Do you forget those tender songs you wrote
for me, which all the world caught up and sang,— but not like
you,-
nose songs that kept your name ever floating in the air,
and made me known through many lands, the envy and the scorn
of women ?
for me, which all the world caught up and sang,— but not like
you,-
nose songs that kept your name ever floating in the air,
and made me known through many lands, the envy and the scorn
of women ?
Warner - World's Best Literature - v01 - A to Apu
Without any vocation, as he well knew, he assumed the
monkish habit and retired to the monastery of St. Denis, while
Héloise, by his order, took the veil at Argenteuil. Her devotion and
heroism on this occasion Abélard has described in touching terms.
Thus supernaturalism had done its worst for these two strong,
impetuous human souls.
If Abélard had entered the cloister in the hope of finding peace,
he soon discovered his mistake. The dissolute life of the monks
utterly disgusted him, while the clergy stormed him with petitions to
continue his lectures. Yielding to these, he was soon again sur-
rounded by crowds of students — so great that the monks at St. Denis
were glad to get rid of him. He accordingly retired to a lonely cell,
to which he was followed by more admirers than could find shelter
or food. As the schools of Paris were thereby emptied, his rivals did
everything in their power to put a stop to his teaching, declaring
that as a monk he ought not to teach profane science, nor as a lay-
man in theology sacred science. In order to legitimatize his claim to
teach the latter, he now wrote a theological treatise, regarding which
he says: —
## p. 22 (#36) ##############################################
22
ABÉLARD
«It so happened that I first endeavored to illuminate the basis of our
faith by similitudes drawn from human reason, and to compose for our stu-
dents a treatise on (The Divine Unity and Trinity,' because they kept asking
for human and philosophic reasons, and demanding rather what could be
understood than what could be said, declaring that the mere utterance of
words was useless unless followed by understanding; that nothing could be
believed that was not first understood, and that it was ridiculous for any one
to preach what neither he nor those he taught could comprehend, God him-
self calling such people blind leaders of the blind. ”
(
Here we have Abélard's central position, exactly the opposite to
that of his realist contemporary, Anselm of Canterbury, whose prin-
ciple was Credo ut intelligam” (I believe, that I may understand).
We must not suppose, however, that Abélard, with his rationalism,
dreamed of undermining Christian dogma. Very far from it!
He
believed it to be rational, and thought he could prove it so.
No won-
der that the book gave offense, in an age when faith and ecstasy
were placed above reason. Indeed, his rivals could have wished for
nothing better than this book, which gave them a weapon to use
against him. Led on by two old enemies, Alberich and Lotulf, they
caused an ecclesiastical council to be called at Soissons, to pass judg-
ment upon the book (1121). This judgment was a foregone conclusion,
the trial being the merest farce, in which the pursuers were the judges,
the Papal legate allowing his better reason to be overruled by their
passion. Abélard was condemned to burn his book in public, and to
read the Athanasian Creed as his confession of faith (which he did
in tears), and then to be confined permanently in the monastery of
St. Médard as a dangerous heretic.
His enemies seemed to have triumphed and to have silenced him
forever. Soon after, however, the Papal legate, ashamed of the part
he had taken in the transaction, restored him to liberty and allowed
him to return to his own monastery at St. Denis. Here once more
his rationalistic, critical spirit brought him into trouble with the big-
oted, licentious monks. Having maintained, on the authority of Beda,
that Dionysius, the patron saint of the monastery, was bishop of Cor-
inth and not of Athens, he raised such a storm that he was forced
to flee, and took refuge on a neighboring estate, whose proprietor,
Count Thibauld, was friendly to him. Here he was cordially received
by the monks of Troyes, and allowed to occupy a retreat belonging
to them.
After some time, and with great difficulty, he obtained leave from
the abbot of St. Denis to live where he chose, on condition of not
joining any other order. Being now practically a free man, he
retired to a lonely spot near Nogent-sur-Seine, on the banks of the
Ardusson. There, having received a gift of a piece of land, he estab-
## p. 23 (#37) ##############################################
ABÉLARD
23
lished himself along with a friendly cleric, building a small oratory
of clay and reeds to the Holy Trinity. No sooner, however, was
his place of retreat known than he was followed into the wilderness
by hosts of students of all ranks, who lived in tents, slept on the
ground, and underwent every kind of hardship, in order to listen to
him (1123). These supplied his wants, and built a chapel, which he
dedicated to the Paraclete, ” — a name at which his enemies, furious
over his success, were greatly scandalized, but which ever after
designated the whole establishment.
So incessant and unrelenting were the persecutions he suffered
from those enemies, and so deep his indignation at their baseness,
that for some time he seriously thought of escaping beyond the
bounds of Christendom, and seeking refuge among the Muslim. But
just then (1125) he was offered an important position, the abbotship
of the monastery of St. Gildas-de-Rhuys, in Lower Brittany, on the
lonely, inhospitable shore of the Atlantic. Eager for rest and a posi-
tion promising influence, Abélard accepted the offer and left the Par-
aclete, not knowing what he was doing.
His position at St. Gildas was little less than slow martyrdom.
The country was wild, the inhabitants were half barbarous, speaking
a language unintelligible to him; the monks were violent, unruly, and
dissolute, openly living with concubines; the lands of the monastery
were subjected to intolerable burdens by the neighboring lord, leav-
ing the monks in poverty and discontent. Instead of finding a home
of God-fearing men, eager for enlightenment, he found a nest of greed
and corruption. His attempts to introduce discipline, or even decency,
among his sons," only stirred up rebellion and placed his life in dan-
ger. Many times he was menaced with the sword, many times with
poison. In spite of all that, he clung to his office, and labored to do
his duty. Meanwhile the jealous abbot of St. Denis succeeded in
establishing a claim to the lands of the convent at Argenteuil, - of
which Héloise, long since famous not only for learning but also for
saintliness, was now the head,- and she and her nuns were violently
evicted and cast on the world. Hearing of this with indignation,
Abélard at once offered the homeless sisters the deserted Paraclete
and all its belongings. The offer was thankfully accepted, and Hélo-
ise with her family removed there to spend the remainder of her life.
It does not appear that Abélard and Héloïse ever saw each other at
this time, although he used every means in his power to provide for
her safety and comfort. This was in 1129. Two years later the Para-
clete was confirmed to Héloise by a Papal bull. It remained a con-
vent, and a famous one, for over six hundred years.
After this Abélard paid several visits to the convent, which he
justly regarded as his foundation, in order to arrange a rule of life
## p. 24 (#38) ##############################################
24
ABÉLARD
for its inmates, and to encourage them in their vocation. Although
on these occasions he saw nothing of Héloise, he did not escape the
malignant suspicions of the world, nor of his own flock, which now
became more unruly than ever, - so much so that he was compelled
to live outside the inonastery. Excommunication was tried in vain,
and even the efforts of a Papal legate failed to restore order. For
Abélard there was nothing but « fear within and conflict without. ”
It was at this time, about 1132, that he wrote his famous Historia
Calamitatum,' from which most of the above account of his life has
been taken. In 1134, after nine years of painful struggle, he defi-
nitely left St. Gildas, without, however, resigning the abbotship. For
the next two years he seems to have led a retired life, revising his
old works and composing new ones.
Meanwhile, by some chance, his History of Calamities) fell into
the hands of Héloise at the Paraclete, was devoured with breathless
interest, and rekindled the flame that seemed to have smoldered in
her bosom for thirteen long years. Overcome with compassion for
her husband, for such he really was, she at once wrote to him a let-
ter which reveals the first healthy human heart-beat that had found
expression in Christendom for a thousand years. Thus began a cor-
respondence which, for genuine tragic pathos and human interest,
has no equal in the world's literature. In Abélard, the scholarly
monk has completely replaced the man; in Héloise, the saintly nun
is but a veil assumed in loving obedience to him, to conceal the
deep-hearted, faithful, devoted flesh-and-blood woman. And such a
woman! It may well be doubted if, for all that constitutes genuine
womanhood, she ever had an equal. If there is salvation in love,
Héloise is in the heaven of heavens. She does not try to express her
love in poems, as Mrs. Browning did; but her simple, straightforward
expression of a love that would share Francesca's fate with her lover,
rather than go to heaven without him, yields, and has yielded,
matter for a hundred poems. She looks forward to no salvation; for
her chief love is for him. Domino specialiter, sua singulariter: “As a
member of the species woman I am the Lord's, as Héloïse I am
yours ” — nominalism with a vengeance!
But to return to Abélard. Permanent quiet in obscurity was
plainly impossible for him; and so in 1136 we find him back at Ste.
Généviève, lecturing to crowds of enthusiastic students. He probably
thought that during the long years of his exile, the envy and hatred
of his enemies had died out; but he soon discovered that he was
greatly mistaken. He was too marked a character, and the tendency
of his thought too dangerous, for that. Besides, he emptied the
schools of his rivals, and adopted no conciliatory tone toward them.
The natural result followed. In the year 1140, his enemies, headed
## p. 25 (#39) ##############################################
ABÉLARD
25
by St. Bernard, who had long regarded him with suspicion, raised a
cry of heresy against him, as subjecting everything to reason. Ber-
nard, who was nothing if not a fanatic, and who managed to give
vent to all his passions by placing them in the service of his God, at
once denounced him to the Pope, to cardinals, and to bishops, in
passionate letters, full of rhetoric, demanding his condemnation as a
perverter of the bases of the faith.
