looks to him ; she questions him 
 as to his attitude ; at the least sign of fainting on his 
 part, she is ready to fall into blasphemy. Let the 
 vulture tear his heart, it matters little, his face must 
 show no signs of his grief. So he is calm ; at least 
 he forces himself to appear so. His courage is as 
 
 great as his misfortune. 
 11* 
 
250 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 Without doubt, to consider only the ascetic exter- 
 nals of his style, we might be disposed to take the 
 letters of Abelard for sermons ; and it may be said 
 that such is not the language of love in the ordinary 
 conditions of life. But here every thing is out of the 
 common course. In order to judge his letters rightly, 
 we must place ourselves at the right point of view. 
 A man broken by every misfortune, wounded in his 
 person and in his affections ; betrayed, calumniated, 
 persecuted, scarcely guarding his life against the 
 poison of his enemies and the poniards of his foes ; 
 bowed with infirmities, overcome by excess of labor 
 and austerities of every kind ; macerated in body and 
 soul, calling death as a benefit which can alone put an 
 end to his intolerable punishments, such is the man 
 who writes to Heloise after long years of separation ; 
 and if he remembers his love for her, it lives also in 
 company with another thought, 
 
 One fatal remembrance one sorrow that throws 
 Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes 
 To which life nothing darker nor brighter can bring, 
 For which joy hath no balm, and affliction no sting. 
 
 But must we expect from Abelard letters like 
 those which Mirabeau wrote to Sophie ? Did the 
 cell of the abbe of St. Gildas conceal hopes like 
 those which the tower of Vincennes concealed ? If 
 these men both polluted the sacred ground of affran- 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 251 
 
 chisement, were they not widely separated when they 
 were writing, one to her who had been his wife, the 
 other to her who was his enamored still ? Shall we 
 ask from Abelard the naive transport of a page, or 
 the bucolic elegies of a swain ? 
 
 Abelard has not ceased to love Heloise ; on the 
 contrary, the admiration which he feels for a courage 
 already long proved, his respect for a life devoted to 
 the accomplishment of the most rigorous practices, 
 his gratitude for sacrifices so generously accepted, his 
 regrets even in view of so beautiful an existence, 
 broken like a flower by his hands, all increases his 
 love, elevates and confirms it. But it is no longer 
 altogether a worldly love. The position of the par- 
 ties is an exception. 
 
 Love is no longer free, it must give up its allure- 
 ments to imperative exigences. Its form is pre- 
 scribed. Abelard will study it in the religious obli- 
 gations which are imposed on them, in the care of the 
 heart which he wishes to heal, in the effects which he 
 ought to produce upon a soul in grief, and still sick 
 with memories. It is there that he must find her ; 
 she will have a veil after the manner of widows. She 
 will be melancholy ; but in that graceful and lan- 
 guishing shade, in the morbidness of her emotions, it 
 will be easy to guess how strong and luxuriant was 
 the life with which the body was formerly animated. 
 
 By a fatal compromise with the duties of their 
 
252 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 habit, will the troubled tide of impenitent memories 
 mingle with the lustral waters of religion ? A 
 Catholic priest, on the guard against himself, not 
 daring to give way to the overflowing of an affection 
 which he fears at present like a crime, he observes 
 himself, he fears the dangerous contagion of too vivid 
 a word, and the rupture of a wound scarcely healed ; 
 he puts all the tenderness of the husband under the 
 disguise of Christian symbols and of sacred texts. 
 
 If perchance his soul, softening at a memory too 
 touching, lets escape the cry of its grief, all in a 
 fright, he changes the past instantly, he implores in 
 his turn, he appeals to the generosity of Heloise, to 
 her love and her pity ; he asks her pardon for the 
 frightful torture which he would experience in seeing 
 her so unworthily vanquished ; and the courage which 
 she did not possess for herself, she will find, since 
 Abelard has need of it. 
 
 He speaks to her of his own perils, but it is for 
 the purpose of giving a change to that grief which, 
 always falling back upon itself, frets itself, and is in- 
 creased without relaxation ; it is for the purpose of 
 turning to the future that attention which is torn 
 with the memory of the past ; the past is the only 
 enemy which it is necessary to vanquish. He risks 
 nothing in saddening the soul of Heloise with the sen- 
 timent of dangers that threaten him ; he uses fear as 
 an auxiliary, as a powerful diversion from despair. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 253 
 
 Inasmuch as he makes her think about him more 
 than about herself, he profits by the victory ; he no 
 longer lets her turn her eyes towards an epoch appa- 
 rently cursed with the malediction of Heaven. He 
 breaks every tie that still binds her to earth ; he en- 
 courages her to sustain herself on the lofty and serene 
 heights of Christianity, and by a touching artifice, 
 placing himself at the feet of God, he calls upon her 
 to follow him, and extends to her his arms. He is 
 sure of making her come to him. He invites her to 
 new nuptials in Christ, and the sweet creature yields 
 to this other love, although she likes the old better. 
 It shall never be said that she once disobeyed him. 
 
 Do not take his numerous theological dissertations 
 for works of supererogation, nor his numerous cita- 
 tions of Scripture as useless rhapsodies ; for he thus 
 traces his journey towards heaven; he smooths all 
 obstacles, he strews his way with green branches and 
 with various flowers from the holy books ; he mar- 
 shals in an ascending series along his route the noble 
 company of Apostles and Fathers of the Church, who 
 encourage her with voice and gesture, who bless her, 
 on the way, with their venerable hands, who sustain 
 her, console her, fortify her, and accompany her with 
 their benedictions. Moreover, does he not himself 
 journey with her ? 
 
 No ! Abelard is not for Heloise a cold pedagogue. 
 From that tree of science whose fruits he would have 
 
254 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 her taste, there silently distils a manna of tenderness 
 that nourishes her courage. No ! he is not a rigid 
 monk, who lets fall from his lips nothing but anthemas. 
 He knows how to win her to the austere contempla- 
 tions of duty by words that animate her dying hope, 
 that give to that poor eager soul its food of love. 
 
 Having once placed her upon the ground of rea- 
 son, he appeals to her on every side. On the side of 
 her sense of justice : " Would she oppose the evident 
 will of Heaven ?" On the side of her pride : " Pom- 
 pey is living, but his fortune has perished. Did Cor- 
 nelia, then, love what she has lost ?" On the side of 
 her conscience and her responsibility : " She is an 
 abbess, she also has charge of souls." He knows that 
 in a soul as great as that of Heloise, justice, dignity, 
 conscience, are not vain words; he knows that a 
 spirit as vigorous as hers always acts in virtue of a 
 conviction, of the head or heart, of reason or senti- 
 ment, and because he believes in truth. This is the 
 reason why he discusses with her, why he instructs 
 her in faith, why he lavishes upon her without mea- 
 sure all the lessons of resignation. 
 
 The task is difficult. Like the mother of young 
 Arthur, Heloise is entrenched in her own grief. She 
 has ended by loving it and complaining of it. She is 
 ingenious in tormenting herself, and in creating new 
 subjects for tears. Abelard is obliged to watch her 
 with the greatest attention. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 255 
 
 He forgets nothing, not a question remains unan- 
 swered, each word is considered ; he does not stop 
 there ; he extends and developes a sentiment scarcely 
 expressed in the letter of Heloise; an objection is 
 attacked and demolished ere it is raised. He searches 
 to the bottom of her heart, and if any bitter doubts 
 conceal there their serpent heads, he stifles them; 
 he chases as it were from a temple all the thoughts 
 which might profane with their presence the majesty 
 of divine love ; his prayer is imperative, and he knows 
 how to make his authority obeyed. 
 
 We see in that something else than indifference, 
 something else than a dry division and sub-division, 
 something else than a poor return for the passion of 
 Heloise. The love of a lover, the love of a master, 
 the love of a brother in Christ, the love of beauty, 
 of genius, of the soul, all that, makes only a single 
 love in the heart of Abelard. He loves Heloise in 
 the past, in the present, in all time ; and we applaud 
 him with a tenderness mingled with admiration, 
 when, feeling that earth is wanting to him, he takes 
 her in his apostolic arms to carry her with him to 
 heaven. 
 
 By what false preoccupation, by what untimely 
 exigence, has Abelard been accused of coldness ! It 
 has been forgotten that he is older than Heloise, and 
 that his infirmities double the weight of his years. 
 All the sentiments expressed in his letters are con- 
 
256 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 formed to his situation. We find in them neither 
 the ardor of youth nor the transport so justly admired 
 in those of Heloise, for they are there in their place ; 
 but that tender and profound pity, that complaisant 
 and exhaustless effusion, that vigilant guard which 
 he keeps over her, those paternal efforts of a man 
 who suppresses his own grief in order to calm that of 
 an adored child which pierces his soul with its cries, 
 is all that so icy ? Is it not rather indicative of 
 the truest, the noblest, the most touching love ? 
 
 With Heloise his words are the veil and not the 
 expression of his love. In our turn, we know the 
 words by the meaning ; we search for the caressing 
 inflections of thought rather than for those of speech. 
 
 If we observe Abelard with care, instead of accus- 
 ing him of indifference, we shall be astonished at the 
 progress of his passion, the catastrophe which might 
 have destroyed it only served to inflame it. At that 
 exile of happiness he gives hospitality in his soul to 
 larger loves. He attracts his spouse to embraces 
 more intimate, purer, ever enduring. 
 
 But Heloise has seen heavens so deep and so 
 radiant, that she knows not how to prefer those that 
 are proposed. 
 
 Pressed on all sides, she takes refuge in his love 
 for her, as in an asylum. Love is her stronghold, it 
 suffices for her defence. With a single word she dis- 
 concerts the already triumphant calculations of that 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 257 
 
 Christian logic : " It is not God, it is you that I 
 wish to please." And every thing is again put in 
 question. It is by her very love that she must be 
 conquered. Abelard is obliged to say to her : " I 
 make common cause with God, love him therefore." 
 
 She capitulates, but she wishes only a small 
 corner of paradise, for she fears to be pleased with 
 any thing that is not Abelard, and rejects even celes- 
 tial happiness as a thought unfaithful to him. 
 
 One more circumstance will justify in our eyes 
 the order of ideas invariably followed in his corres- 
 pondence by Abelard. He visited the Paraclete 
 several times ; he there found Heloise ; he found 
 there Lucie, his dear mother, as he calls her. It was 
 in the presence of these that his heart laid aside the 
 burden of evil days and overwhelming thoughts. 
 What overflowings of soul, what delicate endearments 
 must not those meetings have afforded ! A sad joy, 
 a sentiment full of melancholy pleasure, extinguished 
 for Heloise the two brilliant torches of the past, and 
 her decayed regrets exacted from Abelard only a 
 small effort of courage. Absence brought back for 
 her the malady ; to the need of curing it must be re- 
 ferred the sublime firmness from which he never de- 
 parted in his letters. 
 
 It is then that he speaks to her of immortality, 
 of an imperishable union in the bosom of God ; and 
 he does it with an elevation of language, an authority 
 
258 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 of conviction, a power of desire, which will show to 
 all ages his genius, his faith, his love. In pressing 
 to his heart his mother and his wife, he had felt the 
 mysterious impulses of a life that cannot end, the 
 revelation of a world where the embracing itself must 
 be renewed. Having returned to St. Gildas, he 
 wrote with a divine energy ; for he had read in their 
 eyes the assurance of a love that is stronger than 
 death, and is in possession of eternity. 
 
 Finally, when his faith is attacked, when the hur- 
 ricane sounds, when the winds rage, when the thun- 
 derbolts of a new council hang over his new heresy, 
 his first thought is for Heloise, his first care is to re- 
 assure her. He feels that the moment has come for 
 drawing near to her. It is not only the brother in 
 Christ who addresses his sister in the same Christ ; 
 it is the husband who speaks to his wife. His voice 
 finds again the familiar tenderness of ancient days. 
 He comes to rest his head once more upon the heart 
 that has loved him so much. 
 
