Peter Abelard Historia Calamitatum 
 
 
 INTRODUCTION Pg 1 
 The "Historia Calamitatum" of Peter Abélard is one of those human 
 documents, out of the very heart of the Middle Ages, that 
 illuminates by the glow of its ardour a shadowy period that has 
 been made even more dusky and incomprehensible by unsympathetic 
 commentators and the ill-digested matter of "source-books." Like 
 the "Confessions" of St. Augustine it is an authentic revelation of 
 personality and, like the latter, it seems to show how unchangeable 
 is man, how consistent unto himself whether he is of the sixth 
 century or the twelfth--or indeed of the twentieth century. 
 "Evolution" may change the flora and fauna of the world, or modify 
 its physical forms, but man is always the same and the unrolling of 
 the centuries affects him not at all. If we can assume the vivid 
 personality, the enormous intellectual power and the clear, keen 
 mentality of Abélard and his contemporaries and immediate 
 successors, there is no reason why "The Story of My Misfortunes" 
 should not have been written within the last decade. 
 
 
 
 INTRODUCTION Pg 2 
   
 They are large assumptions, for this is not a period in world 
 history when the informing energy of life expresses itself through 
 such qualities, whereas the twelfth century was of precisely this 
 nature. The antecedent hundred years had seen the recovery from the 
 barbarism that engulfed Western Europe after the fall of Rome, and 
 the generation of those vital forces that for two centuries were to 
 infuse society with a vigour almost unexampled in its potency and 
 in the things it brought to pass. The parabolic curve that 
 describes the trajectory of Mediaevalism was then emergent out of 
 "chaos and old night" and Abélard and his opponent, St. Bernard, 
 rode high on the mounting force in its swift and almost violent 
 ascent. 
   
 Pierre du Pallet, yclept Abélard, was born in 1079 and died in 
 1142, and his life precisely covers the period of the birth, 
 development and perfecting of that Gothic style of architecture 
 which is one of the great exemplars of the period. Actually, the 
 Norman development occupied the years from 1050 to 1125 while the 
 initiating and determining of Gothic consumed only fifteen years, 
 from Bury, begun in 1125, to Saint-Denis, the work of Abbot Suger, 
 the friend and partisan of Abélard, in 1140. It was the time of the 
 Crusades, of the founding and development of schools and 
 universities, of the invention or recovery of great arts, of the 
 growth of music, poetry and romance. It was the age of great kings 
 and knights and leaders of all kinds, but above all it was the 
 epoch of a new philosophy, refounded on the newly revealed corner 
 stones of Plato and Aristotle, but with a new content, a new 
 impulse and a new method inspired by Christianity. 
   
 All these things, philosophy, art, personality, character, were the 
 product of the time, which, in its definiteness and consistency, 
 stands apart from all other epochs in history. The social system 
 was that of feudalism, a scheme of reciprocal duties, privileges 
 and obligations as between man and man that has never been excelled 
 by any other system that society has developed as its own method of 
 operation. As Dr. De Wulf has said in his illuminating book 
 "Philosophy and Civilization in the Middle Ages" (a volume that 
 should be read by any one who wishes rightly to understand the 
 spirit and quality of Mediaevalism), "the feudal sentiment _par 
 excellence_ ... is the sentiment of the value and dignity of the 
 individual man. The feudal man lived as a free man; he was master 
 in his own house; he sought his end in himself; he was--and this is 
 a scholastic expression,--_propter seipsum existens_: all feudal 
 obligations were founded upon respect for personality and the given 
 word." 
   
 Of course this admirable scheme of society with its guild system of 
 industry, its absence of usury in any form and its just sense of 
 comparative values, was shot through and through with religion both 
 in faith and practice. Catholicism was universally and implicitly 
 accepted. Monasticism had redeemed Europe from barbarism and Cluny 
 had freed the Church from the yoke of German imperialism. This 
 unity and immanence of religion gave a consistency to society 
 otherwise unobtainable, and poured its vitality into every form of 
 human thought and action. 
 
 
 
 INTRODUCTION Pg 3 
   
 It was Catholicism and the spirit of feudalism that preserved men 
 from the dangers inherent in the immense individualism of the time. 
 With this powerful and penetrating coördinating force men were safe 
 to go about as far as they liked in the line of individuality, 
 whereas today, for example, the unifying force of a common and 
 vital religion being absent and nothing having been offered to take 
 its place, the result of a similar tendency is egotism and anarchy. 
 These things happened in the end in the case of Mediaevalism when 
 the power and the influence of religion once began to weaken, and 
 the Renaissance and Reformation dissolved the fabric of a unified 
 society. Thereafter it became necessary to bring some order out of 
 the spiritual, intellectual and physical chaos through the 
 application of arbitrary force, and so came absolutism in 
 government, the tyranny of the new intellectualism, the Catholic 
 Inquisition and the Puritan Theocracy. 
   
 In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, however, the balance is 
 justly preserved, though it was but an unstable equilibrium, and 
 therefore during the time of Abélard we find the widest diversity 
 of speculation and freedom of thought which continue unhampered for 
 more than a hundred years. The mystical school of the Abbey of St. 
 Victor in Paris follows one line (perhaps the most nearly right of 
 all though it was submerged by the intellectual force and vivacity 
 of the Scholastics) with Hugh of St. Victor as its greatest 
 exponent. The Franciscans and Dominicans each possessed great 
 schools of philosophy and dogmatic theology, and in addition there 
 were a dozen individual line of speculation, each vitalized by some 
 one personality, daring, original, enthusiastic. This prodigious 
 mental and spiritual activity was largely fostered by the schools, 
 colleges and universities that had suddenly appeared all over 
 Europe. Never was such activity along educational lines. Almost 
 every cathedral had its school, and many of the abbeys as well, as 
 for example, in France alone, Cluny, Citeaux and Bec, St. Martin of 
 Tours, Laon, Chartres, Rheims and Paris. To these schools students 
 poured in from all over the world in numbers mounting to many 
 thousands for such as Paris for example, and the mutual rivalries 
 were intense and sometimes disorderly. Groups of students would 
 choose their own masters and follow them from place to place, even 
 subjecting them to discipline if in their opinion they did not live 
 up to the intellectual mark they had set as their standard. As 
 there was not only one religion and one social system, but one 
 universal language as well, this gathering from all the four 
 quarters of Europe was perfectly possible, and had much to do with 
 the maintenance of that unity which marked society for three centuries. 
   