At that time a great ecclesiastical council was about to assem-
ble at Sens; and Abélard, feeling certain that his writings contained
nothing which he could not show to be strictly orthodox, demanded
that he should be allowed to explain and dialectically defend his
position, in open dispute, before it. But this was above all things
what his enemies dreaded. They felt that nothing was safe before
his brilliant dialectic. Bernard even refused to enter the lists with
him; and preferred to draw up a list of his heresies, in the form of
sentences sundered from their context in his works, some of them,
indeed, from works which he never wrote,- and to call upon the coun-
cil to condemn them. (These theses may be found in Denzinger's
'Enchiridion Symbolorum et Definitionum,' pp. 109 seq. ) Abélard,
clearly understanding the scheme, feeling its unfairness, and knowing
the effect of Bernard's lachrymose pulpit rhetoric upon sympathetic
ecclesiastics who believed in his power to work miracles, appeared
before the council, only to appeal from its authority to Rome. The
council, though somewhat disconcerted by this, proceeded to con-
demn the disputed theses, and sent a notice of its action to the Pope.
Fearing that Abélard, who had friends in Rome, might proceed
thither and obtain a reversal of the verdict, Bernard set every agency
at work to obtain a confirmation of it before his victim could reach
the Eternal City. And he succeeded.
The result was for a time kept secret from Abélard, who, now
over sixty years old, set out on his painful journey. Stopping on his
way at the famous, hospitable Abbey of Cluny, he was most kindly
entertained by its noble abbot, who well deserved the name of Peter
the Venerable. Here, apparently, he learned that he had been con-
demned and excommunicated; for he went no further. Peter offered
the weary man an asylum in his house, which was gladly accepted;
and Abélard, at last convinced of the vanity of all worldly ambition,
settled down to a life of humiliation, meditation, study, and prayer.
Soon afterward Bernard made advances toward reconciliation, which
Abélard accepted; whereupon his excommunication was removed.
Then the once proud Abélard, shattered in body and broken in spirit,
had nothing more to do but to prepare for another life. And the end
was not far off. He died at St. Marcel, on the 21st of April, 1142,
at the age of sixty-three. His generous host, in a letter to Héloise,
## p. 26 (#40) ##############################################
26
ABÉLARD
**
T
M
7
gives a touching account of his closing days, which were mostly
spent in a retreat provided for him on the banks of the Saône.
There he read, wrote, dictated, and prayed, in the only quiet days
which his life ever knew.
The body of Abélard was placed in a monolith coffin and buried
in the chapel of the monastery of St. Marcel; but Peter the Vener-
able twenty-two years afterward allowed it to be secretly removed,
and carried to the Paraclete, where Abélard had wished to lie. When
Héloise, world-famous for learning, virtue, and saintliness, passed
away, and her body was laid beside his, he opened his arms and
clasped her in close embrace. So says the legend, and who would
not believe it? The united remains of the immortal lovers, after
many vicissitudes, found at last (let us hope), in 1817, a permanent
resting place, in the Parisian cemetery of Père Lachaise, having been
placed together in Abélard's monolith coffin. «In death they were
not divided. ”
Abélard's character may be summed up in a few words. He was
one of the most brilliant and variously gifted men that ever lived, a
sincere lover of truth and champion of freedom. But unfortunately,
his extraordinary personal beauty and charm of manner made him
the object of so much attention and adulation that he soon became
unable to live without seeing himself mirrored in the admiration
and love of others. Hence his restlessness, irritability, craving for
publicity, fondness for dialectic triumph, and inability to live in
fruitful obscurity; hence, too, his intrigue with Héloise, his continual
struggles and disappointments, his final humiliation and tragic end.
Not having conquered the world, he cannot claim the crown of the
martyr.
Abélard's works were collected by Cousin, and published in three
4to volumes (Paris, 1836, 1849, 1859). They include, besides the cor-
respondence with Héloïse, and a number of sermons, hymns, answers
to questions, etc. , written for her, the following:-(1) Sic et Non,'
a collection of (often contradictory) statements of the Fathers con-
cerning the chief dogmas of religion, (2) Dialectic,' (3) 'On Genera
and Species,' (4) Glosses to Porphyry's Introduction,' Aristotle's
Categories and Interpretation, and Boethius's Topics,' (5) Intro-
duction to Theology,' (6) 'Christian Theology,' (7) Commentary on
the Epistle to the Romans,' (9) Abstract of Christian Theology,' (10)
Ethics, or Know Thyself, (1) Dialogue between a Philosopher, a
Jew, and a Christian,' (12) On the Intellects,' (12) “On the Hex-
ameron,' with a few short and unimportant fragments and tracts.
None of Abélard's numerous poems in the vernacular, in which he
celebrated his love for Héloïse, which he sang ravishingly (for he was
a famous singer), and which at once became widely popular, seem
2
L
(
(
## p. 27 (#41) ##############################################
ABÉLARD
27
to have come down to us; but we have a somewhat lengthy poem,
of considerable merit (though of doubtful authenticity), addressed to
his son Astralabius, who grew to manhood, became a cleric, and died,
it seems, as abbot of Hauterive in Switzerland, in 162.
Of Abélard's philosophy, little need be added to what has been
already said. It is, on the whole, the philosophy of the Middle Age,
with this difference: that he insists upon making theology rational,
and thus may truly be called the founder of modern rationalism, and
the initiator of the struggle against the tyrannic authority of blind
faith. To have been so is his crowning merit, and is one that can
hardly be overestimated. At the same time it must be borne in mind
that he was a loyal son of the Church, and never dreamed of oppos-
ing or undermining her. His greatest originality is in Ethics,' in
which, by placing the essence of morality in the intent and not in
the action, he anticipated Kant and much modern speculation.
Here he did admirable work. Abélard founded no school, strictly
speaking; nevertheless, he determined the method and aim of Scho-
lasticism, and exercised a boundless influence, which is not dead.
Descartes and Kant are his children. Among his immediate disciples
were a pope, twenty-nine cardinals, and more than fifty bishops. His
two greatest pupils were Peter the Lombard, bishop of Paris, and
author of the Sentences,' the theological text-book of the schools for
hundreds of years; and Arnold of Brescia, one of the noblest cham-
pions of human liberty, though condemned and banished by the second
Council of the Lateran.
The best biography of Abélard is that by Charles de Rémusat (2
vols. , 8vo, Paris, 1845). See also, in English, Wight's Abelard and
Eloise (New York, 1853).
Hlavar Dave
A , a ,
HÉLOÏSE TO ABÉLARD
LETTER of yours sent to a friend, best beloved, to console him
in affliction, was lately, almost by a chance, put into my
hands. Seeing the superscription, guess how eagerly I
seized it! I had lost the reality; I hoped to draw some comfort
from this faint image of you. But alas ! - for I well remember -
every line was written with gall and wormwood.
How you retold our sorrowful history, and dwelt on your inces-
sant afflictions! Well did you fulfill that promise to your friend,
## p. 28 (#42) ##############################################
28
ABÉLARD
-
I and my
that, in comparison with your own, his misfortunes should seem
but as trifles. You recalled the persecutions of your masters, the
cruelty of my uncle, and the fierce hostility of your fellow-pupils,
Albericus of Rheims, and Lotulphus of Lombardy — how through
their plottings that glorious book your Theology was burned, and
you confined and disgraced — you went on to the machinations of
the Abbot of St. Denys and of your false brethren of the con-
vent, and the calumnies of those wretches, Norbert and Bernard,
who envy and hate you. It was even, you say, imputed to you
as an offense to have given the name of Paraclete, contrary to
the common practice, to the Oratory you had founded.
The persecutions of that cruel tyrant of St. Gildas, and of
those execrable monks, - monks out of greed only, whom notwith-
standing you call your children, - which still harass you, close the
miserable history. Nobody could read or hear these things and
not be moved to tears. What then must they mean to me?
We all despair of your life, and our trembling hearts dread to
hear the tidings of your murder. For Christ's sake, who has
thus far protected you,--write to us, as to His handmaids and
yours, every circumstance of your present dangers.
sisters alone remain of all who were your friends. Let us be
sharers of your joys and sorrows. Sympathy brings some relief,
and a load laid on many shoulders is lighter. And write the more
surely, if your letters may be messengers of joy. Whatever mes-
sage they bring, at least they will show that you remember us.
You can write to comfort your friend: while you soothe his
wounds, you inflame mine. Heal, I pray you, those you yourself
have made, you who bustle about to cure those for which you are
not responsible. You cultivate a vineyard you did not plant,
which grows nothing. Give heed to what you owe your own.
You who spend so much on the obstinate, consider what you owe
the obedient. You who lavish pains on your enemies, reflect on
.
what you owe your daughters. And, counting nothing else, think
how you are bound to me! What you owe to all devoted women,
pay to her who is most devoted.
You know better than I how many treatises the holy fathers
of the Church have written for our instruction; how they have
labored to inform, to advise, and to console us. Is my ignorance
to suggest knowledge to the learned Abélard ? Long ago, indeed,
your neglect astonished me. Neither religion, nor love of me, nor
the example of the holy fathers, moved you to try to fix my
## p. 29 (#43) ##############################################
ABÉLARD
29
struggling soul. Never, even when long grief had worn me down,
,
did you come to see me, or send me one line of comfort, -me, to
whom you were bound by marriage, and who clasp you about with
a measureless love! And for the sake of this love have I no
right to even a thought of yours ?
