Letters of Abelard and Heloise
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.