 At the time of Abélard the schools of Chartres and Paris were at 
 the height of their fame and power. Fulbert, Bernard and Thierry, 
 all of Chartres, had fixed its fame for a long period, and at Paris 
 Hugh and Richard of St. Victor and William of Champeaux were names 
 to conjure with, while Anselm of Laon, Adelard of Bath, Alan of 
 Lille, John of Salisbury, Peter Lombard, were all from time to time 
 students or teachers in one of the schools of the Cathedral, the 
 Abbey of St. Victor or Ste. Geneviève. 
 
 
 
 INTRODUCTION Pg 4 
   
 Earlier in the Middle Ages the identity of theology and philosophy 
 had been proclaimed, following the Neo-Platonic and Augustinian 
 theory, and the latter (cf. Peter Damien and Duns Scotus Eriugena) 
 was even reduced to a position that made it no more than the 
 obedient handmaid of theology. In the eleventh century however, St. 
 Anselm had drawn a clear distinction between faith and reason, and 
 thereafter theology and philosophy were generally accepted as 
 individual but allied sciences, both serving as lines of approach 
 to truth but differing in their method. Truth was one and therefore 
 there could be no conflict between the conclusions reached after 
 different fashions. In the twelfth century Peter of Blois led a 
 certain group called "rigourists" who still looked askance at 
 philosophy, or rather at the intellectual methods by which it 
 proceeded, and they were inclined to condemn it as "the devil's 
 art," but they were on the losing side and John of Salisbury, Alan 
 of Lille, Gilbert de la Porrée and Hugh of St. Victor prevailed in 
 their contention that philosophers were "_humanae videlicet 
 sapientiae amatores_," while theologians were "_divinae scripturae 
 doctores." 
   
 Cardinal Mercier, himself the greatest contemporary exponent of 
 Scholastic philosophy, defines philosophy as "the science of the 
 totality of things." The twelfth century was a time when men were 
 striving to see phenomena in this sense and established a great 
 rational synthesis that should yet be in full conformity with the 
 dogmatic theology of revealed religion. Abélard was one of the most 
 enthusiastic and daring of these Mediaeval thinkers, and it is not 
 surprising that he should have found himself at issue not only with 
 the duller type of theologians but with his philosophical peers 
 themselves. He was an intellectual force of the first magnitude and 
 a master of dialectic; he was also an egotist through and through, 
 and a man of strong passions. He would and did use his logical 
 faculty and his mastery of dialectic to justify his own desires, 
 whether these were for carnal satisfaction or the maintenance of an 
 original intellectual concept. It was precisely this danger that 
 aroused the fears of the "rigourists" and in the light of 
 succeeding events in the domain of intellectualism it is impossible 
 to deny that there was some justification for their gloomy 
 apprehensions. In St. Thomas Aquinas this intellectualizing process 
 marked its highest point and beyond there was no margin of safety. 
 He himself did not overstep the verge of danger, but after him this 
 limit was overpassed. The perfect balance between mind and spirit 
 was achieved by Hugh of St. Victor, but afterwards the severance 
 began and on the one side was the unwholesome hyper-spiritualization 
 of the Rhenish mystics, on the other the false intellectualism of 
 Descartes, Kant and the entire modern school of materialistic 
 philosophy. It was the clear prevision of this inevitable issue 
 that made of St. Bernard not only an implacable opponent of Abélard 
 but of the whole system of Scholasticism as well. For a time he was 
 victorious. Abélard was silenced and the mysticism of the 
 Victorines triumphed, only to be superseded fifty years later when 
 the two great orders, Dominican and Franciscan, produced their 
 triumphant protagonists of intellectualism, Alelander Halesand 
 Albertus Magnus, and finally the greatest pure intellect of all 
 time, St. Thomas Aquinas. St. Bernard, St. Francis of Assisi, the 
 Victorines, maintained that after all, as Henri Bergson was to say, 
 seven hundred years later, "the mind of man by its very nature is 
 incapable of apprehending reality," and that therefore faith is 
 better than reason. 
 
 
 
 INTRODUCTION Pg 5 
   
 Lord Bacon came to the same conclusion when he 
 wrote "Let men please themselves as they will in admiring and 
 almost adoring the human kind, this is certain; that, as an uneven 
 mirrour distorts the rays of objects according to its own figure 
 and section, so the mind ... cannot be trusted." And Hugh of St. 
 Victor himself, had written, even in the days of Abélard: "There 
 was a certain wisdom that seemed such to them that knew not the 
 true wisdom. The world found it and began to be puffed up, thinking 
 itself great in this. Confiding in its wisdom it became 
 presumptuous and boasted it would attain the highest wisdom. And it 
 made itself a ladder of the face of creation. ... Then those things 
 which were seen were known and there were other things which were 
 not known; and through those which were manifest they expected to 
 reach those that were hidden. And they stumbled and fell into the 
 falsehoods of their own imagining ... So God made foolish the 
 wisdom of this world, and He pointed out another wisdom, which 
 seemed foolishness and was not. For it preached Christ crucified, 
 in order that truth might be sought in humility. But the world 
 despised it, wishing to contemplate the works of God, which He had 
 made a source of wonder, and it did not wish to venerate what He 
 had set for imitation, neither did it look to its own disease, 
 seeking medicine in piety; but presuming on a false health, it gave 
 itself over with vain curiosity to the study of alien things." 
   
 These considerations troubled Abélard not at all. He was conscious 
 of a mind of singular acuteness and a tongue of parts, both of 
 which would do whatever he willed. Beneath all the tumultuous talk 
 of Paris, when he first arrived there, lay the great and unsolved 
 problem of Universals and this he promptly made his own, rushing in 
 where others feared to tread. William of Champeaux had rested on a 
 Platonic basis, Abélard assumed that of Aristotle, and the clash 
 began. It is not a lucid subject, but the best abstract may be 
 found in Chapter XIV of Henry Adams' "Mont-Saint-Michel and 
 Chartres" while this and the two succeeding chapters give the most 
 luminous and vivacious account of the principles at issue in 
 this most vital of intellectual feuds. 
   