You well know, dearest, how much I lost in losing you, and
that the manner of it put me to double torture. You only can
comfort me. By you I was wounded, and by you I must be
healed. And it is only you on whom the debt rests. I have
obeyed the last tittle of your commands; and if you bade me, I
would sacrifice my soul.
To please you my love gave up the only thing in the universe
it valued — the hope of your presence — and that forever. The
instant I received your commands I quitted the habit of the
world, and denied all the wishes of my nature. I meant to give
up, for your sake, whatever I had once a right to call my own.
God knows it was always you, and you only that I thought of.
I looked for no dowry, no alliance of marriage. And if the name
of wife is holier and more exalted, the name of friend always
remained sweeter to me, or if you would not be angry, a meaner
title; since the more I gave up, the less should I injure your
present renown, and the more deserve your love.
Nor had you yourself forgotten this in that letter which I
recall. You are ready enough to set forth some of the reasons
which I used to you, to persuade you not to fetter your freedom,
but you pass over most of the pleas I made to withhold you from
our ill-fated wedlock. I call God to witness that if Augustus,
ruler of the world, should think me worthy the honor of marriage,
and settle the whole globe on me to rule forever, it would seem
dearer and prouder to me to be called your mistress than his
empress.
Not because a man is rich or powerful is he better : riches
and power may come from luck, constancy is from virtue. I
hold that woman base who weds a rich man rather than a poor
one, and takes a husband for her own gain. Whoever marries
with such a motive—why, she will follow his prosperity rather
than the man, and be willing to sell herself to a richer suitor.
That happiness which others imagine, best beloved, I experi-
enced. Other women might think their husbands perfect, and be
happy in the idea, but I knew that you were so and the universe
knew the same.
What philosopher, what king, could rival your
## p. 30 (#44) ##############################################
30
ABÉLARD
fame? What village, city, kingdom, was not on fire to see you?
When you appeared in public, who did not run to behold you ?
Wives and maidens alike recognized your beauty and grace.
Queens envied Héloïse her Abélard.
Two gifts you had to lead captive the proudest soul, your voice
that made all your teaching a delight, and your singing, which
was like no other.
Do you forget those tender songs you wrote
for me, which all the world caught up and sang,— but not like
you,-
nose songs that kept your name ever floating in the air,
and made me known through many lands, the envy and the scorn
of women ?
What gifts of mind, what gifts of person glorified you ! Oh,
my loss! Who would change places with me now !
And you know, Abelard, that though I am the great cause
of your misfortunes, I am most innocent. For a consequence is
no part of a crime. Justice weighs not the thing done, but the
intention. And how pure was my intention toward you, you alone
can judge. Judge me! I will submit.
But how happens it, tell me, that since my profession of the
life which you alone determined, I have been so neglected and so
forgotten that you will neither see me nor write to me? Make
me understand it, if you can, or I must tell you what everybody
says : that it was not a pure love like mine that held your heart,
and that your coarser feeling vanished with absence and ill-report.
Would that to me alone this seemed so, best beloved, and not to
all the world! Would that I could hear others excuse you, or
devise excuses myself !
The things I ask ought to seem very small and easy to you.
While I starve for you, do, now and then, by words, bring back
your presence to me! How can you be generous in deeds if you
so avaricious in words? I have done everything for your
sake. It was not religion that dragged me, a young girl, so fond
of life, so ardent, to the harshness of the convent, but only your
command.
If I deserve nothing from you, how vain is my labor !
God will not recompense me, for whose love I have done nothing.
When you resolved to take the vows, I followed, - rather, I
ran before.
You had the image of Lot's wife before your eyes ;
you feared I might look back, and therefore you deeded me to
God by the sacred vestments and irrevocable vows before you
took them yourself. For this, I own, I grieved, bitterly ashamed
that I could depend on you so little, when I would lead or follow
are
## p. 31 (#45) ##############################################
ABÉLARD
31
you straight to perdition. For my soul is always with you and
no longer mine own. And if it is not with you in these last
wretched years, it is nowhere. Do receive it kindly. Oh, if only
you had returned favor for favor, even a little for the much,
words for things! Would, beloved, that your affection would not
take my tenderness and obedience always for granted ; that it
might be more anxious! But just because I have poured out all
I have and am, you give me nothing. Remember, oh, remember
how much you owe !
There was a time when people doubted whether I had given
you all my heart, asking nothing. But the end shows how I
began. I have denied myself a life which promised at least peace
and work in the world, only to obey your hard exactions. I have
kept back nothing for myself, except the comfort of pleasing you.
How hard and cruel are you then, when I ask so little and that
little is so easy for you to give !
In the name of God, to whom you are dedicate, send me some
lines of consolation. Help me to learn obedience! When you
wooed me because earthly love was beautiful, you sent me letter
after letter. With your divine singing every street and house
echoed my name ! How much more ought you now to persuade
to God her whom then you turned from Him ! Heed what I ask ;
think what you owe. I have written a long letter, but the ending
shall be short. Farewell, darling !
ABÉLARD'S ANSWER TO HÉLOÏSE
I"
To Héloïse, his best beloved Sister in Christ,
Abélard, her Brother in Him:
F, SINCE we resigned the world I have not written to you, it was
because of the high opinion I have ever entertained of your
wisdom and prudence. How could I think that she stood in
need of help on whom Heaven had showered its best gifts? You
were able, I knew, by example as by word, to instruct the igno-
rant, to comfort the timid, to kindle the lukewarm.
When prioress of Argenteuil, you practiced all these duties;
and if you give the same attention to your daughters that you
then gave to your sisters, it is enough. All my exhortations would
be needless.
But if, in your humility, you think otherwise, and if
my words can avail you anything, tell me on what subjects you
would have me write, and as God shall direct me I will instruct
## p. 32 (#46) ##############################################
ABÉLARD
32
may be.
you. I thank God that the constant dangers to which I am
exposed rouse your sympathies. Thus I may hope, under the
divine protection of your prayers, to see Satan bruised under my
feet.
Therefore I hasten to send you the form of prayer you
beseech of me — you, my sister, once dear to me in the world, but
now far dearer in Christ. Offer to God a constant sacrifice of
prayer. Urge him to pardon our great and manifold sins, and to
avert the dangers which threaten me. We know how powerful
before God and his saints are the prayers of the faithful, but
chiefly of faithful women for their friends, and of wives for their
husbands. The Apostle admonishes us to pray without ceasing.
But I will not insist on the supplications of your sister-
hood, day and night devoted to the service of their Maker; to
you only do I turn. I well know how powerful your intercession
I pray you, exert it in this my need. In your prayers,
then, ever remember him who, in a special sense, is yours. Urge
your entreaties, for it is just that you should be heard. An equi-
table judge cannot refuse it.
In former days, you remember, best beloved, how fervently
you recommended me to the care of Providence. Often in the
day you uttered a special petition. Removed now from the Para-
clete, and surrounded by perils, how much greater my need! Con-
vince me of the sincerity of your regard, I entreat, I implore you.
[The Prayer:] "O God, who by Thy servant didst here assem-
ble Thy handmaids in Thy Holy Name, grant, we beseech Thee,
that he be protected from all adversity, and be restored safe to
us, Thy handmaids. ”
If Heaven permit my enemies to destroy me, or if I perish by
accident, see that my body is conveyed to the Paraclete. There,
my daughters, or rather my sisters in Christ, seeing my tomb, will
not cease to implore Heaven for me. No resting-place is so safe
for the grieving soul, forsaken in the wilderness of its sins, none
so full of hope as that which is dedicated to the Paraclete — that
is, the Comforter.
Where could a Christian find a more peaceful grave than in
the society of holy women, consecrated by God? They, as the
Gospel tells us, would not leave their divine Master; they em-
balmed His body with precious spices; they followed Him to the
tomb, and there they held their vigil. In return, it was to them
that the angel of the resurrection appeared for their consolation.
## p. 33 (#47) ##############################################
ABÉLARD
33
Finally, let me entreat you that the solicitude you now too
strongly feel for my life you will extend to the repose of my soul.
Carry into my grave the love you showed me when alive; that is,
never forget to pray Heaven for me.
Long life, farewell! Long life, farewell, to your sisters also!
Remember me, but let it be in Christ!
Translated for the (World's Best Literature. )
THE VESPER HYMN OF ABÉLARD
0"
H, WHAT shall be, oh, when shall be that holy Sabbath day,
Which heavenly care shall ever keep and celebrate alway,
When rest is found for weary limbs, when labor hath
reward,
When everything forevermore is joyful in the Lord ?
The true Jerusalem above, the holy town, is there,
Whose duties are so full of joy, whose joy so free from care;
Where disappointment cometh not to check the longing heart,
And where the heart, in ecstasy, hath gained her better part.
O glorious King, O happy state, O palace of the blest!
O sacred place and holy joy, and perfect, heavenly rest!
To thee aspire thy citizens in glory's bright array,
And what they feel and what they know they strive in vain to say.
For while we wait and long for home, it shall be ours to raise
Our songs and chants and vows and prayers in that dear coun-
try's praise;
And from these Babylonian streams to lift our weary eyes,
And view the city that we love descending from the skies.
There, there, secure from every ill, in freedom we shall sing
The songs of Zion, hindered here by days of suffering,
And unto Thee, our gracious Lord, our praises shall confess
That all our sorrow hath been good, and Thou by pain canst bless.