 We think that, according to the disposition of 
 readers, the letters of Abelard will always produce 
 two very different impressions. We may compare 
 these letters to a prism which, at a distance, conceals 
 all the splendors of the light contained in its bosom, 
 but, seen near by, the crystal opens its precious casket, 
 illumines with its hues, and spreads over all things 
 flaming robes of gold, of azure and of crimson. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 259 
 
 The thought of Abelard always takes an ade- 
 quate form, its gravity is never dishonored by a 
 vain ornament of words. Like that of every poet, 
 his discourse flows in measure ; but it is firm, sober, 
 tranquil, free from every terrestrial agitation. 
 
 But love has no prescribed language. Love trans- 
 figures every thing. The most indifferent words may 
 become with it magnetic currents in which two souls 
 meet, ways whereby the eye can follow them, 
 bridges made of a single hair, over which they au- 
 daciously run without ever deviating. 
 
 If one is fortunate enough to have a hallucination 
 of the heart (qui amant sibi somnia Jingunt), then 
 that dead text becomes animated, the blood and the 
 life circulate in the veins just now numb and color- 
 less ; you feel their warm breath, your soul is flooded 
 with balm, and, by a marvel like those of history and 
 fiction, you see the rocky words softened, the rough 
 shell broken, and you can bathe your hands in fresh 
 waters, and let your ravished eyes wander over unex- 
 pected beauties. 
 
 These love-letters purified by Catholic incense, 
 will remind you of the ancient Spanish toils, under 
 which Zurbaran seems to gather all the shades and 
 all the melancholies of earth, in order to console them 
 from on high by a luxurious hope, and by the splen- 
 dors of beatitude. Grod is not there, although we see 
 only him ; man is alone there, though we see him not. 
 
260 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 Over those pages, so nobly refused for the expression 
 of human suffering, rolls invisible tears. All the 
 branches of that myrtle, when you touch them, sigh 
 or groan. Stop before the gladiator, after he has 
 been overcome in the arena. Examine his face, 
 not a muscle is contracted ; you listen at his mouth 
 for a complaint, an imprecation, a word which will be 
 the epopee of all his griefs, the word does not 
 come ; you hold your breath ; the patient is about to 
 die, he is dead you have heard nothing. 
 
 And nevertheless, you find that all has not been 
 told. 
 
 A truth until then unperceived, has just been 
 revealed to you. The calmness of the man appears 
 to you more terrible than a tempest, and it is not 
 without fright that you contemplate that impassive 
 exterior, when you see within him bis heart in agony, 
 his hopes wounded to death until the last, and his 
 mind in tears, all filled with a dear image, and the 
 rending agonies of an eternal adieu. 
 
 Heloise and Abelard entered upon life through 
 high and brilliant portals, love and glory ; their 
 route was accursed ; and that no consecration might 
 be wanting to them, to that of misfortune is added 
 that of sanctity. 
 
 We draw near them with a lively and eager curi- 
 osity ; we would see the palpitation of the heart that 
 crucifies itself, hear what report a love so celebrated 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 261 
 
 made in its own time, and understand the spirit that 
 had the power to vivify the tomb. But when we 
 come in contact with those high souls, that enter into 
 relation with us only on those sides by which we are 
 elevated and ennobled, we feel suddenly penetrated 
 with respect. In presence of those embalmed remains 
 of a religious memory and an eternal hope, it seems 
 that the life of love and genius, which animated them 
 in times gone by, comes to us in a harmonious wail 
 and in tears divine. We find in those two great 
 initiates of sorrow a striking image of humanity, with 
 its virtues elevated to heroism, and its weaknesses 
 sometimes as admirable as its virtues. 
 
262 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 "DUST TO DUST." 
 
 POSTERITY, for the most part, is careful to preserve 
 the remains, as well as the memory, of the noble 
 dead. 
 
 Abelard and Heloise were at first buried in the 
 same crypt. Three centuries rolled away ere any one 
 thought of separating the two lovers, who had been 
 so closely united in life, whom their last will had 
 united in death.* Nevertheless, in 1497, on account of 
 a ridiculous scruple, their bones were put in two dif- 
 ferent tombs which were placed on opposite sides of 
 the choir in the great chapel of the abbey. They re- 
 mained there about two centuries, when Marie de la 
 Rochefoucauld had them placed, in 1630, in the chapel 
 of the Trinity. 
 
 One hundred and thirty-six years afterwards, Ma- 
 rie de Roucy de la Rochefoucauld conceived the idea, 
 at once pious and philosophic, of erecting a new mon- 
 ument to the memory of the two lovers, one of whom 
 
 * Letters of Abelard and Heloise, traduits sur les manu- 
 Brit9 de la Bibliotheque Royal, par R Oddoul: precede'es 
 d'un essay Historique, par M. et Me. Guizot, voL 1, p. cviii 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 263 
 
 had been the founder and the other the first abbess of 
 Paraclete. In 1766, she wrote to the Academic des 
 Inscriptions, asking for an epitaph with which to 
 adorn the tomb of Abelard and Heloise. Madame 
 de Roucy de la Rochefoucauld, niece of the former, 
 and the last abbess of Paraclete, caused the following 
 epitaph to be engraved on their common tomb : 
 
 HIO, 
 SUB KODEM MABMORE, JAOENT, 
 
 HUJU8 MONASTERII 
 
 OONDITOR, PETRU8 AB^LARDUS, 
 
 ET ABBATIS8A PRIMA, HELOISA, 
 
 OLIM 8TUDIIS, INGENIO, AMORE, INFAUSTIS NUPTIIS, 
 
 ET POENITENTIA, 
 NUNO AETEBNO, QUOD 8PERAMU8, FELICITATE, 
 
 CONJUNOTI. 
 
 PETRUS OBIIT XX PRIMA APRILIS MOXLII, 
 HELOISA, XVn MAU MOLXIII. 
 
 HERE, 
 UNDER THE SAME STONE, REPOSE, 
 
 OF THIS MONASTERY 
 
 THE FOUNDER, PETER ABELARD, 
 
 AND THE FIRST ABBESS, HELOISE, 
 
 HERETOFORE IN STUDY, GENIUS, LOVE, INAUSPICIOUS 
 
 MARRIAGE AND REPENTANCE, 
 NOW, AS WE HOPE, IN ETERNAL HAPPINESS, 
 
 UNITED. 
 
 PETER DIED APRIL XXI, MCXLII. 
 HELOISE, MAY XVII, MOLXIII. 
 
264 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 All the convents in France were destroyed by a 
 decree of 1 792. The Paraclete was included in their 
 number, but the authorities of Nogent made an ex- 
 ception in favor of the two lovers. The bones of 
 Abelard and Heloise were taken from their resting- 
 place with great ceremony, in the presence of the cure 
 of the parish and the notables of the place. A magnifi- 
 cent procession conducted their lifeless remains to the 
 church, where a discourse was pronounced, and fune- 
 ral hymns were sung. Their coffin, in which their 
 bones were separated by a partition of lead, were de- 
 posited in a vault of the Chapel of St. Ledger. 
 
 Under the ministry of a Lucien Bonaparte, it was 
 ordered, in 1800, that the united remains of the two 
 celebrated lovers should be removed to tbejardin du 
 Muscc Fran$ais, where M. Alexander Lenoir, the 
 founder of that establishment, had a very elegant 
 sepulchral chapel constructed for them, out of the 
 best remnants of Paraclete and of the abbey of St. 
 Denis. 
 
 In 1815, the government ceded to the Mont-de- 
 Piete a large portion of the ground first assigned to 
 the Musee Fran^ais, and, consequently, it was neces- 
 sary to remove the new monument of the lovers, ever 
 united, never at rest ! They were deposited for a 
 season in the third court of that national establish- 
 ment. 
 
 In 1817, their ashes were removed to the ceme- 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 265 
 
 tery of Mont Louis, in one of the halls of the ancient 
 house of Pere Lachaise, which served them as an asy- 
 lum about five months. On the sixth of November, 
 the same year, they were placed, in presence of the 
 commissary of police, in the cemetery of Pere La- 
 chaise. Lovers may there find their place of sojourn 
 by inquiring for the chapelle sepulcrale d j Heloise et 
 d'Abailard. 
 
 M. Lenoir says, speaking of Heloise : " The in- 
 spection of the bones of her body, which we have ex- 
 amined with care, has convinced us that she was, like 
 Abelard, of large stature, and finely proportioned. 
 
 " I have remarked, as well as M. Delaunay, in re- 
 gard to the stature of Abelard, that his bones are 
 strong and very large. The head of Heloise is finely 
 proportioned; the forehead, smoothly formed, well 
 rounded, and in harmony with the other parts of the 
 face, still expresses perfect beauty. This head, which 
 was so well organized, has been moulded under my 
 own eyes for the execution of the bust of Heloise, 
 which has been modelled by M. de Seine." 
 
 We must now leave thee, noble Heloise; and, 
 somehow, the very thought that we have completed 
 our pilgrimage with thee, gives us an indescribable 
 heaviness of heart. Willingly would we journey to 
 the ends of the earth, if we could learn some magic 
 art, by which to summon thee in living reality before 
 
 us just as imagination now pictures thee. Thy pres- 
 12 
 
266 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 ence is queenly, thy brow is like that given by 
 sculptors of old to the Goddess of Wisdom ; thy voice 
 is softly tremulous and all-informed with melody ; the 
 " nectared sweets " of sentiment flow from thy tongue ; 
 the "honey dews of thought" distil from thy quivering 
 lips, and in thy deep clear eyes so much is seen that 
 speech cannot reveal. Remain with us for ever. Alas ! 
 we are clasping a phantom, and before us just retri- 
 bution ! there is nothing but a skull, with its tooth- 
 less, bony jaws, with its bottomless eye-sockets instead 
 of eyes and that, too, is a phantom ! 
 
 Bones may last for a season, but dust will not be 
 cheated out of its kindred dust. 
 
 My brother, let thy going forth be with reverence, 
 for thou art treading upon the decayed hearts of those 
 who have loved as we love, who have struggled as we 
 are struggling, who have sinned as we sin, who have 
 vanished as we at length shall vanish. Above thee is 
 arched God's great sky, over thee the night stars 
 keep silent watch ; in all and through all is the spirit 
 that is soul of thy soul, life of thy life ; and elsewhere 
 than in the flesh are intelligences more nearly akin 
 to us than we think. 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 267 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 KECAPITULATION IN THE LANGUAGE OF A POET. 
 
 LOVE is one of the leading influences of our nature ; 
 and when this sentiment is elevated by female devo- 
 tion, when it is irradiated by beauty, excused by weak- 
 ness, expiated by misfortune, transformed by repent- 
 ance, sanctified by religion, rendered popular through 
 a long epoch by genius, perpetuated by constancy on 
 earth, and aspirations of immortality hereafter this 
 passion almost resolves itself into virtue, and raises to 
 the level of heroic saints, two lovers, whose adven- 
 tures became the theme, and their tears the sorrows 
 of an age. Such is the story, or rather the poem of 
 Heloise and Abelard. During eight centuries no other 
 has so profoundly touched the human heart. What- 
 ever moves men long and deeply, forms a portion 
 of their history ; for human nature is equally 
 compounded of mind and feeling. All that softens, 
 improves. Admiration and pity affect the heart, and 
 the heart is the safest and strongest organ of virtue. 
 These two lives comprise a single one ; they are so 
 interwoven that each existence is a perpetual rebound 
 * Lainartine. 
 
268 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 of the other ; the same event, the same sensation, re- 
 flected back again in a double echo, produces the 
 same undivided interest. Let us now commence our 
 narration. 
 