 "According to the latest authorities, the doctrine of universals 
 which convulsed the schools of the twelfth century has never 
 received an adequate answer. What is a species: what is a genus or 
 a family or an order? More or less convenient terms of classification, 
 about which the twelfth century cared very little, while it cared 
 deeply about the essence of classes! Science has become too complex 
 to affirm the existence of universal truths, but it strives for 
 nothing else, and disputes the problem, within its own limits, 
 almost as earnestly as in the twelfth century, when the whole field 
 of human and superhuman activity was shut between these barriers 
 of substance, universals, and particulars. Little has changed except 
 the vocabulary and the method. The schools knew that their society 
 hung for life on the demonstration that God, the ultimate universal, 
 was a reality, out of which all other universal truths or realities 
 sprang. Truth was a real thing, outside of human experience. The 
 schools of Paris talked and thought of nothing else. John of Salisbury, 
 who attended Abélard's lectures about 1136, and became Bishop of 
 Chartres in 1176, seems to have been more surprised than we need be at 
 the intensity of the emotion. 'One never gets away from this question,' 
 he said. 'From whatever point a discussion starts, it is always led 
 back and attached to that. It is the madness of Rufus about Naevia; 
 "He thinks of nothing else; talks of nothing else, and if Naevia did 
 not exist, Rufus would be dumb."' 
 
 
 
 INTRODUCTION Pg 6 
   
 ... "In these scholastic tournaments the two champions started from 
 opposite points:--one from the ultimate substance, God,--the 
 universal, the ideal, the type;--the other from the individual, 
 Socrates, the concrete, the observed fact of experience, the object 
 of sensual perception. The first champion--William in this instance-- 
 assumed that the universal was a real thing; and for that reason he 
 was called a realist. His opponent--Abélard--held that the 
 universal was only nominally real; and on that account he was 
 called a nominalist. Truth, virtue, humanity, exist as units and 
 realities, said William. Truth, replied Abélard, is only the sum of 
 all possible facts that are true, as humanity is the sum of all 
 actual human beings. The ideal bed is a form, made by God, said 
 Plato. The ideal bed is a name, imagined by ourselves, said 
 Aristotle. 'I start from the universe,' said William. 'I start from 
 the atom,' said Abélard; and, once having started, they necessarily 
 came into collision at some point between the two." 
   
 In this "Story of My Misfortunes" Abélard gives his own account of 
 the triumphant manner in which he confounded his master, William, 
 but as Henry Adams says, "We should be more credulous than 
 twelfth-century monks, if we believed, on Abélard's word in 1135, 
 that in 1110 he had driven out of the schools the most accomplished 
 dialectician of the age by an objection so familiar that no other 
 dialectician was ever silenced by it--whatever may have been the 
 case with theologians-and so obvious that it could not have troubled 
 a scholar of fifteen. William stated a selected doctrine as old as 
 Plato; Abélard interposed an objection as old as Aristotle. Probably 
 Plato and Aristotle had received the question and answer from 
 philosophers ten thousand years older than themselves. Certainly 
 the whole of philosophy has always been involved in this dispute." 
   
 So began the battle of the schools with all its more than military 
 strategy and tactics, and in the end it was a drawn battle, in 
 spite of its marvels of intellectual heroism and dialectical 
 sublety. Says Henry Adams again:-- 
   
 "In every age man has been apt to dream uneasily, rolling from side 
 to side, beating against imaginary bars, unless, tired out, he has 
 sunk into indifference or scepticism. Religious minds prefer 
 scepticism. The true saint is a profound sceptic; a total 
 disbeliever in human reason, who has more than once joined hands on 
 this ground with some who were at best sinners. Bernard was a total 
 disbeliever in Scholasticism; so was Voltaire. Bernard brought the 
 society of his time to share his scepticism, but could give the 
 society no other intellectual amusement to relieve its restlessness. 
 His crusade failed; his ascetic enthusiasm faded; God came no nearer. 
 If there was in all France, between 1140 and 1200, a more typical 
 Englishman of the future Church of England type than John of 
 Salisbury, he has left no trace; and John wrote a description of 
 his time which makes a picturesque contrast with the picture 
 painted by Abélard, his old master, of the century at its beginning. 
 John weighed Abélard and the schools against Bernard and the 
 cloister, and coolly concluded that the way to truth led rather 
 through Citeaux, which brought him to Chartres as Bishop in 1176, 
 and to a mild scepticism in faith. 
 
 
 
 INTRODUCTION Pg 7 
   
 'I prefer to doubt' he said, 
 'rather than rashly define what is hidden.' The battle with the 
 schools had then resulted only in creating three kinds of sceptics:-- 
 the disbelievers in human reason; the passive agnostics; and the 
 sceptics proper, who would have been atheists had they dared. The 
 first class was represented by the School of St. Victor; the second 
 by John of Salisbury himself; the third, by a class of schoolmen 
 whom he called Cornificii, as though they made a practice of 
 inventing horns of dilemma on which to fix their opponents; as, for 
 example, they asked whether a pig which was led to market was led 
 by the man or the cord. One asks instantly: What cord?--Whether 
 Grace, for instance, or Free Will? 
   
