applied to her husband; who by permission of the Bishop Troies,
gave her the house and chapel of the _Paraclete_, with its
appendages; and placing there some nuns, founded a nunnery. Pope
Innocent II. confirmed this donation in the year 1131. This is the
origin of the abbey of the _Paraclete_, of which _Heloise_
was the first abbess. Whatever her conduct was among the licentious
nuns of Argenteuil, it is certain she lived so regular in this her
new and last retreat, and behaved herself with that prudence, zeal,
and piety, that she won the hearts of all the world, and in a small
time had abundance of donations. _Abelard_ himself says she had
more in one year than he could have expected all his life, had he
lived there. The bishops loved her as their child, the abbesses as
their sister, and the world as their mother. It must be owned some
women have had wonderful talents for exciting Christian charity.
The abbesses which succeeded _Heloise_ have often been of the
greatest families in the kingdom. There is a list of them in
the _Notes_ of _Andrew du Chene_ upon _Abelard's_ works,
from the time of the foundation in 1130, to 1615; but he has not
thought fit to take notice of Jane Cabot, who died the 25th of June
1593, and professed the Protestant religion, yet without marrying, or
quitting her habit, though she was driven from her abbey.
After _Abelard_ had settled _Heloise_ here, he made
frequent journies from Britany to Champaign, to take care of the
interest of this rising house, and to ease himself from the vexations
of his own abbey. But slander so perpetually followed this unhappy
man, that though his present condition was universally known, he was
reproached with a remaining voluptuous passion for his former
mistress. He complains of his hard usage in one of his Letters; but
comforts himself by the example of St. Jerom, whose friendship with
Paula occasioned scandal too; and therefore he entirely confuted this
calumny, by remarking that even the most jealous commit their wives
to the custody of eunuchs.
The thing which gives the greatest handle to suspect _Heloise's_
prudence, and that _Abelard_ did not think himself safe with
her, is his making a resolution to separate himself forever from her.
During his being employed in establishing this new nunnery, and in
ordering their affairs, as well temporal as spiritual, he was
diligent in persuading her, by frequent and pious admonitions, to
such a separation; and insisted, that in order to make their
retirement and penitence more profitable, it was absolutely necessary
they should seriously endeavour to forget each other, and for the
future think on nothing but God. When he had given her directions for
her own conduct, and rules for the management of the nuns, he took
his last leave of her and returned to his abbey in Britany where he
continued a long time without her hearing any mention of him.
By chance, a letter he wrote to one of his friends, to comfort him
under some disgrace, wherein he had given him a long account of all
the persecutions he himself had suffered, fell into Heloise's
hands. She knew by the superscription from whom it came, and her
curiosity made her open it. The reading the particulars of a story
she was so much concerned in renewed all her passion, and she hence
took an occasion to write to him, complaining of his long silence.
_Abelard_ could not forbear answering her. This occasioned the
several Letters between them which follow this History; and in these
we may observe how high a woman is capable of railing the sentiments
of her heart when possessed of a great deal of wit and learning, at
well as a most violent love.
I shall not tire the reader with any farther reflections on the
Letters of those two lovers, but leave them entirely to his own
judgment; only remarking, that he ought not to be surprised to find
_Heloise's_ more tender, passionate, and expressive, than those
of _Abelard_. She was younger and consequently more ardent than
he. The sad condition he was in had not altered her love. Besides,
she retired only in complaisance to a man she blindly yielded to; and
resolving to preserve her fidelity inviolable, she strove to conquer
her desires, and make a virtue of necessity. But the weakness of her
sex continually returned, and she felt the force of love in spite of
all resistance. It was not the same with _Abelard_; for though
it was a mistake to think, that by not being in a condition of
satisfying his passion, he was as _Heloise_ imagined, wholly
delivered from the thorn of sensuality; yet he was truly sorry for
the disorders of his past life, he was sincerely penitent, and
therefore his Letters are less violent and passionate than those of
_Heloise_.