There Sabbath day to Sabbath day sheds on a ceaseless light,
Eternal pleasure of the saints who keep that Sabbath bright;
Nor shall the chant ineffable decline, nor ever cease,
Which we with all the angels sing in that sweet realm of peace.
Translation of Dr. Samuel W. Duffield.
1-3
## p. 34 (#48) ##############################################
34
EDMOND ABOUT
(1828–1885)
E
ARLY in the reign of Louis Napoleon, a serial story called
(Tolla,' a vivid study of social life in Rome, delighted the
readers of the Revue des Deux Mondes. When published
in book form in 1855 it drew a storm of opprobrium upon its young
author, who was accused of offering as his own creation a translation
of the Italian work (Vittoria Savorelli. ' This charge, undoubtedly
unjust, he indignantly refuted. It served at least to make his name
well known. Another book, "La Question Romaine,' a brilliant if
somewhat superficial argument against the temporal power of pope
and priests, was a philosophic employment
of the same material. Appearing in 1860,
about the epoch of the French invasion of
Austrian Italy, its tone agreed with popular
sentiment and it was favorably received.
Edmond François Valentin About had a
freakish, evasive, many-sided personality, a
nature drawn in too many directions to
achieve in any one of these the success his
talents warranted. He was born in Dreuze,
and like most French boys of literary am-
bition, soon found his way to Paris, where
EDMOND ABOUT
he studied at the Lycée Charlemagne. Here
he won the honor prize; and in 1851 was sent to Athens to study
archæology at the École Française. He loved change and out-of-
the-way experiences, and two studies resulted from this trip: "La
Grèce Contemporaine,' a book of charming philosophic description;
and the delightful story "Le Roi des Montagnes' (The King of the
Mountains). This tale of the long-limbed German student, enveloped
in the smoke from his porcelain pipe as he recounts a series of
impossible adventures, — those of himself and two English women,
captured for ransom by Hadgi Stavros, brigand king in the Grecian
mountains, —is especially characteristic of About in the humorous
atmosphere of every situation.
About wrote stories so easily and well that his early desertion of
fiction is surprising. His mocking spirit has often suggested compar-
ison with Voltaire, whom he studied and admired. He too is a skep-
tic and an idol-breaker; but his is a kindlier irony, a less incisive
philosophy. Perhaps, however, this influence led to lack of faith in
his own work, to his loss of an ideal, which Zola thinks the real
## p. 35 (#49) ##############################################
EDMOND ABOUT
35
secret of his sudden change from novelist to journalist. Voltaire
taught him to scoff and disbelieve, to demand « à quoi bon ? » and that
took the heart out of him. He was rather fond of exposing abuses,
a habit that appears in those witty letters to the Gaulois which in
1878 obliged him to suspend that journal. His was a positive mind,
interested in political affairs, and with something always ready to
say upon them.
In 1872 he founded a radical newspaper, Le XIXme
Siècle (The Nineteenth Century), in association with another aggress-
ive spirit, that of Francisque Sarcey. For many years he proved his
ability as editor, business man, and keen polemist.
He tried drama, too, inevitable ambition of young French authors;
but after the failure of “Guillery) at the Théâtre Française and
Gaétena' at the Odéon, renounced the theatre. Indeed, his power
is in odd conceptions, in the covert laugh and humorous suggestion
of the phrasing, rather than in plot or characterization. He will
always be best known for the tales and novels in that thoroughly
French style — clear, concise, and witty — which in 1878 elected him
president of the Société des Gens de Lettres, and in 1884 won him a
seat in the Academy.
About wrote a number of novels, most of them as well known
in translation to English and American readers as to his French
audience. The bright stories originally published in the Moniteur,
afterward collected with the title 'Les Mariages de Paris,' had a con-
spicuous success, and were followed by a companion volume, Les
Mariages de Province. L'Homme à l'Oreille Cassée' (The Man
with the Broken Ear) — the story of a mummy resuscitated to a world
of new conditions after many years of apparent death — shows his
freakish delight in oddity. So does 'Le Nez du Notaire) (The
Notary's Nose), a gruesome tale of the tribulations of a handsome
society man, whose nose is struck off in a duel by a revengeful Turk.
The victim buys a bit of living skin from a poor water-carrier, and
obtains a new nose by successful grafting. But he can nevermore get
rid of the uncongenial Aquarius, who exercises occult influence over
the skin with which he has parted. When he drinks too much, the
Notary's nose is red; when he starves, it dwindles away; when he
loses the arm from which the graft was made, the important feature
drops off altogether, and the sufferer must needs buy a silver one.
About's latest novel, “Le Roman d'un Brave Homme (The Story of
an Honest Man), is in quite another vein, a charming picture of
bourgeois virtue in revolutionary days. "Madelon' and 'La Vielle
Roche' (The Old School) are also popular.
French critics have not found much to say of this non-evolutionist
of letters, who is neither pure realist nor pure romanticist, and who
has no new theory of art. Some, indeed, may have scorned him for
## p. 36 (#50) ##############################################
36
EDMOND ABOUT
the wise taste which refuses to tread the debatable ground common
to French fiction. But the reading public has received him with less
conscious analysis, and has delighted in him. If he sees only what
any clever man may see, and is no profound psychologist, yet he
tells what he sees and what he imagines with delightful spirit and
delightful wit, and tinges the fabric of his fancy with the ever-chan-
ging colors of his own versatile personality, fanciful suggestions,
homely realism, and bright antithesis. Above all, he has the great
gift of the story-teller.
THE CAPTURE
"S"
From "The King of the Mountains)
r! ST! ”
I raised my eyes.
Two thickets of mastic-trees and arbutus
inclosed the road on the right and left. From each tuft
of trees protruded three or four musket-barrels. A voice cried
out in Greek, “Seat yourselves on the ground! ” This operation
was the more easy to me, as my legs gave way under me. But I
consoled myself by thinking that Ajax, Agamemnon, and the fiery
Achilles, if they had found themselves in the same situation, would
not have refused the seat that was offered.
The musket-barrels were leveled upon us. It seemed to me
that they stretched out immeasurably, and that their muzzles were
about to join above our heads. It was not that fear disturbed my
vision; but I had never remarked so sensibly the desperate length
of the Greek muskets! The whole arsenal soon debouched into
the road, and every barrel showed its stock and its master.
The only difference which exists between devils and brigands
is, that devils are less black than they are said to be, and brigands
more dirty than people suppose. The eight bullies, who packed
themselves in a circle around us, were so filthy in appearance that
I should have wished to give them my money with a pair of tongs.
You might guess, with a little effort, that their caps had been
red; but lye-wash itself could not have restored the original color
of their clothes. All the rocks of the kingdom had stained their
cotton shirts, and their vests preserved a sample of the different
soils on which they had reposed. Their hands, their faces, and
even their moustachios were of a reddish-gray, like the soil which
supports them. Every animal is colored according to its abode
and its habits: the foxes of Greenland are of the color of snow;
## p. 37 (#51) ##############################################
EDMOND ABOUT
37
lions, of the desert; partridges, of the furrow; Greek brigands, of
the highway.
The chief of the little troop which had made us prisoners was
distinguished by no outward mark. Perhaps, however, his face,
his hands, and his clothes were richer in dust than those of his
comrades. He leaned toward us from the height of his tall figure,
and examined us so closely that I felt the grazing of his mous-
tachios. You would have pronounced him a tiger, who smells of
his prey before tasting it. When his curiosity was satisfied, he
said to Dimitri, «Empty your pockets! ”
Dimitri did not give him cause to repeat the order: he threw
down before him a knife, a tobacco-pouch, and three Mexican
dollars, which compose a sum of about sixteen francs.
“Is that all ? ” demanded the brigand.
« Yes, brother. ”
“You are the servant ? »
“Yes, brother. »
« Take back one dollar. You must not return to the city
without money. ”
Dimitri haggled. “You could well allow me two,” said he: "I
have two horses below; they are hired from the riding-school; I
shall have to pay for the day. ”
"You will explain to Zimmerman that we have taken your
money from you. ”
"And if he wishes to be paid, notwithstanding ?
"Answer that he is lucky enough to see his horses again. ”
“He knows very well that you do not take horses. What
would you do with them in the mountains ? ”
« Enough! What is this big raw-boned animal next you ? ”
I answered for myself: "An honest German, whose spoils will
not enrich you. "
«You speak Greek well. Empty your pockets. ”
I deposited on the road a score of francs, my tobacco, my
pipe, and my handkerchief.
“What is that? ” asked the grand inquisitor.
"A handkerchief. "
« For what purpose ? '
“To wipe my nose. ”
"Why did you tell me that you were poor? It is only milords
who wipe their noses with handkerchiefs. Take off the box which
you have behind your back. Good! Open it!
## p. 38 (#52) ##############################################
38
EDMOND ABOUT
My box contained some plants, a book, a knife, a little pack-
age of arsenic, a gourd nearly empty, and the remnants of my
breakfast, which kindled a look of covetousness in the eyes of
Mrs. Simons. I had the assurance to offer them to her before my
baggage changed masters. She accepted greedily, and began to
devour the bread and meat. To my great astonishment, this act
of gluttony scandalized our robbers, who murmured among them-
selves the word “Schismatic! ” The monk made half a dozen
signs of the cross, according to the rite of the Greek Church.