 "Bishop John used the science he had learned in the school only to 
 reach the conclusion that, if philosophy were a science at all, its 
 best practical use was to teach charity--love. Even the early, 
 superficial debates of the schools, in 1100-50, had so exhausted 
 the subject that the most intelligent men saw how little was to be 
 gained by pursuing further those lines of thought. The twelfth 
 century had already reached the point where the seventeenth century 
 stood when Descartes renewed the attempt to give a solid, 
 philosophical basis for deism by his celebrated '_Cogito, ergo sum_.' 
 Although that ultimate fact seemed new to Europe when Descartes 
 revived it as the starting-point of his demonstration, it was as 
 old and familiar as St. Augustine to the twelfth century, and as 
 little conclusive as any other assumption of the Ego or the Non-Ego. 
 The schools argued, according to their tastes, from unity to 
 multiplicity, or from multiplicity to unity; but what they wanted 
 was to connect the two. They tried realism and found that it led to 
 pantheism. They tried nominalism and found that it ended in 
 materialism. They attempted a compromise in conceptualism which 
 begged the whole question. Then they lay down, exhausted. In the 
 seventeenth century--the same violent struggle broke out again, and 
 wrung from Pascal the famous outcry of despair in which the French 
 language rose, perhaps for the last time, to the grand style of the 
 twelfth century. To the twelfth century it belongs; to the century 
 of faith and simplicity; not to the mathematical certainties of 
 Descartes and Leibnitz and Newton, or to the mathematical 
 abstractions of Spinoza. Descartes had proclaimed his famous 
 conceptual proof of God: 'I am conscious of myself, and must exist; 
 I am conscious of God and He must exist.' Pascal wearily replied 
 that it was not God he doubted, but logic. He was tortured by the 
 impossibility of rejecting man's reason by reason; unconsciously 
 sceptical, he forced himself to disbelieve in himself rather than 
 admit a doubt of God. Man had tried to prove God, and had failed: 
 'The metaphysical proofs of God are so remote (_éloignées_) from the 
 reasoning of men, and so contradictory (_impliquées_, far fetched) 
 that they made little impression; and even if they served to 
 convince some people, it would only be during the instant that they 
 see the demonstration; an hour afterwards they fear to have 
 deceived themselves.'" 
   
 Abélard was always, as he has been called, a scholastic adventurer, 
 a philosophical and theological freelance, and it was after the 
 Calamity that he followed those courses that resulted finally in 
 his silencing and his obscure death. 
 
 
 
 INTRODUCTION Pg 8 
   
 It is almost impossible for us 
 of modern times to understand the violence of partisanship aroused 
 by his actions and published words that centre apparently around 
 the placing of the hermitage he had made for himself under the 
 patronage of the third Person of the Trinity, the Paraclete, the 
 Spirit of love and compassion and consolation, and the consequent 
 arguments by which he justified himself. To us it seems that he was 
 only trying to exalt the power of the Holy Spirit, a pious action 
 at the least but to the episcopal and monastic conservators of the 
 faith he seems to have been guilty of trying to rationalize an 
 unsolvable mystery, to find an intellectual solution forbidden to 
 man. In some obscure way the question seems to be involved in that 
 other of the function of the Blessed Virgin as the fount of mercy 
 and compassion, and at this time when the cult of the Mother of God 
 had reached its highest point of potency and poignancy anything of 
 the sort seemed intolerable. 
   
 For a time the affairs of Abélard prospered: Abbot Suger of Saint-Denis 
 was his defender, and he enjoyed the favor of the Pope and the 
 King. He was made an abbot and his influence spread in every 
 direction. In 1137 the King died and conditions at Rome changed so 
 that St. Bernard became almost Pope and King in his own person. 
 Within a year he proceeded against Abélard; his "Theology" was 
 condemned at a council of Sens, this judgment was confirmed by the 
 Pope, and the penalty of silence was imposed on the author-- 
 probably the most severe punishment he could be called upon to 
 endure. As a matter of fact it was fatal to him. He started 
 forthwith for Rome but stopped at the Abbey of Cluny in the company 
 of its Abbot, Peter the Venerable, "the most amiable figure of the 
 twelfth century," and no very devoted admirer of St. Bernard, to 
 whom, as a matter of fact, he had once written, "You perform all 
 the difficult religious duties; you fast, you watch, you suffer; 
 but you will not endure the easy ones-you do not love." Here he 
 found two years of peace after his troubled life, dying in the full 
 communion of the Church on 21 April, 1142. 
   
 The problems of philosophy and theology that were so vital in the 
 Middle Ages interest us no more, even when they are less obscure 
 than those so rife in the twelfth century, but the problem of human 
 love is always near and so it is not perhaps surprising that the 
 abiding interest concerns itself with Abélard's relationship with 
 Héloïse. So far as he is concerned it is not a very savoury matter. 
 He deliberately seduced a pupil, a beautiful girl entrusted to him 
 by her uncle, a simpleminded old canon of the Cathedral of Paris, 
 under whose roof he ensconced himself by false pretences and with 
 the full intention of gaining the niece for himself. Abélard seems 
 to have exercised an irresistible fascination for men and women 
 alike, and his plot succeeded to admiration. Stricken by a belated 
 remorse, he finally married Héloïse against her unselfish protests 
 and partly to legitimatize his unborn child, and shortly after he 
 was surprised and overpowered by emissaries of Canon Fulbert and 
 subjected to irreparable mutilation. He tells the story with 
 perfect frankness and with hardly more than formal expressions of 
 compunction, and thereafter follows the narrative of their 
 separation, he to a monastery, she to a convent, and of his care 
 for her during her conventual life, or at least for that part of it 
 that had passed before the "History" was written. Through the whole 
 story it is Héloise who shines brightly as a curiously beautiful 
 personality, unselfish, self sacrificing, and almost virginal in 
 her purity in spite of her fault. 
 
 
 
 INTRODUCTION Pg 9 
   
 One has for her only sympathy and 
 affection whereas it is difficult to feel either for Abélard in 
 spite of his belated efforts at rectifying his own sin and his 
 life-long devotion to his solitary wife in her hidden cloister. 
   