About ten years after _Abelard_ had retired to his abbey,
where study was his chief business, his enemies, who had resolved to
persecute him to the last, were careful not to let him enjoy the ease
of retirement. They thought he was not sufficiently plagued with his
monks, and therefore brought a new process of heresy against him
before the Archbishop of Sens. He desired he might have the liberty
of defending his doctrine before a public assembly, and it was
granted him. Upon this account the Council of Sens was assembled, in
which Louis the VII, assisted in person, in the year 1140. St.
Bernard was the accuser, and delivered to the assembly some
propositions drawn from _Abelard's_ book, which were read in the
Council. This accusation gave _Abelard_ such fears, and was
managed with such inveterate malice by his enemies, and with such
great unfairness, in drawing consequences he never thought of, that,
imagining he had friends at Rome who would protect his innocence, he
made an appeal to the Pope. The Council notwithstanding his appeal,
condemned his book, but did not meddle with his person; and gave an
account of the whole proceeding to Pope Innocent II. praying him to
confirm their sentence. St. Bernard had been so early in
prepossessing the Pontiff, that he got the sentence confirmed before
_Abelard_ heard any thing of it, or had any time to present
himself before the tribunal to which he had appealed. His Holiness
ordered besides, that _Abelard's_ books should be burnt, himself
confined, and for ever prohibited from teaching.
This passage of St. Bernard's life is not much for the honour of
his memory: and whether he took the trouble himself to extract the
condemned propositions from _Abelard's_ works, or intrusted it
to another hand, it is certain the paper he gave in contained many
things which _Abelard_ never wrote, and others which he did not
mean in the same sense imputed to him.
When a few particular expressions are urged too rigidly, and
unthought of consequences drawn from some assertions, and no regard
is had to the general intent and scope of an author, it is no
difficult matter to find errors in any book. For this reason,
Beranger of Poitiers, _Abelard's_ scholar defended his master
against St. Bernard, telling him he ought not to persecute others,
whose own writings were not exempt from errors; demonstrating, that
he himself had advanced a position which he would not have failed to
have inserted in this extract as a monstrous doctrine, if he had
found them in the writings of _Abelard_.
Some time after _Abelard's_ condemnation, the Pope was
appeased at the solicitation of the Abbot of Clugni, who received
this unfortunate gentleman into his monastery with great humanity,
reconciled him with St. Bernard, and admitted him to be a Religious
of his society.
This was _Abelard's_ last retirement, in which he found all
manner of kindness; he read lectures to the monks, and was equally
humble and laborious. At last growing weak, and afflicted with a
complication of diseases, he was sent to the priory of St. Marcel
upon the Saone, near Chalons, a very agreeable place, where he died
the 21st of April 1142, in the 63d year of his age. His corpse
was sent to the chapel of _Paraclete_, to _Heloise_, to be
interred, according to her former request of him, and to his own
desire. The Abbot of Clugni, when he sent the body to _Heloise_
according to the custom of those times, sent with it an absolution,
to be fixed, together with his epitaph, on his grave-stone, which
absolution was at follows:
"I Peter, Abbot of Clugni, having received Father _Abelard_
into the number of my Religions, and given leave that his body be
privately conveyed to the abbey of the Paraclete, to be disposed of
by _Heloise_ Abbess of the same abbey; do, by the authority of
God and all the saints, absolve the said _Abelard_ from all his
sins*."
* _Ego Petrus Cluniacensis Abbas, qui Pet. Abselardum in monacum
Cluniacensem recepi, & corpus ejus surtim delatum Heloissa
abbatissae & monialibus Paracleti concessi, authoritate
omnipotentis Dei & omnium sanctorum, absolvo eum pro officio ab
omnibus peccatis suis._
_Heloise_, who survived him twenty years, had all the leisure
that could be to effect the cure of her unhappy passion. Alas! she
was very long about it! she passed the rest of her days like a
religions and devout Abbess, frequent in prayers, and entirely
employed in the regulation of her society. She loved study; and being
a mistress of the learned languages, the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew,
she was esteemed a miracle of learning.