 Peter Abelard was the son of a knight of Brittany, 
 named Beranger, whose family had long possessed, in 
 the neighborhood of Nantes, the castle and village 
 of Palais. Beranger exercised, like all the gentle- 
 men of his day, the noble trade of war. His son was 
 brought up to arms; but the piety of his race, at- 
 tested by the religious habit which Beranger, his wife 
 and daughters assumed in their old age, associated 
 with the military education of the youthful Abelard, 
 the study of letters, philosophy, and theology. The 
 leading, and the only intellectual profession of that 
 period, the Church, attracted to her ranks all the 
 young men who felt within themselves the seeds of 
 poetry, or eloquence, the love of fame, and the am- 
 bition of mental supremacy. Abelard was more hap- 
 pily endowed than any other individual of his time. 
 He disdained the rude life of a mere warrior, and 
 resigned to his brothers his rights of primogeniture 
 over the domains and vassals of the house. He 
 quitted the paternal mansion, and went from school 
 to school, from master to master, gathering all those 
 buried treasures of Greek and Roman literature, which 
 France and Italy had begun to disinter from manu- 
 scripts, to restore to light, and to worship as the profane 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 269 
 
 mysteries of human genius. His warm heart and 
 fervid imagination were not satisfied with the dead 
 languages : he wrote and spoke in Greek and Latin, 
 but he sang in French. 
 
 The verses, for which he composed the music him- 
 self, that the passion by which they were inspired 
 should convey its full effect to the soul by two senses 
 at a time, became the manual of all poets. They 
 spread with the rapidity of an echo, which multiplies 
 its own sound ; they formed the conversation of men 
 of letters, the delight of women, the secret language 
 of lovers, the interpreters of undeclared sentiments, 
 the popular songs of cities, castles, cottages ; they 
 carried the name of the young musician and familiar 
 poet throughout the provinces of France. He enjoyed 
 a personal fame during the spring of life, in the secret 
 souls of all who loved, dreamed, sighed, or sang. A 
 melodious voice which gave animation to language 
 and music ; a youth precocious in celebrity ; a Gre- 
 cian regularity of features, a tall and graceful figure, a 
 noble bearing, a natural modesty, in which the bash- 
 fulness of early years blushed for the maturity of tal- 
 ent all these qualities, combined in Abelard attrac- 
 tion with renown. He was ever present to the eyes, 
 the ears, the hearts of the women who had seen 
 him, or had even heard his name pronounced. It was 
 thus that Heloise recalled his image to her heart long- 
 after the ruin of her illusions and her love. 
 
270 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 But in his early verses, he sang of feelings which he 
 had not yet experienced personally. His love sonnets 
 were flights of imagination, imitated from the ancient 
 poets. They breathed the accents of the heart, but 
 not the heart of the writer. He lived apart from the 
 world, in study, in piety, and in the perspective of future 
 glory. His songs were his recreation ; philosophy and 
 eloquence exclusively enchained his faculties. His lan- 
 guage softened by poetry ; his eloquence harmonized 
 by music, the rich, spontaneous fertility of his im- 
 agination ; his memory fed and strengthened by uni- 
 versal reading ; the brilliancy, propriety, and novelty 
 of the images into which he sculptured his ideas, to 
 render them palpable to his auditors ; such were the 
 endowments which made this young man (seated at 
 the feet of the most celebrated chairs of the University 
 of Paris) the master of masters, and the popular orator 
 of the schools. In that day the schools constituted the 
 forum of the human race. They were all that knowl- 
 edge, science, religion, opinion, the press, the tribune, 
 became in after ages. The true word, scarcely recover- 
 ed, governed the world, but under the exclusive domin- 
 ation of the Church. Eloquence, philosophy, and faith, 
 were only exercised on the same recurring texts. 
 There was one continued struggle in disputes, which 
 are now unintelligible, to produce the triumph of reve- 
 lation by arguments drawn from profane reason, 
 and to call in Plato and the ancient sages to bear tes- 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 27 1 
 
 timony to Christ and the Apostles. It is easy to un- 
 derstand to what dialectic subtleties the minds of men 
 were sharpened by such disquisitions. But these con- 
 troversies, for other views of Providence, are some- 
 times intended as exercises to strengthen human intel- 
 lect, and to supply the world with high examples of 
 talent and reputation. 
 
 The young orator followed the stream of his age. 
 He ascended the tribune of the day, the pulpits of the 
 public schools, round which the people crowded with 
 greater eagerness, as they were only emerging from 
 profound ignorance, and expected the approach of some 
 unknown light, just then beginning to appear. Abe- 
 lard, at first an humble and docile disciple, raised him- 
 self by degrees, on the applause and encouragement of 
 his listeners, to a level with the oracles of the schools, 
 and soon began to dispute and oppose their dogmas. 
 Finally he subverted them all, founded a new college 
 of philosophy at Melun, carried away in his train the 
 young students, fanaticized by his genius; by his 
 increasing popularity spread consternation among his 
 rivals, who were almost deserted in Paris ; consumed 
 himself with the fire he had kindled in public imagin- 
 ation ; excited the envy of the learned in the Univer- 
 sity and the Church ; retired for two years to the ob- 
 scurity of his native district, to fortify his powers ; and 
 reappeared in Paris, stronger, more celebrated, and 
 more controlling than before. He pitched his camp, 
 
272 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 or rather liis school, on the eminence, then almost 
 solitary, on which now stands the church of St. Gene- 
 vieve. 
 
 This became the Mount Aventine of a people of dis- 
 ciples, quitting the ancient seminaries, to imbibe eager- 
 ly the fresh and fearless eloquence of Abelard. Each 
 of his followers paid a small fee to the philosopher 
 the humble tribute of a nation thirsting for truth. 
 This salary, multiplied by the incalculable number of 
 contributors, elevated the fortune of Abelard as high 
 as his fame. He was in the flower of his years, of his 
 glory,' of his virtue ; for up to this period he had in- 
 dulged in no passion except his passion for truth and 
 faith. The pride so natural to one who is looked up to 
 by men, and the seductive charm attendant on female 
 admiration, exalted and weakened him at the same 
 moment. A double snare awaited him as he reached 
 the maturity of his genius and reputation. He was 
 then thirty-eight, lie reigned by eloquence over the 
 spirit of youth ; by beauty, over the regard of women ; 
 by his love-songs, which penetrated all hearts ; and by 
 his musical melodies, which were repeated in every 
 mouth. Let us imagine in a single man, the first ora- 
 tor, the first philosopher, the first poet, the first mu- 
 sician of his age ; Antinoiis, Cicero, Petrarch, Schubert, 
 united in one living celebrity, and we can then form 
 an idea of the popularity of Abelard at this period of 
 his life. 
 
ABELARD AND IIELOISE. 273 
 
 At that time there dwelt in Paris a rich and power- 
 ful canon of the cathedral, Fulbert, who resided in 
 the learned quarter of the city. He had a niece liv- 
 ing with him (some say she was his daughter), whom 
 he loved with paternal affection. This niece, aged 
 eighteen, and consequently twenty years younger than 
 Abelard, was already much noticed in Paris for her 
 beauty and early genius. Her uncle, the canon, had 
 treated her with all those blind indulgences, which, 
 while they adorned a chosen nature, with every gift of 
 intelligence and education, he saw not, in the weak- 
 ness of age, would prepare a more signal victory for 
 seduction, love, and misfortune. Her name was Helo- 
 ise. The medallions and the statue which perpetuate 
 her, according to contemporary traditions, and the 
 casts taken after death in her sepulchre, represent a 
 young female, tall in stature, and exquisitely formed. 
 An oval head, slightly depressed towards the temples 
 by the conflict of thought ; a high and smooth fore- 
 head, where intelligence revelled without impediment, 
 like a ray of light, unchecked by an obstructing angle, 
 on the smooth surface of a marble slab; eyes deeply 
 set within their arch, and the balls of which reflected 
 the azure tint of heaven ; a small nose, slightly raised 
 towards the nostrils, such as sculpture models from 
 nature in the statues of women immortalized by the 
 feelings of the heart; a mouth where breathed, be- 
 tween brilliant teeth, the smiles of genius and the 
 12* 
 
274 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 tenderness of sympathy ; a short chin, slightly dim- 
 pled in the middle, as if by the finger of reflection of- 
 ten placed upon the lips ; a long, flexible neck, which 
 carried the head as the lotus bears the flower, while 
 undulating with the motion of the wave ; falling shoul- 
 ders, gracefully moulded, and blending into the same 
 line with the arms; slender fingers, flowing curls, 
 delicate, anatomical articulations, the feet of a goddess 
 upon her pedestal, such is the statue, by which we 
 may judge of the woman! Let the life, the compk'x- 
 ion, the look, the attitude, the youth, the languor, the 
 passion, the paleness, the blush, the thought, the feel- 
 ing, the accent, the smile, the tears be restored to the 
 skeleton of this other Inez de Castro, and we shall 
 again look on Heloise. Her features, according to the 
 historians of the time, and Abelard himself, were less 
 striking to the eye from beauty than from expression, 
 that graceful physiognomy of the heart, which draws, 
 invites, and compels a reciprocation of the love it offers 
 supreme beauty, far superior to the charms which 
 command admiration only. Here we may use the words 
 of Abelard : " Her renown," says he, " had spread 
 throughout France. All that could seduce the imagin- 
 ation of men presented itself to me. Heloise became 
 the adored object of my dreams, and I persuaded my- 
 self that I could win her affection. I w r as then so cel- 
 ebrated, my youth and beauty so enhanced my fame, 
 that I thought it impossible any woman could reject 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 2*75 
 
 my proffered love. I abandoned myself to the intoxi- 
 cation of hope, the more readily that Heloise herself 
 was accomplished in letters, in the sciences, and the 
 arts. A poetical correspondence had already com- 
 menced between us, and I ventured to write to her 
 with greater freedom than I could have spoken. I 
 yielded entirely to this passion, and sought every pos- 
 sible means of establishing familiar relations and op- 
 portunities of intercourse." 
 
 Nothing was more easy of accomplishment. The 
 uncle and niece, without the knowledge of Abelard, 
 conspired to assist him ; the niece by her charms, the 
 uncle by his pride. The friendship of such an illus- 
 trious man was a distinction for any family. Abelard, 
 through mutual friends, intimated to Fulbert that the 
 care of his domestic affairs interfered with his studies 
 and predominating love of learning, and that he wished 
 to seek the hospitality of an honorable and enlightened 
 family, where he might live like a son under the roof 
 of his father. Fulbert, overjoyed and flattered by 
 these proposals, at once offered his hearth to Abelard. 
 He should reap, he said, the double advantage of inti- 
 macy with the first man of the age, and finish the ed- 
 ucation of his niece without further expense. She, too, 
 by constant conversation with the oracle of his day, 
 would derive virtue and knowledge from their source. 
 
 We can readily believe, and the fact is attested by 
 the complaisance and subsequent rage of Fulbert, that 
 
27G LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 the uncle, an enthusiastic admirer of Abelard, and 
 hoping to win for his niece the only husband in 
 opinion worthy of her, lent himself with paternal in- 
 terest to an intercourse from which might spring the 
 mutual attachment and union of these young hearts. 
 
 Be this as it may, Abelard became an inmate in the 
 house of Fulbert. This domestic familiarity, author- 
 ized by the uncle of the fair disciple, offered to both 
 the opportunity, and, we may almost say, imposed the 
 necessity, of mutual love. Far from objecting to a 
 close intimacy between the master and his pupil, Ful- 
 bert entreated Abelard to impart to his niece all his 
 secrets of learning, and all his rare acquirements in 
 oratory, poetry, and theology; so as to complete in 
 her the intellectual prodigy which nature had com- 
 menced, and France admired with unwonted astonish- 
 ment in a woman. He yielded up to him entirely his 
 paternal authority over Heloise, and, in accordance 
 with the rude discipline of the age, authorized him 
 even to correct her with blows, if she failed either in 
 obedience or attention. In a word, he reduced 
 Heloise to a state of mental thraldom, and constituted 
 Abelard an absolute master. Heloise was readily dis- 
 posed to acknowledge not only a preceptor but a 
 divinity, in the handsomest and most celebrated man 
 of his age. Her rapid progress kept pace with the 
 wishes of her uncle. She labored no longer for the 
 world, but for Abelard alone ; her sole ambition cen- 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 277 
 
 trecl in the wish to please him. Nature, love, and 
 genius, combined to render this young girl the wonder 
 of her time. 
 