 The whole story was instantly known, Abélard's assailants were 
 punished in kind, .and he himself shortly resumed his work of 
 lecturing on philosophy and, a little later, on theology. 
 Apparently his reputation did not suffer in the least, nor did 
 hers; in fact her piety became almost a by-word and his name as a 
 great teacher increased by leaps and bounds: neither his offence 
 nor its punishment seemed to bring lasting discredit. This fact, 
 which seems strange to us, does not imply a lack of moral sense in 
 the community but rather the prevalence of standards alien to our 
 own. It is only since the advent of Puritanism that sexual sins 
 have been placed at the head of the whole category. During the 
 Middle Ages, as always under Christianity, the most deadly sins 
 were pride, covetousness, slander and anger. These implied inherent 
 moral depravity, but "illicit" love was love outside the law of 
 man, and did not of necessity and always involve moral guilt. 
 Christ was Himself very gentle and compassionate with the sins of 
 the flesh but relentless in the case of the greater sins of the 
 spirit. Puritanism overturned the balance of things, and by 
 concentrating its condemnation on sexual derelictions became blind 
 to the greater sins of pride, avarice and anger. We have inherited 
 the prejudice without acquiring the abstention, but the Middle Ages 
 had a clearer sense of comparative values and they could forgive, 
 or even ignore, the sin of Abélard and Héloïse when they could less 
 easily excuse the sin of spiritual pride or deliberate cruelty. 
 Moreover, these same Middle Ages believed very earnestly in the 
 Divine forgiveness of sins for which there had been real repentance 
 and honest effort at amendment. Abélard and Héloise had been 
 grievously punished, he himself had made every reparation that was 
 possible, his penitence was charitably assumed, and therefore it 
 was not for society to condemn what God would mercifully forgive. 
   
 The twelfth and thirteenth centuries were not an age of moral 
 laxity; ideals and standards and conduct were immeasurably higher 
 than they had been for five hundred years, higher than they were to 
 be in the centuries that followed the crest of Mediaevalism. It was 
 however a time of enormous vitality, of throbbing energy that was 
 constantly bursting its bounds, and as well a time of personal 
 liberty and freedom of action that would seem strange indeed to us 
 in these days of endless legal restraint and inhibitions mitigated 
 by revolt. There were few formal laws but there was _Custom_ which 
 was a sovereign law in itself, and above all there was the moral 
 law of the Church, establishing its great fundamental principles 
 but leaving details to the working out of life itself. Behind the 
 sin of Abélard lay his intolerable spiritual pride, his selfishness 
 and his egotism, qualities that society at large did not recognize 
 because of their devotion to his engaging personality and their 
 admiration for his dazzling intellectual gifts. Their idol had 
 sinned, he had been savagely punished, he had repented; that was 
 all there was about it and the question was at an end. 
   
 In reading the Historia Calamitatum there is one consideration that 
 suggests itself that is subject for serious thought. 
 
 
 
 INTRODUCTION Pg 10 
   
 Written as it 
 was some years after the great tragedy of his life, it was a 
 portrait that somehow seems out of focus. We know that during his 
 early years in Paris Abélard was a bold and daring champion in the 
 lists of dialectic; brilliant, persuasive, masculine to a degree; 
 yet this self-portrait is of a man timid, suspicious, frightened of 
 realities, shadows, possibilities. He is in abject terror of 
 councils, hidden enemies, even of his life. The tone is querulous, 
 even peevish at times, and always the egotism and the pride 
 persist, while he seems driven by the whip of desire for 
 intellectual adventure into places where he shrinks from defending 
 himself, or is unable to do so. The antithesis is complete and one 
 is driven to believe that the terrible mutilation to which he had 
 been subjected had broken down his personality and left him in all 
 things less than man. His narrative is full of accusations against 
 all manner of people, but it is not necessary to take all these 
 literally, for it is evident that his natural egotism, overlaid by 
 the circumstances of his calamity, produced an almost pathological 
 condition wherein suspicions became to him realities and terrors 
 established facts. 
   
 It is doubtful if Abélard should be ranked very high in the list of 
 Mediaeval philosophers. He was more a dialectician than a creative 
 force, and until the development of the episode with Héloïse he 
 seems to have cared primarily for the excitement of debate, with 
 small regard for the value or the subjects under discussion. As an 
 intellectualist he had much to do with the subsequent abandonment 
 of Plato in favour of Aristotle that was a mark of pure 
 scholasticism, while the brilliancy of his dialectical method 
 became a model for future generations. Afer the Calamity he turned 
 from philosophy to theology and ethics and here he reveals 
 qualities of nobility not evident before. Particularly does he 
 insist upon the fact that it is the subjective intention that 
 determines the moral value of human actions even if it does not 
 change their essential character. 
   
 The story of this philosophical soldier of fortune is a romance 
 from beginning to end, a poignant human drama shot through with 
 passion, adventure, pathos and tragedy. In a sense it is an epitome 
 of the earlier Middle Ages and through it shines the bright light 
 of an era of fervid living, of exciting adventure, of phenomenal 
 intellectual force and of large and comprehensive liberty. As a 
 single episode of passion it is not particularly distinguished 
 except for the appealing personality of Héloïse; as a phase in the 
 development of Christian philosophy it is of only secondary value. 
 United in one, the two factors achieve a brilliant dramatic unity 
 that has made the story of Abélard and Héloïse immortal. 
 
 
 
 FOREWORD Pg 11 
   
 Often the hearts of men and women are stirred, as likewise they are 
 soothed in their sorrows, more by example than by words. And 
 therefore, because I too have known some consolation from speech 
 had with one who was a witness thereof, am I now minded to write of 
 the sufferings which have sprung out of my misfortunes, for the 
 eyes of one who, though absent, is of himself ever a consoler. This 
 I do so that, in comparing your sorrows with mine, you may discover 
 that yours are in truth nought, or at the most but of small 
 account, and so shall you come to bear them more easily. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER I (OF THE BIRTHPLACE OF PIERRE ABÉLARD AND OF HIS PARENTS) 
   