“You must have a watch," said the brigand: "put it with the
rest. »
I gave up my silver watch, a hereditary toy of the weight
of four ounces. The villains passed it from hand to hand, and
thought it very beautiful. I was in hopes that admiration, which
makes men better, would dispose them to restore me something,
and I begged their chief to let me have my tin box.
monkish habit and retired to the monastery of St. Denis, while
Héloise, by his order, took the veil at Argenteuil. Her devotion and
heroism on this occasion Abélard has described in touching terms.
Thus supernaturalism had done its worst for these two strong,
impetuous human souls.
If Abélard had entered the cloister in the hope of finding peace,
he soon discovered his mistake. The dissolute life of the monks
utterly disgusted him, while the clergy stormed him with petitions to
continue his lectures. Yielding to these, he was soon again sur-
rounded by crowds of students — so great that the monks at St. Denis
were glad to get rid of him. He accordingly retired to a lonely cell,
to which he was followed by more admirers than could find shelter
or food. As the schools of Paris were thereby emptied, his rivals did
everything in their power to put a stop to his teaching, declaring
that as a monk he ought not to teach profane science, nor as a lay-
man in theology sacred science. In order to legitimatize his claim to
teach the latter, he now wrote a theological treatise, regarding which
he says: —
## p. 22 (#36) ##############################################
22
ABÉLARD
«It so happened that I first endeavored to illuminate the basis of our
faith by similitudes drawn from human reason, and to compose for our stu-
dents a treatise on (The Divine Unity and Trinity,' because they kept asking
for human and philosophic reasons, and demanding rather what could be
understood than what could be said, declaring that the mere utterance of
words was useless unless followed by understanding; that nothing could be
believed that was not first understood, and that it was ridiculous for any one
to preach what neither he nor those he taught could comprehend, God him-
self calling such people blind leaders of the blind. ”
(
Here we have Abélard's central position, exactly the opposite to
that of his realist contemporary, Anselm of Canterbury, whose prin-
ciple was Credo ut intelligam” (I believe, that I may understand).
We must not suppose, however, that Abélard, with his rationalism,
dreamed of undermining Christian dogma. Very far from it!
He
believed it to be rational, and thought he could prove it so.
No won-
der that the book gave offense, in an age when faith and ecstasy
were placed above reason. Indeed, his rivals could have wished for
nothing better than this book, which gave them a weapon to use
against him. Led on by two old enemies, Alberich and Lotulf, they
caused an ecclesiastical council to be called at Soissons, to pass judg-
ment upon the book (1121). This judgment was a foregone conclusion,
the trial being the merest farce, in which the pursuers were the judges,
the Papal legate allowing his better reason to be overruled by their
passion. Abélard was condemned to burn his book in public, and to
read the Athanasian Creed as his confession of faith (which he did
in tears), and then to be confined permanently in the monastery of
St. Médard as a dangerous heretic.
His enemies seemed to have triumphed and to have silenced him
forever. Soon after, however, the Papal legate, ashamed of the part
he had taken in the transaction, restored him to liberty and allowed
him to return to his own monastery at St. Denis. Here once more
his rationalistic, critical spirit brought him into trouble with the big-
oted, licentious monks. Having maintained, on the authority of Beda,
that Dionysius, the patron saint of the monastery, was bishop of Cor-
inth and not of Athens, he raised such a storm that he was forced
to flee, and took refuge on a neighboring estate, whose proprietor,
Count Thibauld, was friendly to him. Here he was cordially received
by the monks of Troyes, and allowed to occupy a retreat belonging
to them.
After some time, and with great difficulty, he obtained leave from
the abbot of St. Denis to live where he chose, on condition of not
joining any other order. Being now practically a free man, he
retired to a lonely spot near Nogent-sur-Seine, on the banks of the
Ardusson. There, having received a gift of a piece of land, he estab-
## p. 23 (#37) ##############################################
ABÉLARD
23
lished himself along with a friendly cleric, building a small oratory
of clay and reeds to the Holy Trinity. No sooner, however, was
his place of retreat known than he was followed into the wilderness
by hosts of students of all ranks, who lived in tents, slept on the
ground, and underwent every kind of hardship, in order to listen to
him (1123). These supplied his wants, and built a chapel, which he
dedicated to the Paraclete, ” — a name at which his enemies, furious
over his success, were greatly scandalized, but which ever after
designated the whole establishment.
So incessant and unrelenting were the persecutions he suffered
from those enemies, and so deep his indignation at their baseness,
that for some time he seriously thought of escaping beyond the
bounds of Christendom, and seeking refuge among the Muslim. But
just then (1125) he was offered an important position, the abbotship
of the monastery of St. Gildas-de-Rhuys, in Lower Brittany, on the
lonely, inhospitable shore of the Atlantic. Eager for rest and a posi-
tion promising influence, Abélard accepted the offer and left the Par-
aclete, not knowing what he was doing.
His position at St. Gildas was little less than slow martyrdom.
The country was wild, the inhabitants were half barbarous, speaking
a language unintelligible to him; the monks were violent, unruly, and
dissolute, openly living with concubines; the lands of the monastery
were subjected to intolerable burdens by the neighboring lord, leav-
ing the monks in poverty and discontent. Instead of finding a home
of God-fearing men, eager for enlightenment, he found a nest of greed
and corruption. His attempts to introduce discipline, or even decency,
among his sons," only stirred up rebellion and placed his life in dan-
ger. Many times he was menaced with the sword, many times with
poison. In spite of all that, he clung to his office, and labored to do
his duty. Meanwhile the jealous abbot of St. Denis succeeded in
establishing a claim to the lands of the convent at Argenteuil, - of
which Héloise, long since famous not only for learning but also for
saintliness, was now the head,- and she and her nuns were violently
evicted and cast on the world. Hearing of this with indignation,
Abélard at once offered the homeless sisters the deserted Paraclete
and all its belongings. The offer was thankfully accepted, and Hélo-
ise with her family removed there to spend the remainder of her life.
It does not appear that Abélard and Héloïse ever saw each other at
this time, although he used every means in his power to provide for
her safety and comfort. This was in 1129. Two years later the Para-
clete was confirmed to Héloise by a Papal bull. It remained a con-
vent, and a famous one, for over six hundred years.
After this Abélard paid several visits to the convent, which he
justly regarded as his foundation, in order to arrange a rule of life
## p. 24 (#38) ##############################################
24
ABÉLARD
for its inmates, and to encourage them in their vocation. Although
on these occasions he saw nothing of Héloise, he did not escape the
malignant suspicions of the world, nor of his own flock, which now
became more unruly than ever, - so much so that he was compelled
to live outside the inonastery. Excommunication was tried in vain,
and even the efforts of a Papal legate failed to restore order. For
Abélard there was nothing but « fear within and conflict without. ”
It was at this time, about 1132, that he wrote his famous Historia
Calamitatum,' from which most of the above account of his life has
been taken. In 1134, after nine years of painful struggle, he defi-
nitely left St. Gildas, without, however, resigning the abbotship. For
the next two years he seems to have led a retired life, revising his
old works and composing new ones.
Meanwhile, by some chance, his History of Calamities) fell into
the hands of Héloise at the Paraclete, was devoured with breathless
interest, and rekindled the flame that seemed to have smoldered in
her bosom for thirteen long years. Overcome with compassion for
her husband, for such he really was, she at once wrote to him a let-
ter which reveals the first healthy human heart-beat that had found
expression in Christendom for a thousand years. Thus began a cor-
respondence which, for genuine tragic pathos and human interest,
has no equal in the world's literature. In Abélard, the scholarly
monk has completely replaced the man; in Héloise, the saintly nun
is but a veil assumed in loving obedience to him, to conceal the
deep-hearted, faithful, devoted flesh-and-blood woman. And such a
woman! It may well be doubted if, for all that constitutes genuine
womanhood, she ever had an equal. If there is salvation in love,
Héloise is in the heaven of heavens. She does not try to express her
love in poems, as Mrs. Browning did; but her simple, straightforward
expression of a love that would share Francesca's fate with her lover,
rather than go to heaven without him, yields, and has yielded,
matter for a hundred poems. She looks forward to no salvation; for
her chief love is for him. Domino specialiter, sua singulariter: “As a
member of the species woman I am the Lord's, as Héloïse I am
yours ” — nominalism with a vengeance!
But to return to Abélard. Permanent quiet in obscurity was
plainly impossible for him; and so in 1136 we find him back at Ste.
Généviève, lecturing to crowds of enthusiastic students. He probably
thought that during the long years of his exile, the envy and hatred
of his enemies had died out; but he soon discovered that he was
greatly mistaken. He was too marked a character, and the tendency
of his thought too dangerous, for that. Besides, he emptied the
schools of his rivals, and adopted no conciliatory tone toward them.
The natural result followed. In the year 1140, his enemies, headed
## p. 25 (#39) ##############################################
ABÉLARD
25
by St. Bernard, who had long regarded him with suspicion, raised a
cry of heresy against him, as subjecting everything to reason. Ber-
nard, who was nothing if not a fanatic, and who managed to give
vent to all his passions by placing them in the service of his God, at
once denounced him to the Pope, to cardinals, and to bishops, in
passionate letters, full of rhetoric, demanding his condemnation as a
perverter of the bases of the faith.