 Abelard became intoxicated with his avocation. 
 Two souls, tempted by such opportunities, could not 
 fail to fall into the snare which want of foresight or 
 complicity had spread for them under such specious 
 pretexts and such alluring indulgences. The external 
 world disappeared before them they loved. Abelard, 
 who now thought of Heloise alone, proclaimed his 
 passion in poems, in which the verses and the music, 
 tempered in the same fire, spread the name of Heloise 
 as a heavenly secret divulged to the earth, and which 
 the whole world confided to one another by repeating 
 these divine songs, until at last they reached the ears 
 of Fulbert himself. 
 
 But Fulbert affected not to hear, or to disbelieve, 
 this profanation of his domestic hearth. He replied, 
 that Abelard was, by his genius and piety, too much 
 elevated beyond ordinary mortals to descend, even 
 under the seductions of love, from the paradise of 
 science and glory which his exalted intellect shared 
 with the angels. Perhaps, also, he expected from day 
 to day, that Abelard, conquered by an increasing 
 charm, would demand of him the hand of his pupil, 
 which he would have been too happy to accord. In 
 the mean time, Abelard, divided between his passion 
 for Heloise and his love of fame, hesitated to declare 
 
278 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 himself. He had feared, lest, by avowing the influence 
 of earthly beauty, he should sink in the eyes of the 
 world from the reputation for purity and Platonic self- 
 command, which an ethereal philosophy had estab- 
 lished for him in early youth. He was unwilling, M 
 to renounce, by marriage, the prospective dignr 
 honors, and fortune which the Church held out to him, 
 and which he had already propitiated by some noviti- 
 atory ceremonies. His disciples no longer recognizi <1 
 their master. In his heart, love combated painfully 
 against his genius. His friends complained loudly of 
 his decline ; the languor of his passion had affected his 
 eloquence ; the fire of his soul evaporated in sighs, and 
 his lessons contained only cinders. He felt so unlike 
 what he had once been, that he gave up unprepared 
 discourses, in which his lips reflected nothing but the 
 image and name of Ileloise. He was compelled to 
 learn by heart the lectures he had formerly extempo- 
 rized, and to repeat his own compositions, lest he 
 should fall in public estimation. His rivals and his 
 enemies triumphed. He was pointed at with the 
 finger of scorn, as a wreck of himself; quoted as a re- 
 proach and scandal to human weakness, and trampled 
 under foot as a deity hurled from his pedestal. 
 Heloise was more afflicted than Abelard at this degra- 
 dation of one she adored for himself alone. She en- 
 treated him to sacrifice her to his fame ; to permit IUT 
 to adore him as a divinity, who receives the heart and 
 
ABELARD AND HKLOISE. 279 
 
 incense of mortals, without other intercourse with his 
 worshippers than the homage which they offer him ; 
 to love her no longer, if this love diminished his rep- 
 utation by a single ray ; or, if the disinterested affec- 
 tion of Heloise had become a necessity and a consola- 
 tion to his existence, to reduce her to the condition of 
 those women despised by the world, whose sentiments 
 are equally unconsecrated by religion and law slaves 
 of the heart, never liberated by the title of wives. The 
 contempt of the universe, endured for Abelard, was, 
 she declared, the only glory to which she aspired. 
 Shame, at such a price, would constitute her pride. 
 
 Abelard, after lamentable hesitation, could neither 
 determine to accept this suicide of Heloise, nor openly 
 to declare his passion before the world. He still con- 
 tinued to reside under the roof of Fulbert. Dastardly 
 at the same time towards affection and virtue, he 
 floated between two weaknesses, and evinced neither 
 the courage of love nor that of glory. In this 
 instance, as in all others, the heart of the woman was 
 manly, the heart of the man, feminine. But his infat- 
 uation, meanwhile, nourished itself upon these 
 agonies. Fulbert, justly irritated by a silence which 
 resembled contempt, and which rendered his hospital- 
 ity suspicious, closed his doors against the offender. 
 This separation tore the heart of Heloise, and humil- 
 iated that of Abelard. Neither the master nor the 
 scholar could renounce a life in which the looks, the 
 
280 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 conversation, the studies, the songs, the thoughts of 
 both had blended two into a single soul. They con- 
 trived secret meetings, a mysterious intercourse with 
 which Fulbert was deeply enraged. Abelard carried 
 Ileloise away, and conducted her with all respect to 
 Nantes, to his paternal mansion, where he confided her 
 as his wife to the affection of his own sister. Return- 
 ing immediately to Paris, he threw himself at the feet 
 of Fulbert, implored his forgiveness, and obtained by 
 contrition the hand of his niece. Ileloise pardoned 
 and restored at once to her uncle and her lover, be- 
 came secretly the spouse of Abelard. "After a night 
 passed in prayer," says he, " in one of the churches of 
 Paris, on the following morning we received the nup- 
 tial blessing in the presence of the uncle of Ileloise, 
 and of several mutual friends. We then retired, with- 
 out observation or noise, that this union, known only 
 to God and a few intimates, should bring neither shame 
 nor prejudice to my renown." 
 
 The newly-married pair their happiness unknown 
 to everybody affected thenceforth to be seldom seen 
 together, and labored to extinguish all preceding 
 rumors of their attachment. The world, for the mo- 
 ment, was deceived, and Abelard enjoyed together the 
 delights of love and the return of his reputation. But 
 the servants of Fulbert, necessarily acquainted with 
 his secret visits, noised abroad the circumstance of 
 the marriage. The envious detractors of Abelard 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 281 
 
 triumphed in liis weakness, and accused him of having 
 sacrificed philosophy, eloquence, and fame to a second 
 Delilah. His pride took offence; he denied his ties, 
 as if they had been a disgrace. The generous Heloise 
 herself, preferring the glory of her lover to her own 
 honor, proclaimed and encouraged the assertion that 
 she was only united to Abelard by admiration and 
 love, and cast a stain upon her own virtue to exalt the 
 virtue of her husband. These reports, so offensive to 
 Fulbert, induced him to utter bitter and merited re- 
 proaches against his niece, whose devoted falsehood 
 had thus dishonored his blood. Abelard, dreading the 
 resentment of her uncle, snatched her once more from 
 the guardianship of Fulbert, and conveyed her to Ar- 
 genteuil, a village near Paris, where he placed her in a 
 monastery of women. These monasteries, like the 
 altars of antiquity, afforded the right of inviolable 
 sanctity to all unmarried females or wives who passed 
 their threshold. Here he persuaded her to take the 
 white veil of a novice, without yet pronouncing the 
 irrevocable vows. He devoted himself to a monastic 
 life and the priesthood, and as soon as he was invested 
 with this holy character, with his own hands he placed 
 on Heloise the habit of a professed nun, cut off her 
 hair, and yielded her up to God, having neither the 
 courage to claim her as his wife, nor to leave her in 
 the world, which he had renounced forever. Heloise, 
 happy in giving up her life to him to whom she had 
 
282 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 already abandoned her honor, submitted without a 
 murmur, as the victim who voluntarily places herself 
 on the sacrificial altar. Every thing was acceptable to 
 her, even the punishment she underwent by the elec- 
 tion, and through the love, or rather through the 
 pride of her husband. The gates of the convent of 
 Argenteuil were closed upon the Sappho of the 
 eleventh century. Beauty, genius, affection, all were 
 buried in those catacombs; and during fifteen years, 
 the best years of the immured sufferer, neither re- 
 proaches, regrets, nor sighs, were heard from within 
 that living monument. 
 
 Abelard, free and purified in the eyes of his fol- 
 lowers, resumed with fresh ardor and brilliancy the 
 course of his lectures, and the empire of his popu- 
 larity. But the anger of Fulbert brooded over ven- 
 geance. Thrice foiled in his tenderness for his niece 
 by the seduction, the perfidy, and baseness of Abe- 
 lard, he saw snatched from him by the same hand the 
 company of his beloved pupil, the reputation of his 
 family, his honor, and his happiness. He had edu- 
 cated with so much solicitude that prodigy of her sex, 
 only to see her despised by the selected husband to 
 whom he had resigned her, tainted as a concubine, re- 
 pudiated, contemned in her devoted affection, and 
 finally shut up as a penftent in a monastery ; cut off 
 in the flower of her youth from the number of the 
 living, to keep away false shame from the forehead of 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 283 
 
 an ungrateful seducer, and condemned to feed on her 
 own tears, while he was hailed by the acclamations of 
 the century. We do not justify the vindictive feel- 
 ings of an outraged father, we only endeavor to ex- 
 plain them. He had forgiven all, to behold Heloise 
 married to the first genius of his age, and after being 
 acknowledged as a wife, she was now denied. De- 
 spair excited hatred, and hatred began to ponder on 
 crime. The gates of Abelard's house were opened one 
 night, through the purchased treachery of his domes- 
 tics ; executioners, directed and paid by Fulbert, sur- 
 prised him in his sleep ; they overwhelmed him with 
 cruel insults, and left him degraded by his punish- 
 ment. Humiliation and remorse, worse than the in- 
 flicted revenge, made Abelard detest the life which 
 his enemies had spared as an additional pang. The 
 light of day became hateful to him. His despair at 
 this unpunished outrage equalled the vainglory by 
 which he had been carried on to the base ingratitude 
 of sacrificing Heloise ; his only remaining object was 
 to disappear from the world he had filled with his 
 renown, and which now resounded with nothing but 
 his shame. 
 
 " I called to mind painfully," he writes, " the bril- 
 liant reputation by which I was surrounded on the eve 
 of that fatal day, and the prompt ignominy by which 
 my glory was extinguished. I acknowledged the just 
 chastisement of Heaven the just retaliation by which 
 
284 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 the man I had betrayed, betrayed me in his turn. I 
 already heard the malicious exultations of my ene- 
 mies, the delight of my rivals at this retributive dis- 
 pensation. I felt that I could no longer appear in 
 public without being pointed at as an object of igno- 
 minious pity. The sense of my degraded state covered 
 me with such confusion that I am forced to confess, 
 shame rather than pity, drove me into the solitude of 
 the cloister. I wished, however, before tearing my- 
 self from the world, to remove Heloise from it irrevo- 
 cably. By my direction she pronounced the eternal 
 vows. Thus, both of us, on the same day, embraced 
 together the monastic life, she at Argenteuil, I in the 
 abbey of St. Denis. Moved by her youth and beauty, 
 the companions of Heloise endeavored in vain to win 
 her from the sacrifice she was induced to consummate. 
 She replied (with tears, shed for her husband, not for 
 herself), by those verses which the Roman poet places 
 in the mouth of Cornelia, the widow of Pompey the 
 Great : ' Oh, my illustrious partner, thou whose bed 
 I was not worthy of partaking, it is my evil destiny 
 which weighs upon thine ! Why, wretch that I am, 
 have I formed the bonds which have drawn on thy 
 ruin ? Receive, in the holocaust of thy wife, the ex- 
 piation of the misfortunes my love has brought upon 
 thee !' Having pronounced these words, broken by 
 sighs, Heloise rushed to the altar, as if precipitat- 
 ing herself into an abyss; she seized the funeral 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 285 
 
 veil, already consecrated by the bishop, and dedicated 
 herself from that moment, before the assembled 
 people, to the service of the Deity who received her 
 oath." 
 
 Such is the recital of the sacrifice of Heloise, given 
 by Abelard himself. The shadow of the convent in- 
 closed her for many years ; a concealed, but an unex- 
 tinguished flame. 
 