 Know, then, that I am come from a certain town which was built on 
 the way into lesser Brittany, distant some eight miles, as I think, 
 eastward from the city of Nantes, and in its own tongue called 
 Palets. Such is the nature of that country, or, it may be, of them 
 who dwell there--for in truth they are quick in fancy--that my mind 
 bent itself easily to the study of letters. Yet more, I had a 
 father who had won some smattering of letters before he had girded 
 on the soldier's belt. And so it came about that long afterwards 
 his love thereof was so strong that he saw to it that each son of 
 his should be taught in letters even earlier than in the management 
 of arms. Thus indeed did it come to pass. And because I was his 
 first born, and for that reason the more dear to him, he sought 
 with double diligence to have me wisely taught. For my part, the 
 more I went forward in the study of letters, and ever more easily, 
 the greater became the ardour of my devotion to them, until in 
 truth I was so enthralled by my passion for learning that, gladly 
 leaving to my brothers the pomp of glory in arms, the right of 
 heritage and all the honours that should have been mine as the 
 eldest born, I fled utterly from the court of Mars that I might win 
 learning in the bosom of Minerva. And since I found the armory of 
 logical reasoning more to my liking than the other forms of 
 philosophy, I exchanged all other weapons for these, and to the 
 prizes of victory in war I preferred the battle of minds in 
 disputation. Thenceforth, journeying through many provinces, and 
 debating as I went, going whithersoever I heard that the study of 
 my chosen art most flourished, I became such an one as the 
 Peripatetics. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER II 
   
 OF THE PERSECUTION HE HAD FROM HIS MASTER WILLIAM OF CHAMPEAUX--OF 
 HIS ADVENTURES AT MELUN, AT CORBEIL AND AT PARIS--OF HIS WITHDRAWAL 
 FROM THE CITY OF THE PARISIANS TO MELUN, AND HIS RETURN TO MONT 
 STE. GENEVIÈVE--OF HIS JOURNEY TO HIS OLD HOME 
   
 I came at length to Paris, where above all in those days the art of 
 dialectics was most flourishing, and there did I meet William of 
 Champeaux, my teacher, a man most distinguished in his science both 
 by his renown and by his true merit. With him I remained for some 
 time, at first indeed well liked of him; but later I brought him 
 great grief, because I undertook to refute certain of his opinions, 
 not infrequently attacking him in disputation, and now and then in 
 these debates I was adjudged victor. Now this, to those among my 
 fellow students who were ranked foremost, seemed all the more 
 insufferable because of my youth and the brief duration of my 
 studies. 
   
 Out of this sprang the beginning of my misfortunes, which have 
 followed me even to the present day; the more widely my fame was 
 spread abroad, the more bitter was the envy that was kindled 
 against me. It was given out that I, presuming on my gifts far 
 beyond the warranty of my youth, was aspiring despite my tender, 
 years to the leadership of a school; nay, more, that I was making 
 read the very place in which I would undertake this task, the place 
 being none other than the castle of Melun, at that time a royal 
 seat. My teacher himself had some foreknowledge of this, and tried 
 to remove my school as far as possible from his own. Working in 
 secret, he sought in every way he could before I left his following 
 to bring to nought the school I had planned and the place I had 
 chosen for it. Since, however, in that very place he had many 
 rivals, and some of them men of influence among the great ones of 
 the land, relying on their aid I won to the fulfillment of my wish; 
 the support of many was secured for me by reason of his own 
 unconcealed envy. From this small inception of my school, my fame 
 in the art of dialectics began to spread abroad, so that little by 
 little the renown, not alone of those who had been my fellow 
 students, but of our very teacher himself, grew dim and was like to 
 die out altogether. Thus it came about that, still more confident 
 in myself, I moved my school as soon as I well might to the castle 
 of Corbeil, which is hard by the city of Paris, for there I knew 
 there would be given more frequent chance for my assaults in our 
 battle of disputation. 
   
 No long time thereafter I was smitten with a grievous illness, 
 brought upon me by my immoderate zeal for study. This illness 
 forced me to turn homeward to my native province, and thus for some 
 years I was as if cut off from France. And yet, for that very 
 reason, I was sought out all the more eagerly by those whose hearts 
 were troubled by the lore of dialectics. But after a few years had 
 passed, and I was whole again from my sickness, I learned that my 
 teacher, that same William Archdeacon of Paris, had changed his 
 former garb and joined an order of the regular clergy. This he had 
 done, or so men said, in order that he might be deemed more deeply 
 religious, and so might be elevated to a loftier rank in the 
 prelacy, a thing which, in truth, very soon came to pass, for he 
 was made bishop of Châlons. Nevertheless, the garb he had donned by 
 reason of his conversion did nought to keep him away either from 
 the city of Paris or from his wonted study of philosophy; and in 
 the very monastery wherein he had shut himself up for the sake of 
 religion he straightway set to teaching again after the same 
 fashion as before. 
   
 To him did I return, for I was eager to learn more of rhetoric from 
 his lips; and in the course of our many arguments on various 
 matters, I compelled him by most potent reasoning first to alter 
 his former opinion on the subject of the universals, and finally to 
 abandon it altogether. Now, the basis of this old concept of his 
 regarding the reality of universal ideas was that the same quality 
 formed the essence alike of the abstract whole and of the 
 individuals which were its parts: in other words, that there could 
 be no essential differences among these individuals, all being 
 alike save for such variety as might grow out of the many accidents 
 of existence. Thereafter, however, he corrected this opinion, no 
 longer maintaining that the same quality was the essence of all 
 things, but that, rather, it manifested itself in them through 
 diverse ways. This problem of universals is ever the most vexed one 
 among logicians, to such a degree, indeed, that even Porphyry, 
 writing in his "Isagoge" regarding universals, dared not attempt a 
 final pronouncement thereon, saying rather: "This is the deepest of 
 all problems of its kind." Wherefore it followed that when William 
 had first revised and then finally abandoned altogether his views 
 on this one subject, his lecturing sank into such a state of 
 negligent reasoning that it could scarce be called lecturing on the 
 science of dialectics at all; it was as if all his science had been 
 bound up in this one question of the nature of universals. 
   
 Thus it came about that my teaching won such strength and authority 
 that even those who before had clung most vehemently to my former 
 master, and most bitterly attacked my doctrines, now flocked to my 
 school. The very man who had succeeded to my master's chair in the 
 Paris school offered me his post, in order that he might put 
 himself under my tutelage along with all the rest, and this in the 
 very place where of old his master and mine had reigned. And when, 
 in so short a time, my master saw me directing the study of 
 dialectics there, it is not easy to find words to tell with what 
 envy he was consumed or with what pain he was tormented. He could 
 not long, in truth, bear the anguish of what he felt to be his 
 wrongs, and shrewdly he attacked me that he might drive me forth. 
 And because there was nought in my conduct whereby he could come at 
 me openly, he tried to steal away the school by launching the 
 vilest calumnies against him who had yielded his post to me, and by 
 putting in his place a certain rival of mine. So then I returned to 
 Melun, and set up my school there as before; and the more openly 
 his envy pursued me, the greater was the authority it conferred 
 upon me. Even so held the poet: "Jealousy aims at the peaks; the 
 winds storm the loftiest summits." (Ovid: "Remedy for Love," I, 369.) 
   