At that time a great ecclesiastical council was about to assem-
ble at Sens; and Abélard, feeling certain that his writings contained
nothing which he could not show to be strictly orthodox, demanded
that he should be allowed to explain and dialectically defend his
position, in open dispute, before it. But this was above all things
what his enemies dreaded. They felt that nothing was safe before
his brilliant dialectic. Bernard even refused to enter the lists with
him; and preferred to draw up a list of his heresies, in the form of
sentences sundered from their context in his works, some of them,
indeed, from works which he never wrote,- and to call upon the coun-
cil to condemn them. (These theses may be found in Denzinger's
'Enchiridion Symbolorum et Definitionum,' pp. 109 seq. ) Abélard,
clearly understanding the scheme, feeling its unfairness, and knowing
the effect of Bernard's lachrymose pulpit rhetoric upon sympathetic
ecclesiastics who believed in his power to work miracles, appeared
before the council, only to appeal from its authority to Rome. The
council, though somewhat disconcerted by this, proceeded to con-
demn the disputed theses, and sent a notice of its action to the Pope.
Fearing that Abélard, who had friends in Rome, might proceed
thither and obtain a reversal of the verdict, Bernard set every agency
at work to obtain a confirmation of it before his victim could reach
the Eternal City. And he succeeded.
The result was for a time kept secret from Abélard, who, now
over sixty years old, set out on his painful journey. Stopping on his
way at the famous, hospitable Abbey of Cluny, he was most kindly
entertained by its noble abbot, who well deserved the name of Peter
the Venerable. Here, apparently, he learned that he had been con-
demned and excommunicated; for he went no further. Peter offered
the weary man an asylum in his house, which was gladly accepted;
and Abélard, at last convinced of the vanity of all worldly ambition,
settled down to a life of humiliation, meditation, study, and prayer.
Soon afterward Bernard made advances toward reconciliation, which
Abélard accepted; whereupon his excommunication was removed.
Then the once proud Abélard, shattered in body and broken in spirit,
had nothing more to do but to prepare for another life. And the end
was not far off. He died at St. Marcel, on the 21st of April, 1142,
at the age of sixty-three. His generous host, in a letter to Héloise,
## p. 26 (#40) ##############################################
26
ABÉLARD
**
T
M
7
gives a touching account of his closing days, which were mostly
spent in a retreat provided for him on the banks of the Saône.
There he read, wrote, dictated, and prayed, in the only quiet days
which his life ever knew.
The body of Abélard was placed in a monolith coffin and buried
in the chapel of the monastery of St. Marcel; but Peter the Vener-
able twenty-two years afterward allowed it to be secretly removed,
and carried to the Paraclete, where Abélard had wished to lie. When
Héloise, world-famous for learning, virtue, and saintliness, passed
away, and her body was laid beside his, he opened his arms and
clasped her in close embrace. So says the legend, and who would
not believe it? The united remains of the immortal lovers, after
many vicissitudes, found at last (let us hope), in 1817, a permanent
resting place, in the Parisian cemetery of Père Lachaise, having been
placed together in Abélard's monolith coffin. «In death they were
not divided. ”
Abélard's character may be summed up in a few words. He was
one of the most brilliant and variously gifted men that ever lived, a
sincere lover of truth and champion of freedom. But unfortunately,
his extraordinary personal beauty and charm of manner made him
the object of so much attention and adulation that he soon became
unable to live without seeing himself mirrored in the admiration
and love of others. Hence his restlessness, irritability, craving for
publicity, fondness for dialectic triumph, and inability to live in
fruitful obscurity; hence, too, his intrigue with Héloise, his continual
struggles and disappointments, his final humiliation and tragic end.
Not having conquered the world, he cannot claim the crown of the
martyr.
Abélard's works were collected by Cousin, and published in three
4to volumes (Paris, 1836, 1849, 1859). They include, besides the cor-
respondence with Héloïse, and a number of sermons, hymns, answers
to questions, etc. , written for her, the following:-(1) Sic et Non,'
a collection of (often contradictory) statements of the Fathers con-
cerning the chief dogmas of religion, (2) Dialectic,' (3) 'On Genera
and Species,' (4) Glosses to Porphyry's Introduction,' Aristotle's
Categories and Interpretation, and Boethius's Topics,' (5) Intro-
duction to Theology,' (6) 'Christian Theology,' (7) Commentary on
the Epistle to the Romans,' (9) Abstract of Christian Theology,' (10)
Ethics, or Know Thyself, (1) Dialogue between a Philosopher, a
Jew, and a Christian,' (12) On the Intellects,' (12) “On the Hex-
ameron,' with a few short and unimportant fragments and tracts.
None of Abélard's numerous poems in the vernacular, in which he
celebrated his love for Héloïse, which he sang ravishingly (for he was
a famous singer), and which at once became widely popular, seem
2
L
(
(
## p. 27 (#41) ##############################################
ABÉLARD
27
to have come down to us; but we have a somewhat lengthy poem,
of considerable merit (though of doubtful authenticity), addressed to
his son Astralabius, who grew to manhood, became a cleric, and died,
it seems, as abbot of Hauterive in Switzerland, in 162.
Of Abélard's philosophy, little need be added to what has been
already said. It is, on the whole, the philosophy of the Middle Age,
with this difference: that he insists upon making theology rational,
and thus may truly be called the founder of modern rationalism, and
the initiator of the struggle against the tyrannic authority of blind
faith. To have been so is his crowning merit, and is one that can
hardly be overestimated. At the same time it must be borne in mind
that he was a loyal son of the Church, and never dreamed of oppos-
ing or undermining her. His greatest originality is in Ethics,' in
which, by placing the essence of morality in the intent and not in
the action, he anticipated Kant and much modern speculation.
Here he did admirable work. Abélard founded no school, strictly
speaking; nevertheless, he determined the method and aim of Scho-
lasticism, and exercised a boundless influence, which is not dead.
Descartes and Kant are his children. Among his immediate disciples
were a pope, twenty-nine cardinals, and more than fifty bishops. His
two greatest pupils were Peter the Lombard, bishop of Paris, and
author of the Sentences,' the theological text-book of the schools for
hundreds of years; and Arnold of Brescia, one of the noblest cham-
pions of human liberty, though condemned and banished by the second
Council of the Lateran.
The best biography of Abélard is that by Charles de Rémusat (2
vols. , 8vo, Paris, 1845). See also, in English, Wight's Abelard and
Eloise (New York, 1853).
Hlavar Dave
A , a ,
HÉLOÏSE TO ABÉLARD
LETTER of yours sent to a friend, best beloved, to console him
in affliction, was lately, almost by a chance, put into my
hands. Seeing the superscription, guess how eagerly I
seized it! I had lost the reality; I hoped to draw some comfort
from this faint image of you. But alas ! - for I well remember -
every line was written with gall and wormwood.
How you retold our sorrowful history, and dwelt on your inces-
sant afflictions! Well did you fulfill that promise to your friend,
## p. 28 (#42) ##############################################
28
ABÉLARD
-
I and my
that, in comparison with your own, his misfortunes should seem
but as trifles. You recalled the persecutions of your masters, the
cruelty of my uncle, and the fierce hostility of your fellow-pupils,
Albericus of Rheims, and Lotulphus of Lombardy — how through
their plottings that glorious book your Theology was burned, and
you confined and disgraced — you went on to the machinations of
the Abbot of St. Denys and of your false brethren of the con-
vent, and the calumnies of those wretches, Norbert and Bernard,
who envy and hate you. It was even, you say, imputed to you
as an offense to have given the name of Paraclete, contrary to
the common practice, to the Oratory you had founded.
The persecutions of that cruel tyrant of St. Gildas, and of
those execrable monks, - monks out of greed only, whom notwith-
standing you call your children, - which still harass you, close the
miserable history. Nobody could read or hear these things and
not be moved to tears. What then must they mean to me?
We all despair of your life, and our trembling hearts dread to
hear the tidings of your murder. For Christ's sake, who has
thus far protected you,--write to us, as to His handmaids and
yours, every circumstance of your present dangers.
sisters alone remain of all who were your friends. Let us be
sharers of your joys and sorrows. Sympathy brings some relief,
and a load laid on many shoulders is lighter. And write the more
surely, if your letters may be messengers of joy. Whatever mes-
sage they bring, at least they will show that you remember us.
You can write to comfort your friend: while you soothe his
wounds, you inflame mine. Heal, I pray you, those you yourself
have made, you who bustle about to cure those for which you are
not responsible. You cultivate a vineyard you did not plant,
which grows nothing. Give heed to what you owe your own.
You who spend so much on the obstinate, consider what you owe
the obedient. You who lavish pains on your enemies, reflect on
.
what you owe your daughters. And, counting nothing else, think
how you are bound to me! What you owe to all devoted women,
pay to her who is most devoted.
You know better than I how many treatises the holy fathers
of the Church have written for our instruction; how they have
labored to inform, to advise, and to console us. Is my ignorance
to suggest knowledge to the learned Abélard ? Long ago, indeed,
your neglect astonished me. Neither religion, nor love of me, nor
the example of the holy fathers, moved you to try to fix my
## p. 29 (#43) ##############################################
ABÉLARD
29
struggling soul. Never, even when long grief had worn me down,
,
did you come to see me, or send me one line of comfort, -me, to
whom you were bound by marriage, and who clasp you about with
a measureless love! And for the sake of this love have I no
right to even a thought of yours ?
You well know, dearest, how much I lost in losing you, and
that the manner of it put me to double torture. You only can
comfort me. By you I was wounded, and by you I must be
healed. And it is only you on whom the debt rests. I have
obeyed the last tittle of your commands; and if you bade me, I
would sacrifice my soul.