 Abelard carried to the monastery of St. Denis 
 his inward uneasiness, his talents strengthened by 
 concentrated study, his ambition, which had only 
 changed its object, and the intolerant zeal of refor- 
 mation, by which new proselytes too often expect to 
 redeem their wanderings. The relaxed monks o St. 
 Denis, and the abbot who permitted and shared their 
 irregularities, became irritated at his censures, and 
 compelled him to remove his severe innovations to a 
 neighboring and dependent establishment at Deuil. 
 He there resumed his pulpit of philosophy, and filled 
 once more the schools and the church with the report 
 of new doctrines in matters of faith. The Church be- 
 came indignant at his boldness, as the monks had 
 been offended by his reproofs. Some subtle essays on 
 the Unity and Trinity, in which he endeavored to ex- 
 plain that mystery without appealing to faith in aid of 
 human reasoning, sufficed as a pretext to the enemies 
 leagued against this active innovator. He was sum- 
 moned before a council at Soissons to render an 
 
286 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 account of his doctrines, and solemnly condemned. 
 To expiate the error, he was shut up in the cloistered 
 monastery of St. Medard, where he gave himself up 
 to despair. " The treachery of Fulbert," he exclaimed, 
 "was less intolerable than this fresh outrage." The 
 legate of the pope, more impartial and tolerant, speed- 
 ily remitted the punishment. On returning to the 
 abbey of St. Denis, he found the monks converted to 
 implacable foes. They pronounced him an enemy of 
 the state, guilty of high treason against the nation, for 
 having said that St. Dionysius, bishop of Athens, con- 
 verted by St. Paul, was not identical with the St. 
 Dionysius, first bishop of Paris. Compelled to self- 
 banishment, notwithstanding the complaisance of a re- 
 cantation, to which he submitted to disarm their ani- 
 mosity, he fled, with a single disciple, to a desert spot 
 in Champagne. " There," said he, " on the banks of 
 a narrow river, shaded by oaks, and bordered by reeds, 
 called the Arduze, I constructed with my own hands a 
 small oratory, built of branches, with a thatched roof. 
 I was alone, and could cry aloud with the prophet, * I 
 have fled, I have removed from the habitations of men 
 and dwell in solitude.'" 
 
 But he was not long left to himself. The spirit of 
 dispute and the love of novelty were at that time so 
 strongly excited in the world, that those who possess- 
 ed the word of life, drew after them whole nations of 
 followers and listeners. The youth of the age thirsted 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 287 
 
 so eagerly for truth, that controversy alone seemed a 
 step towards the important mystery, and from the 
 shock of opposing doctrines they expected the burst- 
 ing forth of the lightning which never came. " As 
 soon as my retreat was discovered," says Abelard, 
 " my disciples crowded round me from every quarter, 
 to erect humble cells in the desert. They abandoned 
 soft beds of down for couches of leaves, luxurious vi- 
 ands for coarse vegetables ; it was thus that, accord- 
 ing to St. Jerome, the philosophers of antiquity fled 
 from cities, gardens, rich fields and shady groves, the 
 melody of birds, the freshness of fountains, the mur- 
 muring of streams, from all that could charm the eyes 
 and ears, seduce the senses, or enervate virtue. Even 
 so, the sons of the prophets lived as hermits in huts on 
 the banks of the Jordan, feeding on roots and herbs, 
 remote from towns and human passions. My follow- 
 ers constructed cells on the bank of the Arduze, rather 
 after the fashion of anchorites than pupils. In pro- 
 portion as their numbers augmented, their lives be- 
 came more studious and holy, so that the shame of 
 my enemies increased with my reputation. Never- 
 theless, it was poverty which forced me to re-establish 
 my school. I was unaccustomed to dig the earth, and 
 I could not humiliate myself to beg my bread. My 
 disciples cultivated the fields, and built the cells. 
 Soon they became insufficient to contain them. Then 
 they erected a vast edifice of timber and masonry, 
 
288 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 which I called after the name of the God of consola- 
 tion, The Paraclete" 
 
 But the enemies of Abelard envied him even the 
 wilderness. They saw, or affected to see, in the name 
 of the Consoling Spirit, to whom he had dedicated 
 his monastery, a sort of philosophic invocation to the 
 one Person of the Trinity, to the exclusion of the other 
 two. St. Bernard marked him out for the vengeance 
 of the Church. He was obliged to abandon the des- 
 ert himself, and to seek at the extremity of the shores 
 of Brittany, amongst the rocks and strands of the 
 ocean, an asylum still more inaccessible to jealousy 
 and persecution. This was the abbey of St. Gildas, in 
 the diocese of Vannes. The monks who dwelt there 
 had degenerated from the sanctity of earlier ages, 
 and had converted their convent into a den of barbar- 
 ism and vice. The rude aspect of the neighborhood 
 was exceeded by the character of the inhabitants. 
 The place was a promontory, incessantly beaten by 
 the surges of a groaning sea. Mountains of foam 
 broke over the resounding rocks, and on a coast hol- 
 lowed into vaults and caverns by the constant action 
 of the waves, which buried themselves as in yawning 
 gulfs, and then rushed back again from other ap- 
 ertures, like torrents of lava issuing from a volcano. 
 Perpendicular cliffs shut out the sight of the land below 
 from the abbey, which might be compared to a vessel 
 in perpetual shipwreck, on a shore inaccessible to pi- 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 289 
 
 lots. " The life of these monks," says Abelard, their 
 superior, " was dissolute and insubordinate. The gates 
 of the abbey were ornamented with the feet of stags, 
 bears, and wild boars, the trophies and emblems of their 
 constant avocations. They were awakened by the 
 sound of the horn and the barking of hounds. Cruel 
 and unrestrained in their licentious habits, and con- 
 stantly at war with the surrounding nobles, they were 
 alternately oppressors or oppressed." They laughed 
 at the indignation which Abelard expressed at their 
 rude manners, until their hatred against the intruding 
 reformer led them on to crime. Insulted, threatened, 
 attacked in the forests, poisoned even in the holy chal- 
 ice of the sacrament, with difficulty he preserved his 
 life by flight. The barons of the district snatched 
 him from the steel of the assassins. He sought shelter 
 in a spot even more deserted than the domains of the 
 abbey, and, like the prophets of old, called upon the 
 Lord from the abyss of his calamity. 
 
 Fifteen years passed over the head of Abelard in 
 these alternations of learning, glory, sanctity, and suf- 
 fering, during which he bestowed no token of remem- 
 brance on the still young and living victim he had 
 buried at Argenteuil. Heloise complained neither of 
 his insensibility nor silence. The neglect and con- 
 tempt of her husband, she respected as additional vir- 
 tues, believing that earth, heaven, and her own feelings, 
 were worthy only to be sacrificed to this first and most 
 13 
 
290 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 adored of men. Abelard remained forever the sole 
 object of worship on the altar she had erected to him 
 in her heart. All her sighs ascended to Heaven for 
 him, but they were breathed without sound, lest an 
 uttered thought or regret should scandalize the world, 
 or disturb his sublime contemplations. The gates of 
 the convent of Argenteuil divulged no particle of 
 that immeasurable love which survived within its walls. 
 Persecution burst those gates. Suger, abbot of St. 
 Denis, pretended that the convent belonged to his or- 
 der, and drove out the nuns like a flock without fold 
 or shepherd. Their cry of distress reached Abelard. 
 Whether it was that his own misfortunes had softened 
 his heart, or the memory of early happiness had re- 
 turned full upon him, as it often does in the evening 
 of life; or that a comparison between the devotion of 
 this immolated woman, the ingratitude of the world, 
 and the emptiness of glory had lit up again the embers 
 of an ill-extinguished affection, Abelard hastened from 
 his retreat to the succor of the wandering and perse- 
 cuted Heloise. lie conducted her to the Paraclete 
 with her companions, bestowed on her the convent, of 
 which she became abbess, and often visited her, to re- 
 lieve by his presence and fortune the indigence to 
 which he had opened an asylum. At the age of fifty- 
 eight, clothed in sacerdotal habit, a spiritual father 
 rather than a carnal husband, the world respected the 
 union of the two tender hearts, whose community of 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 291 
 
 faith permitted only sorrow for the past, prayers for 
 the present, and hope of eternal happiness for the fu- 
 ture. 
 
 But their enemies were still active, and disseminated 
 odious slander respecting this mystical intercourse 
 between Abelard and his former wife. To put an end 
 to them, he retired once more to his desert in Brittany. 
 He preferred offering his life anew to the poignard and 
 the poisoned cup, rather than expose the virtue of 
 Heloise to the bitter tongues of her calumniators. It 
 was then that he wrote the memoirs from which we 
 have extracted the principal events described in this 
 narrative. The volume, confided to friendship, reach- 
 ed the eyes of Heloise. The remembrances it excited, 
 made the heart speak which had remained fifteen years 
 in silence. An epistolary correspondence, affection- 
 ate on the one side, cold on the other, commenced be- 
 tween the hapless pair, separated equally by the hand 
 of God and man. The Christian Sappho, in these let- 
 ters, pours forth, with irrepressible passion, the ardor 
 of a love purified by sacrifice, and which nothing 
 earthly could extinguish, as its sole nourishment pro- 
 ceeded from heavenly fire. The address alone of these 
 letters comprises a hymn of infinite tenderness, as it 
 betrays the impassioned hesitation of a female hand, 
 which seeks, finds, and rejects by turns, every name 
 capable of expressing the strongest attachments of the 
 soul, without finding one sufficiently comprehensive, 
 
292 LIVES AND LE1TERS OF 
 
 and which ends by joining them all together, lest na- 
 ture should retain a variety of affection which she 
 has not acknowledged. "To her lord, or rather to 
 her father, his slave, his daughter, his wife, his sister, 
 Heloise to Abelard !" 
 
 " Some one," says she, in her first letter, after hav- 
 ing read the recital of their loves by Abelard, " some 
 one has recently brought me by chance the history 
 you have intrusted to a friend. As soon as I per- 
 ceived, by the first words of the superscription, that it 
 came from you, I began to read it with eagerness, 
 even greater than the adoration I still cherish for the 
 writer. What I have lost, I thought I had found 
 again, as if the beloved image could reproduce itself in 
 the tracings of the hand. Sad and bitter, oh, my only 
 treasure, are the lines of this narrative, which describe 
 our conversion and inexhaustible misfortunes. They 
 cannot be read, even by the most indifferent person, 
 without exciting tears." 
 
 Then, in allusion to his new exile, and the persecu- 
 tions with which he was surrounded at St Gildas, she 
 adds : " In the name of the Saviour, who seems still 
 to protect us, we, who are his humble slaves, as we 
 are yours, we implore you to tell us in frequent letters, 
 of the dangers by which you are still surrounded, that 
 we, who are bound only to you in the world, may par- 
 take your grief or satisfaction. Usually, to suffer with 
 the afflicted, is to console him. These letters will be 
 
ABELARD AND IIELOISE. 293 
 
 doubly tender to us, as they will bear testimony that 
 we are not forgotten. Oh, how delightful is the re- 
 ceipt of letters from absent friends ! If the portraits 
 of those separated by distance, recall their memory, 
 and soften regret by a deceptive solace, how much 
 more efficacious are letters, which embody and declare 
 the living stamp of the soul itself ! Thanks be to God 
 that hatred has not prevented us from being thus still 
 present to each other." 
 
 She then calls upon him, by the cares which he 
 owes as a father to his daughters in religion, to be 
 prodigal of letters, orders, and advice ; but we easily 
 discover that unconsciously she uses a pretext to take 
 upon herself the leading part in this acceptable inter- 
 course. "Think," she writes, "without speaking of 
 others, think of the immense debt you have contract- 
 ed towards me. Perhaps then, what you owe to all 
 those holy women together, you will the more readily 
 acquit yourself of towards one who lives for you alone. 
 And why," she continues, with a jealous and tender 
 reproach for so many years of oblivion and silence, 
 " why, when my soul is bowed down with anguish, 
 have you not endeavored to comfort me, in absence by 
 your letters, in presence, by your words ? This was a 
 duty to which you were called, as we are united by the 
 sacrament of marriage ; and your conduct towards me is 
 the more blamable, as the universe is my witness, I 
 have loved you with an immense and imperishable affec- 
 
294 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 tion. You know, sole object of my regard, how much I 
 have lost in losing you ! In proportion as my grief is 
 great, so ought to be my consolation. From no other, 
 but from you alone do I expect it. You owe it to me, 
 or you only possess the power to sadden, rejoice, or 
 calm me ! Have I not implicitly complied with your 
 wishes ? Have I not sacrificed myself to obey you ? I 
 have even done more ; my love has carried me to 
 falsehood and suicide. By your order, in assuming 
 these habits, I have changed my heart to prove that 
 you were its absolute sovereign. 
 