 Not long thereafter, when William became aware of the fact that 
 almost all his students were holding grave doubts as to his 
 religion, and were whispering earnestly among themselves about his 
 conversion, deeming that he had by no means abandoned this world, 
 he withdrew himself and his brotherhood, together with his 
 students, to a certain estate far distant from the city. Forthwith 
 I returned from Melun to Paris, hoping for peace from him in the 
 future. But since, as I have said, he had caused my place to be 
 occupied by a rival of mine, I pitched the camp, as it were, of my 
 school outside the city on Mont Ste. Geneviève. Thus I was as one 
 laying siege to him who had taken possession of my post. No sooner 
 had my master heard of this than he brazenly returned post haste to 
 the city, bringing back with him such students as he could, and 
 reinstating his brotherhood in their for mer monastery, much as if 
 he would free his soldiery, whom he had deserted, from my blockade. 
 In truth, though, if it was his purpose to bring them succour, he 
 did nought but hurt them. Before that time my rival had indeed had 
 a certain number of students, of one sort and another, chiefly by 
 reason of his lectures on Priscian, in which he was considered of 
 great authority. After our master had returned, however, he lost 
 nearly all of these followers, and thus was compelled to give up 
 the direction of the school. Not long thereafter, apparently 
 despairing further of worldly fame, he was converted to the 
 monastic life. 
   
 Following the return of our master to the city, the combats in 
 disputation which my scholars waged both with him himself and with 
 his pupils, and the successes which fortune gave to us, and above 
 all to me, in these wars, you have long since learned of through 
 your own experience. The boast of Ajax, though I speak it more 
 temperately, I still am bold enough to make: 
   
       "... if fain you would learn now 
        How victory crowned the battle, by him was 
          I never vanquished." 
                (Ovid, "Metamorphoses," XIII, 89.) 
   
 But even were I to be silent, the fact proclaims itself, and its 
 outcome reveals the truth regarding it. 
   
 While these things were happening, it became needful for me again 
 to repair to my old home, by reason of my dear mother, Lucia, for 
 after the conversion of my father, Berengarius, to the monastic 
 life, she so ordered her affairs as to do likewise. When all this 
 had been completed, I returned to France, above all in order that I 
 might study theology, since now my oft-mentioned teacher, William, 
 was active in the episcopate of Châlons. In this held of learning 
 Anselm of Laon, who was his teacher therein, had for long years 
 enjoyed the greatest renown. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER III (OF HOW HE CAME TO LAON TO SEEK ANSELM AS TEACHER) 
   
 Sought out, therefore, this same venerable man, whose fame, in 
 truth, was more the result of long-established custom than of the 
 potency of his own talent or intellect. If any one came to him 
 impelled by doubt on any subject, he went away more doubtful still. 
 He was wonderful, indeed, in the eyes of these who only listened to 
 him, but those who asked him questions perforce held him as nought. 
 He had a miraculous flock of words, but they were contemptible in 
 meaning and quite void of reason. When he kindled a fire, he filled 
 his house with smoke and illumined it not at all. He was a tree 
 which seemed noble to those who gazed upon its leaves from afar, 
 but to those who came nearer and examined it more closely was 
 revealed its barrenness. When, therefore, I had come to this tree 
 that I might pluck the fruit thereof, I discovered that it was 
 indeed the fig tree which Our Lord cursed (Matthew xxi, 19; Mark 
 xi, 13), or that ancient oak to which Lucan likened Pompey, saying: 
   
     "... he stands, the shade of a name once mighty, 
      Like to the towering oak in the midst of the fruitful field." 
              (Lucan, "Pharsalia," IV, 135.) 
   
 It was not long before I made this discovery, and stretched myself 
 lazily in the shade of that same tree. I went to his lectures less 
 and less often, a thing which some among his eminent followers took 
 sorely to heart, because they interpreted it as a mark of contempt 
 for so illustrious a teacher. Thenceforth they secretly sought to 
 influence him against me, and by their vile insinuations made me 
 hated of him. It chanced, moreover, that one day, after the 
 exposition of certain texts, we scholars were jesting among 
 ourselves, and one of them, seeking to draw me out, asked me what I 
 thought of the lectures on the Books of Scripture. I, who had as 
 yet studied only the sciences, replied that following such lectures 
 seemed to me most useful in so far as the salvation of the soul was 
 concerned, but that it appeared quite extraordinary to me that 
 educated persons should not be able to understand the sacred books 
 simply by studying them themselves, together with the glosses 
 thereon, and without the aid of any teacher. Most of those who were 
 present mocked at me, and asked whether I myself could do as I had 
 said, or whether I would dare to undertake it. I answered that if 
 they wished, I was ready to try it. Forthwith they cried out and 
 jeered all the more. "Well and good," said they; "we agree to the 
 test. Pick out and give us an exposition of some doubtful passage 
 in the Scriptures, so that we can put this boast of yours to the 
 proof." And they all chose that most obscure prophecy of Ezekiel. 
   