To please you my love gave up the only thing in the universe
it valued — the hope of your presence — and that forever. The
instant I received your commands I quitted the habit of the
world, and denied all the wishes of my nature. I meant to give
up, for your sake, whatever I had once a right to call my own.
God knows it was always you, and you only that I thought of.
I looked for no dowry, no alliance of marriage. And if the name
of wife is holier and more exalted, the name of friend always
remained sweeter to me, or if you would not be angry, a meaner
title; since the more I gave up, the less should I injure your
present renown, and the more deserve your love.
Nor had you yourself forgotten this in that letter which I
recall. You are ready enough to set forth some of the reasons
which I used to you, to persuade you not to fetter your freedom,
but you pass over most of the pleas I made to withhold you from
our ill-fated wedlock. I call God to witness that if Augustus,
ruler of the world, should think me worthy the honor of marriage,
and settle the whole globe on me to rule forever, it would seem
dearer and prouder to me to be called your mistress than his
empress.
Not because a man is rich or powerful is he better : riches
and power may come from luck, constancy is from virtue. I
hold that woman base who weds a rich man rather than a poor
one, and takes a husband for her own gain. Whoever marries
with such a motive—why, she will follow his prosperity rather
than the man, and be willing to sell herself to a richer suitor.
That happiness which others imagine, best beloved, I experi-
enced. Other women might think their husbands perfect, and be
happy in the idea, but I knew that you were so and the universe
knew the same.
What philosopher, what king, could rival your
## p. 30 (#44) ##############################################
30
ABÉLARD
fame? What village, city, kingdom, was not on fire to see you?
When you appeared in public, who did not run to behold you ?
Wives and maidens alike recognized your beauty and grace.
Queens envied Héloïse her Abélard.
Two gifts you had to lead captive the proudest soul, your voice
that made all your teaching a delight, and your singing, which
was like no other.
Do you forget those tender songs you wrote
for me, which all the world caught up and sang,— but not like
you,-
nose songs that kept your name ever floating in the air,
and made me known through many lands, the envy and the scorn
of women ?
What gifts of mind, what gifts of person glorified you ! Oh,
my loss! Who would change places with me now !
And you know, Abelard, that though I am the great cause
of your misfortunes, I am most innocent. For a consequence is
no part of a crime. Justice weighs not the thing done, but the
intention. And how pure was my intention toward you, you alone
can judge. Judge me! I will submit.
But how happens it, tell me, that since my profession of the
life which you alone determined, I have been so neglected and so
forgotten that you will neither see me nor write to me? Make
me understand it, if you can, or I must tell you what everybody
says : that it was not a pure love like mine that held your heart,
and that your coarser feeling vanished with absence and ill-report.
Would that to me alone this seemed so, best beloved, and not to
all the world! Would that I could hear others excuse you, or
devise excuses myself !
The things I ask ought to seem very small and easy to you.
While I starve for you, do, now and then, by words, bring back
your presence to me! How can you be generous in deeds if you
so avaricious in words? I have done everything for your
sake. It was not religion that dragged me, a young girl, so fond
of life, so ardent, to the harshness of the convent, but only your
command.
If I deserve nothing from you, how vain is my labor !
God will not recompense me, for whose love I have done nothing.
When you resolved to take the vows, I followed, - rather, I
ran before.
You had the image of Lot's wife before your eyes ;
you feared I might look back, and therefore you deeded me to
God by the sacred vestments and irrevocable vows before you
took them yourself. For this, I own, I grieved, bitterly ashamed
that I could depend on you so little, when I would lead or follow
are
## p. 31 (#45) ##############################################
ABÉLARD
31
you straight to perdition. For my soul is always with you and
no longer mine own. And if it is not with you in these last
wretched years, it is nowhere. Do receive it kindly. Oh, if only
you had returned favor for favor, even a little for the much,
words for things! Would, beloved, that your affection would not
take my tenderness and obedience always for granted ; that it
might be more anxious! But just because I have poured out all
I have and am, you give me nothing. Remember, oh, remember
how much you owe !
There was a time when people doubted whether I had given
you all my heart, asking nothing. But the end shows how I
began. I have denied myself a life which promised at least peace
and work in the world, only to obey your hard exactions. I have
kept back nothing for myself, except the comfort of pleasing you.
How hard and cruel are you then, when I ask so little and that
little is so easy for you to give !
In the name of God, to whom you are dedicate, send me some
lines of consolation. Help me to learn obedience! When you
wooed me because earthly love was beautiful, you sent me letter
after letter. With your divine singing every street and house
echoed my name ! How much more ought you now to persuade
to God her whom then you turned from Him ! Heed what I ask ;
think what you owe. I have written a long letter, but the ending
shall be short. Farewell, darling !
ABÉLARD'S ANSWER TO HÉLOÏSE
I"
To Héloïse, his best beloved Sister in Christ,
Abélard, her Brother in Him:
F, SINCE we resigned the world I have not written to you, it was
because of the high opinion I have ever entertained of your
wisdom and prudence. How could I think that she stood in
need of help on whom Heaven had showered its best gifts? You
were able, I knew, by example as by word, to instruct the igno-
rant, to comfort the timid, to kindle the lukewarm.
When prioress of Argenteuil, you practiced all these duties;
and if you give the same attention to your daughters that you
then gave to your sisters, it is enough. All my exhortations would
be needless.
But if, in your humility, you think otherwise, and if
my words can avail you anything, tell me on what subjects you
would have me write, and as God shall direct me I will instruct
## p. 32 (#46) ##############################################
ABÉLARD
32
may be.
you. I thank God that the constant dangers to which I am
exposed rouse your sympathies. Thus I may hope, under the
divine protection of your prayers, to see Satan bruised under my
feet.
Therefore I hasten to send you the form of prayer you
beseech of me — you, my sister, once dear to me in the world, but
now far dearer in Christ. Offer to God a constant sacrifice of
prayer. Urge him to pardon our great and manifold sins, and to
avert the dangers which threaten me. We know how powerful
before God and his saints are the prayers of the faithful, but
chiefly of faithful women for their friends, and of wives for their
husbands. The Apostle admonishes us to pray without ceasing.
But I will not insist on the supplications of your sister-
hood, day and night devoted to the service of their Maker; to
you only do I turn. I well know how powerful your intercession
I pray you, exert it in this my need. In your prayers,
then, ever remember him who, in a special sense, is yours. Urge
your entreaties, for it is just that you should be heard. An equi-
table judge cannot refuse it.
In former days, you remember, best beloved, how fervently
you recommended me to the care of Providence. Often in the
day you uttered a special petition. Removed now from the Para-
clete, and surrounded by perils, how much greater my need! Con-
vince me of the sincerity of your regard, I entreat, I implore you.
[The Prayer:] "O God, who by Thy servant didst here assem-
ble Thy handmaids in Thy Holy Name, grant, we beseech Thee,
that he be protected from all adversity, and be restored safe to
us, Thy handmaids. ”
If Heaven permit my enemies to destroy me, or if I perish by
accident, see that my body is conveyed to the Paraclete. There,
my daughters, or rather my sisters in Christ, seeing my tomb, will
not cease to implore Heaven for me. No resting-place is so safe
for the grieving soul, forsaken in the wilderness of its sins, none
so full of hope as that which is dedicated to the Paraclete — that
is, the Comforter.
Where could a Christian find a more peaceful grave than in
the society of holy women, consecrated by God? They, as the
Gospel tells us, would not leave their divine Master; they em-
balmed His body with precious spices; they followed Him to the
tomb, and there they held their vigil. In return, it was to them
that the angel of the resurrection appeared for their consolation.
## p. 33 (#47) ##############################################
ABÉLARD
33
Finally, let me entreat you that the solicitude you now too
strongly feel for my life you will extend to the repose of my soul.
Carry into my grave the love you showed me when alive; that is,
never forget to pray Heaven for me.
Long life, farewell! Long life, farewell, to your sisters also!
Remember me, but let it be in Christ!
Translated for the (World's Best Literature. )
THE VESPER HYMN OF ABÉLARD
0"
H, WHAT shall be, oh, when shall be that holy Sabbath day,
Which heavenly care shall ever keep and celebrate alway,
When rest is found for weary limbs, when labor hath
reward,
When everything forevermore is joyful in the Lord ?
The true Jerusalem above, the holy town, is there,
Whose duties are so full of joy, whose joy so free from care;
Where disappointment cometh not to check the longing heart,
And where the heart, in ecstasy, hath gained her better part.
O glorious King, O happy state, O palace of the blest!
O sacred place and holy joy, and perfect, heavenly rest!
To thee aspire thy citizens in glory's bright array,
And what they feel and what they know they strive in vain to say.
For while we wait and long for home, it shall be ours to raise
Our songs and chants and vows and prayers in that dear coun-
try's praise;
And from these Babylonian streams to lift our weary eyes,
And view the city that we love descending from the skies.
There, there, secure from every ill, in freedom we shall sing
The songs of Zion, hindered here by days of suffering,
And unto Thee, our gracious Lord, our praises shall confess
That all our sorrow hath been good, and Thou by pain canst bless.
There Sabbath day to Sabbath day sheds on a ceaseless light,
Eternal pleasure of the saints who keep that Sabbath bright;
Nor shall the chant ineffable decline, nor ever cease,
Which we with all the angels sing in that sweet realm of peace.