 "Never, as Heaven is my witness, have I sought 
 from you aught but yourself. Although the name of 
 wife was the most binding and holiest of titles, any other 
 would have satisfied my heart. The more I humiliated 
 myself, for your sake, the more I should have merited 
 a tender return, and the less I should have fretted your 
 genius and injured your glory. 
 
 " Again, I call on Heaven to testify, that if the mas- 
 ter of the world had thought me worthy of his hand 
 and had offered me with his name the dominion of 
 the universe, the title of your slave would have been 
 to me preferable to that of empress. What kings 
 could be compared to you ? what country, what town, 
 what village was not impatient to behold you ? where 
 were the women that did not sigh to look on you ? 
 where was the queen who envied not my happin< 
 
 " AVere you not endowed with two gifts which irrc- 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 295 
 
 sistibly fascinated the female heart eloquence and 
 song ? By these faculties, when reposing from the se- 
 verer studies of philosophy, you composed those love- 
 sonnets, which, through the combined charms of po- 
 etry and music, have caused our names to be repeated 
 by every mouth. Yes, the name of Heloise has been 
 heard in many lands, and has excited much jealousy 
 when coupled with yours. And by what rare perfec- 
 tions of mind and body was your youth adorned ! I 
 have injured you, and yet you know I was innocent. 
 Tell me only, why, since you have chosen to immure 
 me in a convent, you have punished me by neglect and 
 oblivion ; by depriving me of your presence, and even 
 of your letters ? Tell me, if you dare to answer the 
 question ! Alas ! I know, and the world suspects the 
 reason ! Your affection was less pure, less disinterest- 
 ed than mine. Since you have ceased to desire a pro- 
 fane happiness, you have ceased to love. 
 
 "Comply, I beseech you, with my request; it is 
 easy, and will cost you little. Speak to me at least 
 from a distance, by those words which restore the illu- 
 sion of your presence. I thought I deserved much 
 from you, when, still in youth, I embraced, at your de- 
 sire, the austerities of the cloister. What recompense 
 have I looked for from God, for whose love I have done 
 less than I have for yours ? When you have advanced 
 towards Heaven, I have followed in your track. As if 
 you had remembered the wife of Lot, who turned back, 
 
296 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 and looked behind her, you thought it necessary, when 
 you quitted the world yourself, to bind me equally by 
 monastic vows. Alas ! you have misjudged my charac- 
 ter. I have mourned and blushed for this proceeding. 
 Was it necessary to drive me when I was ready to 
 follow you, even to perdition ? My heart was with 
 you, not with myself. Let it remain yours, I conjure 
 you, which it will forever, if you listen to my prayer, 
 and return me tenderness for tenderness. Formerly, 
 the purity of the motives which bound me to you 
 were open to suspicion ; but does not the end prove 
 the nature of my love from the beginning ? I have 
 severed myself from every earthly enjoyment; of 
 worldly blessings I have reserved but one, the right of 
 considering myself forever yours. 
 
 " I conjure you, in the name of that Deity to whom 
 you have devoted yourself, give me as much of your 
 presence as is permitted : write to me letters of conso- 
 lation, fortified by which, I may increase my ardor in 
 the service of Heaven. When you looked for profane 
 gratification, you addressed me in frequent epistles, 
 which taught the name of Heloise to many lips, and 
 made those syllables familiar in many places. To raise 
 my soul to God, can you not exert the power which 
 you formerly exercised to excite earthly feelings? 
 Think of what I ask ! I finish this long letter by a sin- 
 gle sentence my all, my sole possession, adieu !" 
 
 Moved by these entreaties, Abelard at length broke 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 297 
 
 through the silence of many years. "Oh, my sister," 
 said he, addressing his wife, " you who were so dear to 
 me in the world, who are a thousand times more cher- 
 ished in Christ, I send you the prayer you have de- 
 manded with such importunity. Offer up to God, with 
 your companions, a holocaust of invocation, to expiate 
 our heavy and innumerable faults, to charm away the 
 dangers which beset me at every moment." He then 
 proceeds to a long and cold dissertation on the efficacy 
 of collective prayer from communities of nuns. At the 
 close of the letter, love seems to have betrayed him 
 into a last wish, which postpones, until death, the 
 reunion so vainly hoped for during life. 
 
 " Oh, my sister," he exclaims, " if God should de- 
 liver me into the hands of my enemies, if they put me 
 to death, or if, in the ordinary course of nature, I reach 
 the common end of all men, let my body, wherever it 
 is buried or abandoned, be transported to your ceme- 
 tery, that you, my daughters, my sisters in Jesus 
 Christ, having my tomb ever before your eyes, may 
 feel called upon to intercede for me more incessantly 
 by constant prayers. For a soul afflicted by so many 
 calamities, and penitent for so many errors, I know 
 not where to find a resting-place on earth more safe 
 and salutary than that which is dedicated to The Con- 
 soling Spirit, and which so well deserves the name. 
 They were women who, careful of the entombing of 
 the Saviour, embalmed him with perfumes, and watch- 
 13* 
 
298 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 cd around his sepulchre. Thus they were the first 
 who received consolation." 
 
 With the exception of this involuntary return of 
 love after death, the letters of Abelard are dry, cold, 
 and unfeeling. They breathe exclusive selfish' 
 while those of Heloise contain no thought but of him. 
 
 " To my only thought after Jesus to my only hope 
 next to the Saviour" thus she addresses him ; " it is 
 you alone who will celebrate our obsequies, you who 
 will dismiss to the Almighty those you have assembled 
 in his presence. Surely God will not permit us to 
 survive you ; but should you die before us, we shall 
 think rather of following than of burying you, since, des- 
 tined so soon to the grave ourselves, we shall want the 
 strength to prepare your tomb. If I lose you, what 
 hope remains to me? how shall I longer bear this 
 pilgrimage of life, in which I am still sustained by 
 nothing but the thought that you partake it with me ? 
 Am I not unfortunate beyond all precedent ? Raised 
 by you above the level of my sex, have I only 
 reached this high renown to be precipitated from un- 
 measured felicity to unparalleled disaster ? We lived 
 in chastity : you in Paris, I at Argenteuil : we sepa- 
 rated to devote ourselves entirely you to your studies, 
 I to prayer with the holy sisterhood who surrounded 
 me. During this irreproachable life, the hand of crime 
 was permitted to reach you. Ah ! why did not the 
 blow fall on both together ? Both were guilty, but you 
 
ABELAUD AND HELOISE. 299 
 
 alone have borne the expiation ; the least culpable 
 has received the punishment. What you have suf- 
 fered for a moment, I ought to have endured for life ! 
 If I must avow the weakness of my soul, I search in 
 vain for repentance there. My happiness was too 
 supreme to be rooted out from memory, or recollected 
 with horror. In sleep, even in the midst of devotional 
 ceremonies, the periods, the places, the incidents of 
 our blissful lives present themselves to my imagination. 
 They call me holy, who know not how I regret the 
 past. I am praised by men, but ah ! how censurable 
 in the eyes of God, who reads all hearts I In every 
 action of my life, you well know, I have feared your 
 anger beyond that of God himself. Think not too 
 well of me, and never cease to intercede for me in your 
 prayers." 
 
 In the midst of an elaborate dissertation on " The 
 Canticle of Canticles," Abelard introduced some touch- 
 ing sentences in his answer. " Why," said he to He- 
 loise, "do you reproach me with having made you 
 a participator in my sorrows, when you yourself have 
 forced me to this by your solicitations ? Is it possible 
 that you could ever be happy while I am miserable ? 
 Would you wish to be the companion of my enjoyment, 
 and not partake my anguish ? Can you desire that I 
 should precede you to heaven, you who would have 
 followed me to the lowest depths of perdition ?" He 
 then recalls in order his past iniquities, and commands 
 
300 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 Heloise to return thanks to the Creator for the punish- 
 .ments which have assailed and changed him. " You, 
 
 Lord, have joined and divided us," he thus con- 
 cludes ; " those who, for a time you have separated in 
 this world, we beseech you to reunite forever in the 
 world to come !" At last, we find the husband once 
 more in the saint. 
 
 Persecution drove Abelard back to the Paraclete. 
 The odious insinuations of his enemies forced him from 
 that sanctuary a second time. "How is it," he ex- 
 claimed in his despair, " that suspicion still clings to 
 me, when misfortunes, years, and the holiness of the 
 monastic profession are my securities against crime? 
 
 1 suffer more at present from calumny than I did 
 formerly from outrage." 
 
 But his persecutors thought to attack him more se- 
 verely in his glory than in his love. His writings, 
 which increased daily, alarmed Rome herself, and were 
 considered heretical, since they spread forth the first 
 dawn of freedom in discussion. St. Bernard, the 
 censor, reformer, and avenger of the Church in France, 
 set himself vehemently in opposition to these new 
 tenets. Cited before the council of Sens, to answer 
 for his opinions, Abelard preserved silence. St. Ber- 
 nard denounced his contumacy as an additional offence. 
 
 u This man," said he, addressing the sovereign pon- 
 tiff, "boasts that he can explain by reason the most 
 profound mysteries. He mounts up to heaven, and 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 301 
 
 descends to the lowest abyss ; he is great in his own 
 estimation. He scrutinizes the Divine Majesty, and 
 disseminates errors. One of his treatises ha,s been 
 given to the fire. Accursed be the hand that gathers 
 up the fragments ! Necessity demands a swift remedy 
 for this contagion, for the man has many followers. 
 He preaches a new gospel to the people, a new faith 
 to the nations of the earth, all is contradiction ! The 
 exterior form of piety is displayed by a modest carriage 
 and humble garments. His disciples transform them- 
 selves into angels of light, while they are in fact so 
 many Satansf This Goliath (thus he denominates 
 Abelard) hath proposed to sustain against me perverse 
 dogmas. I refuse to argue, because I am a child in the 
 truth, and he is a great and terrible opponent. But 
 you, successor of the Apostles, you alone will judge, 
 whether he ought to find a refuge on the chair of St. 
 Peter. Consider what you owe to yourself! Why 
 have you been elevated to the throne, if not to root 
 out and plant anew. If God has permitted schism to 
 rear its head in your days, is it not that schism may be 
 overthrown ? Behold, the foxes will spoil and tear up 
 the vineyard of the Lord, if you suffer them to increase 
 and multiply. If you strike them not, they will bring 
 trouble and despair to your successors. If you hesi- 
 tate to destroy them, we will destroy them ourselves." 
 Thus spoke this all-potent tribune of the Church of 
 France, to whom statues are erected after an interval 
 
302 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 of eight centuries. A summons so imperious, supported 
 by the popularity of St. Bernard, could not fail to be 
 complied with by Rome, although the pope, of a gentle 
 and indulgent nature, was unwilling to strike a teacher, 
 whose sincerity in faith he acknowledged, while he ad- 
 mired his genius. Abelard was condemned to per- 
 petual seclusion in a cloistered monastery. This sen- 
 tence, officially promulgated in France, after consider- 
 able delay, but foreseen by the victim of it, removed 
 him for the last time from the quiet security of the 
 Paraclete and the tears of Heloise. He bade an eter- 
 nal adieu to the retreat which he had first peopled 
 with enthusiastic disciples, afterwards with pious maid- 
 ens, and which had so often sheltered him from the 
 storms of his troubled existence. Alone and on foot 
 he travelled towards the Alps, to implore from the 
 justice of the pope an asylum against his persecutor. 
 In his journey lie passed by Cluny, at that time a 
 sovereign abbey, which administered hospitality with- 
 out distinction to popes, kings, pilgrims, and mendi- 
 cants, on their journey from Paris to Rome. 
 