_Abelard_, in a letter he wrote to the Religious of his new
house, says expressly, that _Heloise_ understood these three
languages. The Abbot of Clugni, likewise, in a letter he wrote to
her, tells her, she excelled in learning not only all her sex, but
the greatest part of men**. And in the calendar of the house of
the Paraclete she is recorded in these words: _Heloise, mother and
first abbess of this place, famous for her learning and religion._
I must not here pass by a custom the Religious of the _Paraclete_
now have to commemorate how learned their first Abbess was in the
Greek, which is, that every year, on the day of Pentecost, they
perform divine service in the Greek tongue. What a ridiculous vanity!
** _Studio tuo & mulieres omnes eviciti, & pene viros
universos suparasti._ Abel Op.
Francis d'Amboise tells us how subtilely one day she
satisfied St. Bernard, upon asking her, why in her abbey,
when they recited the Lord's Prayer, they did not say, _Give
us this day our_ Daily _bread_, but _Give us this day our_
Supersubstantial _bread_, by an argument drawn from the
originals, affirming we ought to follow the Greek version of the
gospel of St. _Matthew_ wrote in _Hebrew_. Without doubt,
it was not a little surprising to St. Bernard, to hear a woman oppose
him in a controversy, by citing a _Greek_ text. 'Tis true, some
authors say, _Abelard_ made this answer to St. Bernard, after
hearing from _Heloise_ that objections were made to that form of
prayer. However the case was, a woman with a small competency of
learning might in those time pass for a miracle; and though she might
not equal those descriptions which have been given of her, yet she
may deservedly be placed in the rank of women of the greatest
learning. Nor was she less remarkable for her piety, patience, and
resignation, during her sicknesses in the latter part of her life.
She died the 17th of May 1163. 'Tis said she desired to be buried in
the same tomb with her _Abelard_, though that probably was not
executed. Francis d'Amboise says, he saw at the convent the
tombs of the founder and foundress near together. However a
manuscript of Tours gives us an account of an extraordinary
miracle which happened when _Abelard's_ grave was opened
for _Heloise's_ body, namely that _Abelard_ stretched out
his arms to receive her, and embraced her closely, though there were
twenty good years passed since he died. But that is a small matter to
a writer of miracles.
I shall conclude this history with an epitaph on _Abelard_,
which the Abbot of Clugni sent _Heloise_, and which is now to be
read on his tomb; it hath nothing in it delicate either for thought
or language, and will scarcely bear a translation. It is only added
here for the sake of the curious, and as an instance of the respect
paid to the memory of so great a man, and one whom envy had loaded
with the greatest defamations.
"Petrus in hac petra latitat, quem mundus Homerum
Clamabat, fed jam sidera sidus habent.
Sol erat hic Gallis, sed eum jam fata tulerunt:
Ergo caret Regio Gallica sole suo.
Ille sciens quid quid fuit ulli scibile, vicit
Artifices, artes absque docente docens.
Undecimae Maij petrum rapuere Calendae,
Privantes Logices atria Rege fuo.
Est fatis, in tumulo Petrus hic jacit Abaelardus,
Cui soli patuit scibile quid quid erat.
Gallorum Socrates, Plato maximus Hesperianum
Noster Aristoteles, Logicis (quicumque fuerunt)
Aut par aut melior; studioium cognitus orbi
Princeps, ingeuio varius, subtilius & acer,
Omnia vi superans rationis & arte loquendi,
Abaelardus erat. Sed nunc magis omnia vincit.
Cum Cluniacensem monacum, moremque professus,
Ad Christi veram transivit philosophiam,
In qua longaevae bene complens ultima vitae,
Philosophis quandoque bonis se connumerandum
Spem dedit, undenas Maio renovante Calendas."
------------
LETTERS of ABELARD and HELOISE.
------
LETTER I.
_ABELARD to PHILINTUS._
It may be proper to acquaint the reader, that the
following Letter was written by _Abelard_ to a friend, to
comfort him under some afflictions which had befallen him, by a
recital of his own sufferings, which had been much heavier. It
contains a particular account of his amour with _Heloise_, and
the unhappy consequences of it. This Letter was written several years
after _Abelard's_ separation from _Heloise_.
The last time we were together, _Philintus_, you gave me a
melancholy account of your misfortunes. I was sensibly touched with
the relation, and, like a true friend, bore a share in your griefs.