Translation of Dr. Samuel W. Duffield.
1-3
## p. 34 (#48) ##############################################
34
EDMOND ABOUT
(1828–1885)
E
ARLY in the reign of Louis Napoleon, a serial story called
(Tolla,' a vivid study of social life in Rome, delighted the
readers of the Revue des Deux Mondes. When published
in book form in 1855 it drew a storm of opprobrium upon its young
author, who was accused of offering as his own creation a translation
of the Italian work (Vittoria Savorelli. ' This charge, undoubtedly
unjust, he indignantly refuted. It served at least to make his name
well known. Another book, "La Question Romaine,' a brilliant if
somewhat superficial argument against the temporal power of pope
and priests, was a philosophic employment
of the same material. Appearing in 1860,
about the epoch of the French invasion of
Austrian Italy, its tone agreed with popular
sentiment and it was favorably received.
Edmond François Valentin About had a
freakish, evasive, many-sided personality, a
nature drawn in too many directions to
achieve in any one of these the success his
talents warranted. He was born in Dreuze,
and like most French boys of literary am-
bition, soon found his way to Paris, where
EDMOND ABOUT
he studied at the Lycée Charlemagne. Here
he won the honor prize; and in 1851 was sent to Athens to study
archæology at the École Française. He loved change and out-of-
the-way experiences, and two studies resulted from this trip: "La
Grèce Contemporaine,' a book of charming philosophic description;
and the delightful story "Le Roi des Montagnes' (The King of the
Mountains). This tale of the long-limbed German student, enveloped
in the smoke from his porcelain pipe as he recounts a series of
impossible adventures, — those of himself and two English women,
captured for ransom by Hadgi Stavros, brigand king in the Grecian
mountains, —is especially characteristic of About in the humorous
atmosphere of every situation.
About wrote stories so easily and well that his early desertion of
fiction is surprising. His mocking spirit has often suggested compar-
ison with Voltaire, whom he studied and admired. He too is a skep-
tic and an idol-breaker; but his is a kindlier irony, a less incisive
philosophy. Perhaps, however, this influence led to lack of faith in
his own work, to his loss of an ideal, which Zola thinks the real
## p. 35 (#49) ##############################################
EDMOND ABOUT
35
secret of his sudden change from novelist to journalist. Voltaire
taught him to scoff and disbelieve, to demand « à quoi bon ? » and that
took the heart out of him. He was rather fond of exposing abuses,
a habit that appears in those witty letters to the Gaulois which in
1878 obliged him to suspend that journal. His was a positive mind,
interested in political affairs, and with something always ready to
say upon them.
In 1872 he founded a radical newspaper, Le XIXme
Siècle (The Nineteenth Century), in association with another aggress-
ive spirit, that of Francisque Sarcey. For many years he proved his
ability as editor, business man, and keen polemist.
He tried drama, too, inevitable ambition of young French authors;
but after the failure of “Guillery) at the Théâtre Française and
Gaétena' at the Odéon, renounced the theatre. Indeed, his power
is in odd conceptions, in the covert laugh and humorous suggestion
of the phrasing, rather than in plot or characterization. He will
always be best known for the tales and novels in that thoroughly
French style — clear, concise, and witty — which in 1878 elected him
president of the Société des Gens de Lettres, and in 1884 won him a
seat in the Academy.
About wrote a number of novels, most of them as well known
in translation to English and American readers as to his French
audience. The bright stories originally published in the Moniteur,
afterward collected with the title 'Les Mariages de Paris,' had a con-
spicuous success, and were followed by a companion volume, Les
Mariages de Province. L'Homme à l'Oreille Cassée' (The Man
with the Broken Ear) — the story of a mummy resuscitated to a world
of new conditions after many years of apparent death — shows his
freakish delight in oddity. So does 'Le Nez du Notaire) (The
Notary's Nose), a gruesome tale of the tribulations of a handsome
society man, whose nose is struck off in a duel by a revengeful Turk.
The victim buys a bit of living skin from a poor water-carrier, and
obtains a new nose by successful grafting. But he can nevermore get
rid of the uncongenial Aquarius, who exercises occult influence over
the skin with which he has parted. When he drinks too much, the
Notary's nose is red; when he starves, it dwindles away; when he
loses the arm from which the graft was made, the important feature
drops off altogether, and the sufferer must needs buy a silver one.
About's latest novel, “Le Roman d'un Brave Homme (The Story of
an Honest Man), is in quite another vein, a charming picture of
bourgeois virtue in revolutionary days. "Madelon' and 'La Vielle
Roche' (The Old School) are also popular.
French critics have not found much to say of this non-evolutionist
of letters, who is neither pure realist nor pure romanticist, and who
has no new theory of art. Some, indeed, may have scorned him for
## p. 36 (#50) ##############################################
36
EDMOND ABOUT
the wise taste which refuses to tread the debatable ground common
to French fiction. But the reading public has received him with less
conscious analysis, and has delighted in him. If he sees only what
any clever man may see, and is no profound psychologist, yet he
tells what he sees and what he imagines with delightful spirit and
delightful wit, and tinges the fabric of his fancy with the ever-chan-
ging colors of his own versatile personality, fanciful suggestions,
homely realism, and bright antithesis. Above all, he has the great
gift of the story-teller.
THE CAPTURE
"S"
From "The King of the Mountains)
r! ST! ”
I raised my eyes.
Two thickets of mastic-trees and arbutus
inclosed the road on the right and left. From each tuft
of trees protruded three or four musket-barrels. A voice cried
out in Greek, “Seat yourselves on the ground! ” This operation
was the more easy to me, as my legs gave way under me. But I
consoled myself by thinking that Ajax, Agamemnon, and the fiery
Achilles, if they had found themselves in the same situation, would
not have refused the seat that was offered.
The musket-barrels were leveled upon us. It seemed to me
that they stretched out immeasurably, and that their muzzles were
about to join above our heads. It was not that fear disturbed my
vision; but I had never remarked so sensibly the desperate length
of the Greek muskets! The whole arsenal soon debouched into
the road, and every barrel showed its stock and its master.
The only difference which exists between devils and brigands
is, that devils are less black than they are said to be, and brigands
more dirty than people suppose. The eight bullies, who packed
themselves in a circle around us, were so filthy in appearance that
I should have wished to give them my money with a pair of tongs.
You might guess, with a little effort, that their caps had been
red; but lye-wash itself could not have restored the original color
of their clothes. All the rocks of the kingdom had stained their
cotton shirts, and their vests preserved a sample of the different
soils on which they had reposed. Their hands, their faces, and
even their moustachios were of a reddish-gray, like the soil which
supports them. Every animal is colored according to its abode
and its habits: the foxes of Greenland are of the color of snow;
## p. 37 (#51) ##############################################
EDMOND ABOUT
37
lions, of the desert; partridges, of the furrow; Greek brigands, of
the highway.
The chief of the little troop which had made us prisoners was
distinguished by no outward mark. Perhaps, however, his face,
his hands, and his clothes were richer in dust than those of his
comrades. He leaned toward us from the height of his tall figure,
and examined us so closely that I felt the grazing of his mous-
tachios. You would have pronounced him a tiger, who smells of
his prey before tasting it. When his curiosity was satisfied, he
said to Dimitri, «Empty your pockets! ”
Dimitri did not give him cause to repeat the order: he threw
down before him a knife, a tobacco-pouch, and three Mexican
dollars, which compose a sum of about sixteen francs.
“Is that all ? ” demanded the brigand.
« Yes, brother. ”
“You are the servant ? »
“Yes, brother. »
« Take back one dollar. You must not return to the city
without money. ”
Dimitri haggled. “You could well allow me two,” said he: "I
have two horses below; they are hired from the riding-school; I
shall have to pay for the day. ”
"You will explain to Zimmerman that we have taken your
money from you. ”
"And if he wishes to be paid, notwithstanding ?
"Answer that he is lucky enough to see his horses again. ”
“He knows very well that you do not take horses. What
would you do with them in the mountains ? ”
« Enough! What is this big raw-boned animal next you ? ”
I answered for myself: "An honest German, whose spoils will
not enrich you. "
«You speak Greek well. Empty your pockets. ”
I deposited on the road a score of francs, my tobacco, my
pipe, and my handkerchief.
“What is that? ” asked the grand inquisitor.
"A handkerchief. "
« For what purpose ? '
“To wipe my nose. ”
"Why did you tell me that you were poor? It is only milords
who wipe their noses with handkerchiefs. Take off the box which
you have behind your back. Good! Open it!
## p. 38 (#52) ##############################################
38
EDMOND ABOUT
My box contained some plants, a book, a knife, a little pack-
age of arsenic, a gourd nearly empty, and the remnants of my
breakfast, which kindled a look of covetousness in the eyes of
Mrs. Simons. I had the assurance to offer them to her before my
baggage changed masters. She accepted greedily, and began to
devour the bread and meat. To my great astonishment, this act
of gluttony scandalized our robbers, who murmured among them-
selves the word “Schismatic! ” The monk made half a dozen
signs of the cross, according to the rite of the Greek Church.
“You must have a watch," said the brigand: "put it with the
rest. »
I gave up my silver watch, a hereditary toy of the weight
of four ounces. The villains passed it from hand to hand, and
thought it very beautiful. I was in hopes that admiration, which
makes men better, would dispose them to restore me something,
and I begged their chief to let me have my tin box.