 This celebrated monastery, of the order of St. Bene- 
 dict, was founded by William, duke of Aquitaine, who 
 possessed an extensive territory in the province of the 
 Maconnais. William, according to the practice of the 
 princes and nobles of his time, expected to purchase 
 eternal bliss by a gift of land to the cenobites, who, in 
 return, offered up perpetual prayers for the salvation of 
 
ABELAHD AND HELOISE. 303 
 
 his soul. The monks, whom he had commissioned to 
 seek out the fittest place for the site of the intended 
 monastery, having traversed the hills and valleys of 
 his domains, fixed their choice upon a deep and narrow 
 defile, which runs behind the chain of mountains of the 
 Saone, between Dijon and Macon. "A place," as 
 they described it, " shut out from all communication 
 with the world, and so fall of silence, repose, and 
 peace, that it presents, in some manner, an image of 
 celestial tranquillity !" These recluses possessed a nat- 
 ural instinct for solitude and contemplation. At that 
 time the hills were covered with thick forests, the 
 growth of centuries, which bounded the horizon, and 
 concealed the sun ; the waters of the mountain tor- 
 rents overflowing the flat lands, formed lakes, ponds, 
 and marshes, bordered by reeds. The only track that 
 led to this basin of water and foliage, was a narrow 
 path hollowed out by the feet of mules. Above the 
 summit of the woods arose the smoke of a few thinly- 
 scattered cottages, inhabited by hunters, fishermen, and 
 wood-cutters. The gorge of Cluny was the Thebais 
 of the Gauls. 
 
 "On this spot," said the monks to the Duke of 
 Aquitaine, " we will erect our monastery." 
 
 " No," replied the Duke, " it is a valley too much 
 overshadowed by thick forests, and full of fallow deer. 
 The hunters and their dogs, with their shrill cries and 
 barking, will disturb your silence." 
 
304 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 " Then drive away the dogs, and introduce the 
 monks," replied the holy men. 
 
 William consented ; the dogs disappeared, and the 
 monks supplied their places. In a few centuries, owing 
 to the extent and fertility of the land, the pious dis- 
 interestedness which made many dying penitents be- 
 queath their fortunes to the monastery, and the skilful 
 government of the abbots, who proved themselves good 
 worldly statesmen, the desert of Cluny beheld rising in 
 lofty elevation, where once its forests stood, another 
 forest of steeples, cloisters, domes, vaulted arches, 
 Gothic battlements, and Byzantine windows, the orna- 
 ments and defences of a Basilica equal in extent to the 
 largest ecclesiastical edifices of Imperial Rome. 
 
 The river which formerly inundated the valley, now 
 inclosed within beds of stone, or drained off into ponds 
 stocked with fish, conveyed fertility to extensive mead- 
 ows, whitening with flocks and herds. A large town 
 adjoined the abbey, under the protection of the monks. 
 Popes had issued from its cells to rule the Christian 
 world ; monarchs came to visit, endow, and bestow 
 privileges on this chosen sanctuary. Councils were 
 assembled there, and the abbots ranked as sovereign 
 princes. Pilgrims from all quarters of the globe be- 
 sieged the gates, and were received with hospitality. 
 At the time of Abelard's arrival, the monastery was 
 governed by Peter the Venerable, a man supremely 
 eminent in science, poetry, renown, and virtue. A living 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 305 
 
 contrast to St. Bernard, the Abbot of Cluny personified 
 the true charity of religion, while the other embodied 
 only the proselytism and terror. Peter the Venerable 
 had been elected while still young to the command of 
 the order, through the reputation of his talents, and 
 the influence of his character ; a poet, a philosopher, 
 an author, a negotiator; a statesman in piety, and a 
 religious man in politics ; he was another Abelard, but 
 divested of his pride and weakness. The impress of 
 his soul was stamped upon his features. He was tall 
 and slender in figure, slow of step, beautiful in counte- 
 nance, of a gentle aspect, a composed expression, and 
 an affable demeanor. Habitually silent, when he spoke 
 he became eloquent and persuasive. Placed, as we may 
 say, by the elevation of his thoughts, on an interme- 
 diate point between heaven and earth, he divided his 
 attention equally between things temporal and things 
 eternal. Representing the holiness of true Christianity, 
 he attracted thousands towards religion by the charm 
 of gentleness, instead of driving them away by the ter- 
 ror of severity. The memory of his virtues was so in- 
 delibly impressed, that it has been handed down for 
 eight centuries, from father to son, in the town and 
 valley of Cluny. A few years since, a tomb having 
 been discovered by chance, and supposed to be his, the 
 women and children eagerly contended for the dust it 
 contained, urged by a traditional affection acknowledged 
 throughout the district. Peter the Venerable had held 
 
306 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 disputes with St. Bernard, whose practice it was to 
 quarrel with all he was unable to control. The Abbot 
 of Cluny loved Abelard for his poetry, his eloquence, 
 and, above all, for his misfortunes. Heloise he looked 
 upon as the wonder of the age, and the ornament of 
 the sanctuary. He had visited the Paraclete, rendered 
 famous by the piety and tears of this widow of a living 
 husband, and carried back from the interview edifica- 
 tion, enthusiasm, and piety, which led him to com- 
 mence and continue with her an epistolary correspond- 
 ence. Such was the man of whom the fugitive Abelard 
 solicited the shelter of a night's lodging. 
 
 He arrived, broken down by sorrow, fatigue, and 
 sickness, at the gates of the abbey. Prompted by hu- 
 mility, he wished to throw himself at the feet of Peter 
 the Venerable, who received him in his arms, and 
 opened to him his house and his heart. Abelard, over- 
 powered by a reception to which the persecutions of 
 St. Bernard had disaccustomed him, related his recent 
 vicissitudes, his sorrows, his condemnation to the clois- 
 ter, and his resolve to proceed on foot to Rome, to 
 throw himself on the justice and commiseration of the 
 sovereign pontiff, formerly his personal friend. The 
 Abbot of Cluny expressed warm compassion for his mis- 
 fortunes, and encouraged his confidence in the pope. 
 But, mistrusting the strength of his guest, weakened 
 as it was by grief and fear, apprehensive lest this glory 
 of France should perish miserably on some snow track 
 
. ABELARD AND HELOISE. 307 
 
 while begging his bread across the Alps, or that he 
 might fall a prisoner into the hands of his enemies be- 
 yond the mountains, he retained him at the monastery 
 under a variety of pious pretexts. During this inter- 
 val, Peter the Venerable addressed the pope privately, 
 in a letter full of the tenderest and most disinterested 
 zeal for his friend. " The illustrious Abelard," said he 
 in this epistle, "well known to your Holiness, has 
 passed some days with me at Cluny, coming from 
 France. I questioned him as to where he was going. 
 * I am pursued/ replied he, 4 by the persecutions of cer- 
 tain men, who have applied to me the name of heretic, 
 which I reject and detest. I have appealed from their 
 sentence to the justice of the supreme head of the 
 Church, and in that sanctuary I seek protection against 
 my enemies.' I have approved this project of Abelard, 
 and have strongly encouraged him to repair to your 
 presence, assuring him that neither justice nor kindness 
 would be withheld from such a suppliant, seeing that 
 both are freely accorded to the obscure pilgrim, or the 
 perfect stranger. I added also, that he might rely on 
 indulgence for unintentional errors. While he rested 
 at the abbey, the Abbot of Clairvaux arrived here. We 
 concerted together in all Christian charity, how to 
 reconcile Abelard, my guest, with the Abbot Bernard, 
 who has reduced him to this necessity of appealing to 
 your Holiness. I have used every effort in my power 
 to bring about this accommodation. I have advised 
 
308 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 Abelard to expunge from his writings, under the super- 
 vision of Bernard himself, and other sagacious men, 
 every passage that offends against the scruples of the 
 true faith. Abelard has given his consent to this. 
 From that moment the reconciliation has been effected 
 by my agency, but much more through the inspiration 
 of Providence. Abelard, our guest, has bade farewell 
 forever to the agitation of controversy, and the schools ; 
 he has selected Cluny for his last and permanent resi- 
 dence. I implore you then, I, the most humble and 
 devoted of your servants, the entire community of the 
 abbey implores you, and Abelard himself joins in the 
 entreaty, by him, by us, by the messengers who bear 
 these letters, by the letters they carry, we all beseech 
 you to allow him to exhaust at Cluny the few days 
 which remain to him of his life, and his old age ; and 
 few indeed those days are likely to number. We all 
 conjure you not to allow persecution from any quarter 
 to disturb or drive him forth again from this house, 
 under the roof of which, like the sparrow which seeks 
 a nest, he rejoices to have found an asylum, even as 
 the dove rejoiced when it found a dry spot on which 
 to rest its foot. Refuse not your holy protection to the 
 man whom you once distinguished by the title of your 
 friend 1" Such a touching appeal of friendship, and the 
 living memory of the enthusiastic regard which he had 
 formerly felt for the orator and poet of his youth, could 
 not fail to reach the heart of the pope. He granted 
 
ABELARD AND HKLOISE. 309 
 
 to the prayer of Peter the Venerable the pardon and 
 protection which he implored for Abelard. In his 
 nominal imprisonment, Abelard had for superior and 
 jailer the most tender and compassionate of friends. 
 
 Heloise, satisfied as to the worldly destiny of her 
 husband, watched at a distance, by letters and prayers, 
 over his declining health and immortal prospects. The 
 last days of this distinguished man, who had inspired 
 and lost the admiration of the world, but who had still 
 preserved the undivided tenderness of a woman, and 
 the attachment of a friend, passed over in poetical and 
 religious conversations with Peter the Venerable, in the 
 contemplation and study of futurity, in the contempt 
 of those vanities which had not consoled him for the 
 devotion of a single heart, and in the hope of the happy 
 reunion which Heloise assured him would be assigned 
 to them in heaven. 
 
 At the extremity of a desert alley, and at the foot 
 of inclosing walls, flanked by the towers of the monas- 
 tery, on the margin of extensive meadows closed in by 
 woods, close to the murmuring stream, and the reeds 
 of a dried-lip marsh, through which the breezes whistled 
 drearily, there is still existing an enormous lime-tree, 
 under the shade of which Abelard was accustomed to 
 sit and meditate, with his face turned towards the di- 
 rection of the Paraclete. The monks, proud of having 
 afforded the hospitality of their cloisters to the most 
 shining light of the eleventh century, sedulously pre- 
 
310 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 served this tradition. The fury of the French Revolu- 
 tion, which destroyed so much, respected this lime- 
 tree and one or two of the spires of the monastery. 
 The last of the ecclesiastics related the legend to the 
 inhabitants of the town, who tell it again to accidental 
 visitors. I myself possess, under a lime of three hun- 
 dred years old, in my garden at Saint-Point, the bench 
 of gray-stone, sonorous as a bell, on which, according 
 to the tradition, Abelard sat under the more ancient 
 tree of Cluny. I have also carried from thence a large 
 table of the same stone, on which he reposed his head 
 while composing his hymns, or meditating over his 
 misfortunes and his love. 
 
 His soul, consumed by the fire of passion and the 
 flame of genius, robbed of happiness by evil destiny, 
 and of fame by persecution, exhausted itself before he 
 reached an advanced period of life. He expired in the 
 arms of his friend, two years and a few months after 
 he had crossed the hospitable threshold of Cluny. 
 