What did I not say to stop your tears? I laid before you all the
reasons Philosophy could furnish, which I thought might any ways
soften the strokes of Fortune: but all endeavours have proved
useless: grief I perceive, has wholly seized your spirits: and your
prudence, far from assisting, seems quite to have forsaken you. But
my skilful friendship has found out an expedient to relieve you.
Attend to me a moment; hear but the story of my misfortunes, and
yours, _Philintus_, will be nothing, if you compare them with
those of the loving and unhappy _Abelard_. Observe, I beseech
you, at what expence I endeavour to serve you: and think this no
small mark of my affection; for I am going to present you with the
relation of such particulars, as it is impossible for me to recollect
without piercing my heart with the most sensible affliction.
You know the place where I was born; but not perhaps that I was
born with those complexional faults which strangers charge upon our
nation, an extreme lightness of temper, and great inconstancy. I
frankly own it, and shall be as free to acquaint you with those good
qualities which were observed in me. I had a natural vivacity and
aptness for all the polite arts. My father was a gentleman, and a man
of good parts; he loved the wars, but differed in his sentiments from
many who followed that profession. He thought it no praise to be
illiterate, but in the camp he knew how to converse at the same time
with the Muses and Bellona. He was the same in the management of his
family, and took equal care to form his children to the study of
polite learning as to their military exercises. As I was his eldest,
and consequently his favourite son, he took more than ordinary care
of my education. I had a natural genius to study, and made an
extraordinary progress in it. Smitten with the love of books, and the
praises which on all sides were bestowed upon me, I aspired to no
reputation but what proceeded from learning. To my brothers I left
the glory of battles, and the pomp of triumphs; nay more, I yielded
them up my birthright and patrimony. I knew necessity was the great
spur to study, and was afraid I should not merit the title of
Learned, if I distinguished myself from others by nothing but a more
plentiful fortune. Of all the sciences, Logic was the most to my
taste. Such were the arms I chose to profess. Furnished with the
weapons of reasoning, I took pleasure in going to public disputations
to win trophies; and wherever I heard that this art flourished, I
ranged like another Alexander, from province to province, to seek new
adversaries, with whom I might try my strength.
The ambition I had to become formidable in logic led me at last to
Paris, the centre of politeness, and where the science I was so
smitten with had usually been in the greatest perfection. I put
myself under the direction of one _Champeaux_ a professor, who
had acquired the character of the most skilful philosopher of his
age, by negative excellencies only, by being the least ignorant. He
received me with great demonstrations of kindness, but I was not so
happy as to please him long: I was too knowing in the subjects he
discoursed upon. I often confuted his notions: often in our
disputations I pushed a good argument so home, that all his subtilty
was not able to elude its force. It was impossible he should see
himself surpassed by his scholar without resentment. It is sometimes
dangerous to have too much merit.
Envy increased against me proportionably to my reputation. My
enemies endeavoured to interrupt my progress, but their malice only
provoked my courage; and measuring my abilities by the jealousy I had
raised, I thought I had no farther occasion for Champeaux's lectures,
but rather that I was sufficiently qualified to read to others. I
stood for a place which was vacant at Melun. My master used all his
artifice to defeat my hopes, but in vain; and on this occasion I
triumphed over his cunning, as before I had done over his learning.
My lectures were always crouded, and beginnings so fortunate, that I
entirely obscured the renown of my famous master. Flushed with these
happy conquests, I removed to Corbeil to attack the masters there,
and so establish my character of the ablest Logician, the violence of
travelling threw me into a dangerous distemper, and not being able to
recover my strength, my physician, who perhaps were in a league with
Champeaux, advised me to retire to my native air. Thus I voluntarily
banished myself for some years. I leave you to imagine whether my
absence was not regretted by the better sort. At length I recovered
my health, when I received news that my greatest adversary had taken
the habit of a monk. You may think was an act of penitence for having
persecuted me; quite contrary, it was ambition; he resolved to raise
himself to some church-dignity therefore he fell into the beaten
track, and took on him the garb of feigned austerity; for this is the
easiest and and shortest way to the highest ecclesiastical dignities.
His wishes were successful, and he obtained a bishoprick: yet did he
not quit Paris, and the care of the schools. He went to his diocese
to gather in his revenues, but returned and passed the rest of his
time in reading lectures to those few pupils which followed him.
After this I often-engaged with him, and may reply to you as Ajax did
to the Greeks;
"If you demand the fortune of that day,
When stak'd on this right hand your honours lay
If I did not oblige the foe to yield,
Yet did I never basely quit the field."
About this time my father Beranger, who to the age of sixty had
lived very agreeably, retired from the world and shut himself up in a
cloister, where he offered up to Heaven the languid remains of a life
he could make no farther use of. My mother, who was yet young, took
the same resolution. She turned a Religious, but did not entirely
abandon the satisfactions of life. Her friends were continually at
the grate; and the monastery, when one has an inclination to make it
so, is exceeding charming and pleasant. I was present when my mother
was professed. At my return I resolved to study divinity, and
inquired for a director in that study. I was recommended to one
_Anselm_, the very oracle of his time; but to give you my own
opinion, one more venerable for his age and wrinkles than for his
genius or learning. If you consulted him upon any difficulty, the
sure consequence was to be much more uncertain in the point. Those
who only saw him admired him, but those who reasoned with him were
extremely dissatisfied. He was a great master of words, and talked
much, but meant nothing. His discourse was a fire, which, instead of
enlightening, obscured every thing with its smoke; a tree beautified
with variety of leaves and branches, but barren. I came to him with a
desire to learn, but found him like the fig-tree in the Gospel, or
the old oak to which Lucan compares Pompey. I continued not long
underneath his shadow. I took for my guides the primitive Fathers,
and boldly launched into the ocean of the Holy Scriptures. In a short
time I made such a progress, that others chose me for their director.
The number of my scholars were incredible, and the gratuities I
received from them were answerable to the great reputation I had
acquired. Now I found myself safe in the harbour; the storms were
passed, and the rage of my enemies had spent itself without effect.
Happy, had I known to make a right use of this calm! But when the
mind is most easy, it is most exposed to love, and even security here
is the most dangerous state.
And now, my friend, I am going to expose to you all my weaknesses.
All men, I believe, are under a necessity of paying tribute, at some
time or other, to Love, and it is vain to strive to avoid it. I was a
philosopher, yet this tyrant of the mind triumphed over all my
wisdom; his darts were of greater force than all my reasoning, and
with a sweet constraint he led me whither he pleased. Heaven, amidst
an abundance of blessings with which I was intoxicated, threw in a
heavy affliction. I became a most signal example of its vengeance;
and the more unhappy, because having deprived me of the means of
accomplishing my satisfaction, it left me to the fury of my criminal
desires. I will tell you, my dear friend, the particulars of my
story, and leave you to judge whether I deserved so severe a
correction. I had always an aversion for those light women whom it is
a reproach to pursue; I was ambitious in my choice, and wished to
find some obstacles, that I might surmount them with the greater
glory and pleasure.
There was in Paris a young creature, (ah! _Philintus_!)
formed in a prodigality of Nature, to show mankind a finished
composition; dear _Heloise_! the reputed niece of one _Fulbert_
a canon. Her wit and her beauty would have fired the dullest and most
insensible heart; and her education was equally admirable. _Heloise_
was a mistress of the most polite arts. You may easily imagine that
this did not a little help to captivate me. I saw her; I loved her; I
resolved to endeavour to gain her affections. The thirst of glory
cooled immediately in my heart, and all my passions were lost in this
new one. I thought of nothing but _Heloise_; every thing brought
her image to my mind. I was pensive, restless; and my passion was so
violent as to admit of no restraint. I was always vain and
presumptive; I flattered myself already with the most bewitching
hopes. My reputation had spread itself every where; and could a
virtuous lady resist a man that had confounded all the learned of the
age? I was young;--could she show an infallibility to those vows
which my heart never formed for any but herself? My person was
advantageous enough and by my dress no one would have suspected me
for a Doctor; and dress you know, is not a little engaging with
women. Besides, I had wit enough to write a _billet doux_, and
hoped, if ever she permitted my absent self to entertain her, she
would read with pleasure those breathings of my heart.