 The disinterested attachment of Peter the Venerable 
 ceased not until he had superintended the interment of 
 his friend. Under the instinct of truly divine charity, 
 he became an accomplice in the love which suffering^ 
 repentance, and tears had rendered sacred in his eyes. 
 He felt that Abelard above, and Heloise on earth, de- 
 manded of him the last consolation of a reunion in the 
 grave. He could not persuade himself that it was 
 culpable to descend from the height of his sanctity, and 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 311 
 
 participate in the weakness or illusion, which, while it 
 was unable to blend two lives into one, might at least 
 be permitted to mingle the mortal dust which once was 
 animated. But, dreading even the shadow of scandal, 
 he wrapped up in secresy the pious theft which he him- 
 self was about to commit on the cemetery of St. Mar- 
 cel, an oratory belonging to the abbey, in which Abel- 
 ard was interred. 
 
 He confided to no deputy the care of accompanying 
 the remains of the deceased, and of remitting them to 
 the guardianship of Heloise. No hands were worthy 
 of touching this sacred deposit, except those of a saint 
 and a wife. He rose in the dead of the night, ex- 
 humed the coffin, conveyed it to the Paraclete, and 
 inscribed in verse the epitaph of his friend. "The 
 Plato of our age" (thus he designates him in these 
 lines), " equal or superior to his predecessors, sovereign 
 master of thought, acknowledged throughout the uni- 
 verse for the variety and extent of his genius ; he sur- 
 passed all men in the strength of his imagination and 
 the power of his eloquence. His name was Abelard !" 
 The pious abbot then assumed the paternal charge of 
 an only son, who had been born to the unhappy pair 
 during their temporary union, and before they had pro- 
 nounced the monastic vows. 
 
 Heloise, having received with tears the coffin of 
 Abelard, shut herself up in the cemetery of the Para- 
 clete, in the vault, where she assumed her conjugal 
 
312 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 place by the couch of death. Peter the Venerable 
 himself performed the funeral rites, and departed after 
 he had placed the mortal relics of his friend under the 
 guardianship of an unextinguishable love. This mutual 
 reverence for the memory of the same object drew 
 still closer the ties of admiration and gratitude which 
 attached the abbot of Cluny to the widow of the Para- 
 clete. Heloise, who longed to be assured of the eter- 
 nal happiness of Abelard, as passionately as she had 
 mourned his earthly sorrows, entreated from the vener- 
 able father a written attestation that her anxious desires 
 were accomplished. " I conjure you," she wrote to him 
 after his return, " to send me open documents, stamped 
 with your seal, containing the full absolution of my 
 departed lord, that these evidences of felicity may be 
 suspended over his tomb. Remember, too," she added, 
 " to consider as your own son the son of Abelard and 
 Heloise." 
 
 Peter the Venerable yielded to this last anxious 
 scruple of affection, and forwarded to the Paraclete the 
 letters of absolution demanded from him. He also, 
 with his own hand, in an epistle to Heloise replete 
 with evangelical love, recapitulattd every circumstance 
 attending the last days of Abelard, which might tend 
 to console the anguish of an eternal widowhood. " It 
 is not on this day," says he, " oh, my sister, that I be- 
 gin to love you, for I have loved you long already ! I 
 had scarcely passed my early youth and reached the 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 313 
 
 age of manhood, when the fame reached me, not then 
 of your exalted piety, but of your unrivalled genius. 
 It was related everywhere that a young female, in the 
 first bloom of youth and beauty, had distinguished her- 
 self, unlike her sex in general, by poetry, eloquence, 
 and philosophy. Neither the love of pleasure, nor the 
 attractions of the time, could obtain dominion in her 
 heart over pursuits which were grand in intellect, and 
 beautiful in science. The world, stagnating in base and 
 slothful ignorance, beheld with astonishment how, not 
 only among women, but in the assemblies of men, He- 
 loise exhibited and maintained her vast superiority. 
 Soon (to speak in the words of the Apostle) He who 
 had suffered you to issue from the bosom of your 
 mother, by divine grace, attracted you entirely to him- 
 self. You exchanged the study of perishable knowl- 
 edge for the science of eternity ; for Plato you adopted 
 Christ ; and in place of the academy you selected the 
 cloister. Would that it had been permitted that Cluny 
 should have possessed you! that you should have 
 shared our sweet imprisonment of Marcigny, with the 
 female servants of the Lord, who pant only for celestial 
 liberty ! But, although Providence withheld this favor 
 from us, we have been distinguished by receiving him 
 who in life belonged to you : him whom we must ever 
 honor and remember with respect, the philosopher 
 of the gospel, the Abelard who, by Divine permission, 
 was sent to close his days in our monastery. 
 14 
 
314 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 " It is no easy task, my sister, to describe in a few 
 short lines the holiness, the humility, the self-denial he 
 exhibited to us, and of which the collected brotherhood 
 have borne witness. If I do not deceive myself, never 
 did I behold a life and deportment so thoroughly sub- 
 missive. I placed him in an elevated rank in our com- 
 munity, but he appeared the lowest of all by the sim- 
 plicity of his dress. It was equally so with his diet, 
 and all that regarded the enjoyment of the senses. I 
 speak not of luxury, which was a stranger to him : he 
 refused every thing but what was indispensable to the 
 sustenance of life. His conduct and his words were 
 irreproachable, either as regarded himself, or as an ex- 
 ample to others. 
 
 " He read continually, prayed often, and never spoke, 
 except when literary controversy or holy discussion 
 compelled him to break silence. What can I tell you 
 more? His mind, his tongue, his meditations were 
 entirely concentrated on, and promoted, literary, phil- 
 osophical, and divine instruction. Simple, straight- 
 forward, reflecting on eternal judgment, and shunning 
 all evil, he consecrated to God the closing days of an 
 illustrious life. 
 
 " To afford him a little recreation, and to recruit his 
 failing health, I dispatched him to Saint Marcel, near 
 Chalons. I purposely selected this country, the most 
 attractive in Burgundy, and a convent close to the 
 town, from which it is only separated by the course of 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 315 
 
 the Saone. There, as much as his strength permitted, 
 he resumed the cherished studies of his youth, and as 
 has been also said of Gregory the Great, he suffered 
 not a single moment to pass that was not occupied 
 either in prayer, in reading, in writing, or in dictation. 
 
 " While occupied with these holy avocations, death, 
 the missionary of the Divine, came to seek him. He 
 found him not asleep, like many others, but awake, up, 
 and ready, and conveyed him joyfully to the marriage 
 feast. He carried with him his lamp replenished with 
 oil, his conscience filled with the testimony of a holy 
 life. A mortal sickness seized and reduced him to ex- 
 tremity ; he felt that he had reached the term of his 
 mortal existence, and was about to render up the com- 
 mon tribute. Then, with what fervent piety, what ar- 
 dent inspiration, did he make the last confession of his 
 sins ! with what fervor did he receive the promise of 
 eternal being! with what confidence did he recom- 
 mend his body and his soul to the tender mercy of the 
 Saviour ! Such was the death of Abelard ! And thus 
 has the man who had rendered himself illustrious 
 throughout the world by the miracles of his knowledge, 
 and his lessons, passed, according to my conviction, 
 into the presence of his Creator. 
 
 "And you, my sister, loved and venerated in God, 
 you who were united to him in worldly bonds, before 
 you enter on a second union cemented by divine affec- 
 tion ; you who have so long devoted yourself to the 
 
316 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 Lord with him, and by his direction, remember him ever 
 in your prayers, and in your communion with the 
 Saviour. Christ shelters you both in the asylum of 
 his heart; he warms you again in his bosom; and 
 when his day arrives, announced by the voice of the 
 archangel, he will restore Abelard to you, and never 
 more will you be separated." 
 
 Religion should have erected a statue to the man 
 who could indite this letter. Never did divine tender- 
 ness unite itself with more indulgence to human affec- 
 tion. Never did sanctity evince greater condescension, 
 or virtue soften into more amiable compassion. \Ve 
 observe, with what delicacy of sentiment and expres- 
 sion he recalls, even in death, the image of an eternal 
 marriage, so inseparably wound up with the aspirations 
 of Heloise. The oil of the Samaritan did not penetrate 
 with more healing influence into the wounds of the 
 body, than these words of true piety alleviate the suf- 
 ferings of the heart. The friendship of such a man as 
 Peter the Venerable, and the love of such a woman as 
 Heloise, are of themselves sufficient evidences that 
 Abelard deserved better of his age than posterity is 
 willinor to believe. 
 
 o 
 
 Heloise survived her husband twenty years, a priest- 
 ess of God, devoted to the worship of a sepulchre in the 
 solitude of the Paraclete. When she felt the near 
 approach of the death she had so long invoked, she 
 directed the sisterhood to place her body by the side 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 31 7 
 
 of that of her husband, in the same coffin. The love 
 which had united and separated them during life, by 
 so many prodigies of passion and constancy, appeared 
 to signalize their burial by a fresh miracle. At the 
 moment when the coffin of Abelard was opened, to lay 
 within it the body of Heloise, it was said that the arm 
 of the skeleton, compressed for twenty years under the 
 weight of the lid, stretched itself out, opened, and ap- 
 peared to be reanimated, to receive the spouse restored 
 by heavenly love to an eternal embrace. This credu- 
 lity of the age, transformed into an actual occurrence, 
 was related by historians and sung by poets, and con- 
 secrated in the imagination of the people the holiness 
 of the reunited pair. 
 
 They reposed for five hundred years in one of the 
 aisles of the Paraclete, sometimes separated by the 
 scruples of the abbess, and subsequently united again 
 in compliance with the conjugal desire, strongly ex- 
 pressed in life as in death, and which was repeated 
 even from the tomb. 
 
 The French Revolution, which scattered to the 
 winds the dust of the kings and princes of the church, 
 respected the remains of these unfortunate lovers. 
 In 1792, the Paraclete having been sold as ecclesiasti- 
 cal property, the town of Nogent removed the tombs, 
 and sheltered them in the nave of their own church. 
 In 1800, Lucien Bonaparte, a zealous advocate of let- 
 ters, and collector of ancient relics, instructed a re- 
 
318 LIVES AND LETTERS OF 
 
 spcctable artist, M. Lenoir, to transport the coffin of 
 Abelard and Heloise to the museum of French monu- 
 ments in Paris. When the lead was opened, the w it- 
 nesses present declared " that the two bodies had been 
 of elevated stature and beautifully proportioned." " The 
 head of Heloise," according to M. Lenoir, " is of admir- 
 able contour, and the rounded forehead expresses still 
 the most perfect beauty. The recumbent statues carved 
 on the tomb have been moulded from these recomposed 
 remains by the imagination of the sculptor. A few 
 years later, the mortuary chapel in which the tomb 
 was inclosed became the principal ornament of the 
 garden of the museum." The visitors were frequent 
 and numerous. In 1815, the government of the Bour- 
 bons, which carefully preserved all sepulchral vestiges, 
 to bring the people back to the ancient worship, was 
 desirous of removing the coffin of Abelard and Heloise 
 to the abbey of St. Denis, a sanctuary to which it no 
 more belonged than the proscribed does to the pro- 
 scriber. General opinion protested against this burying 
 within a closed church a monument which all claimed 
 as public property. It was then finally placed in the 
 great necropolis of Paris, the cemetery of Pere-la- 
 Chaise. There may be seen the statues of Abelard 
 and Heloise, lying side by side, decked with flowers 
 and funereal coronets, perpetually renewed by invisible 
 hands. Succeeding generations appear to claim an 
 eternal relationship with the illustrious departed. The 
 
ABELARD AND HELOISE. 319 
 
 votive offerings proceed from kindred souls, separated 
 by death, persecution, or worldly impediments, from 
 those to whom they are attached on earth, or mourn 
 in heaven. They thus mysteriously convey "their ad 
 miration for truth and constancy, and their sympathy 
 with the posthumous union of two hearts, who trans- 
 posed conjugal tenderness from the senses to the soul, 
 who spiritualized the most ardent and sensual of human 
 passions, and changed love itself into a holocaust, a 
 martyrdom, and a holy sacrifice. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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