 I accepted the challenge, and invited them to attend a lecture on 
 the very next day. Whereupon they undertook to give me good advice, 
 saying that I should by no means make undue haste in so important a 
 matter, but that I ought to devote a much loner space to working 
 out my exposition and offsetting my inexperience by diligent toil. 
 To this I replied indignantly that it was my wont to win success, 
 not by routine, but by ability. I added that I would abandon the 
 test altogether unless they would agree not to put off their 
 attendance at my lecture. In truth at this first lecture of mine 
 only a few were present, for it seemed quite absurd to all of them 
 that I, hitherto so inexperienced in discussing the Scriptures, 
 should attempt the thing so hastily. However, this lecture gave 
 such satisfaction to all those who heard it that they spread its 
 praises abroad with notable enthusiasm, and thus compelled me to 
 continue my interpretation of the sacred text. When word of this 
 was bruited about, those who had stayed away from the first lecture 
 came eagerly, some to the second and more to the third, and all of 
 them were eager to write down the glosses which I had begun on the 
 first day, so as to have them from the very beginning. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER IV (OF THE PERSECUTION HE HAD FROM HIS TEACHER ANSELM) 
   
 Now this venerable man of whom I have spoken was acutely smitten 
 with envy, and straightway incited, as I have already mentioned, by 
 the insinuations of sundry persons, began to persecute me for my 
 lecturing on the Scriptures no less bitterly than my former master, 
 William, had done for my work in philosophy. At that time there 
 were in this old man's school two who were considered far to excel 
 all the others: Alberic of Rheims and Lotulphe the Lombard. The 
 better opinion these two held of themselves, the more they were 
 incensed against me. Chiefly at their suggestion, as it afterwards 
 transpired, yonder venerable coward had the impudence to forbid me 
 to carry on any further in his school the work of preparing glosses 
 which I had thus begun. The pretext he alleged was that if by 
 chance in the course of this work I should write anything 
 containing blunders--as was likely enough in view of my lack of 
 training--the thing might be imputed to him. When this came to the 
 ears of his scholars, they were filled with indignation at so 
 undisguised a manifestation of spite, the like of which had never 
 been directed against any one before. The more obvious this rancour 
 became, the more it redounded to my honour, and his persecution did 
 nought save to make me more famous. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER V (OF HOW HE RETURNED TO PARIS AND FINISHED THE GLOSSES WHICH HE HAD BEGUN AT LAON) 
   
 And so, after a few days, I returned to Paris, and there for 
 several years I peacefully directed the school which formerly had 
 been destined for me, nay, even offered to me, but from which I had 
 been driven out. At the very outset of my work there, I set about 
 completing the glosses on Ezekiel which I had begun at Laon. These 
 proved so satisfactory to all who read them that they came to 
 believe me no less adept in lecturing on theology than I had proved 
 myself to be in the held of philosophy. Thus my school was notably 
 increased in size by reason of my lectures on subjects of both 
 these kinds, and the amount of financial profit as well as glory 
 which it brought me cannot be concealed from you, for the matter 
 was widely talked of. But prosperity always puffs up the foolish, 
 and worldly comfort enervates the soul, rendering it an easy prey 
 to carnal temptations. Thus I, who by this time had come to regard 
 myself as the only philosopher remaining in the whole world, and 
 had ceased to fear any further disturbance of my peace, began to 
 loosen the rein on my desires, although hitherto I had always lived 
 in the utmost continence. And the greater progress I made in my 
 lecturing on philosophy or theology, the more I departed alike from 
 the practice of the philosophers and the spirit of the divines in 
 the uncleanness of my life. For it is well known, methinks, that 
 philosophers, and still more those who have devoted their lives to 
 arousing the love of sacred study, have been strong above all else 
 in the beauty of chastity. 
   
 Thus did it come to pass that while I was utterly absorbed in pride 
 and sensuality, divine grace, the cure for both diseases, was 
 forced upon me, even though I, forsooth, would fain have shunned 
 
 First was I punished for my sensuality, and then for my pride. 
 
 For my sensuality I lost those things whereby I practiced it; for 
 my pride, engendered in me by my knowledge of letters--and it is 
 even as the Apostle said: "Knowledge puffeth itself up" (I Cor. 
 viii, 1)--I knew the humiliation of seeing burned the very book in 
 which I most gloried. And now it is my desire that you should know 
 the stories of these two happenings, understanding them more truly 
 from learning the very facts than from hearing what is spoken of 
 them, and in the order in which they came about. Because I had ever 
 held in abhorrence the foulness of prostitutes, because I had 
 diligently kept myself from all excesses and from association with 
 the women of noble birth who attended the school, because I knew so 
 little of the common talk of ordinary people, perverse and subtly 
 flattering chance gave birth to an occasion for casting me lightly 
 down from the heights of my own exaltation. Nay, in such case not 
 even divine goodness could redeem one who, having been so proud, 
 was brought to such shame, were it not for the blessed gift of 
 grace. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER VI (OF HOW, BROUGHT LOW BY HIS LOVE FOR HÉLOISE, HE WAS WOUNDED IN BODY AND SOUL) 
   
 Now there dwelt in that same city of Paris a certain young girl 
 named Héloïse, the niece of a canon who was called Fulbert. Her 
 uncle's love for her was equalled only by his desire that she 
 should have the best education which he could possibly procure for 
 her. Of no mean beauty, she stood out above all by reason of her 
 abundant knowledge of letters. Now this virtue is rare among women, 
 and for that very reason it doubly graced the maiden, and made her 
 the most worthy of renown in the entire kingdom. It was this young 
 girl whom I, after carefully considering all those qualities which 
 are wont to attract lovers, determined to unite with myself in the 
 bonds of love, and indeed the thing seemed to me very easy to be 
 done. So distinguished was my name, and I possessed such advantages 
 of youth and comeliness, that no matter what woman I might favour 
 with my love, I dreaded rejection of none. Then, too, I believed 
 that I could win the maiden's consent all the more easily by reason 
 of her knowledge of letters and her zeal therefor; so, even if we 
 were parted, we might yet be together in thought with the aid of 
 written messages. Perchance, too, we might be able to write more 
 boldly than we could speak, and thus at all times could we live in 
 joyous intimacy. 
   
 Thus, utterly aflame with my passion for this maiden, I sought to 
 discover means whereby I might have daily and familiar speech with 
 her, thereby the more easily to win her consent. For this purpose I 
 persuaded the girl's uncle, with the aid of some of his friends, to 
 take me into his household--for he dwelt hard by my school--in 
 return for the payment of a small sum. My pretext for this was that 
 the care of my own household was a serious handicap to my studies, 
 and likewise burdened me with an expense far greater than I could 
 afford. Now, he was a man keen in avarice, and likewise he was most 
 desirous for his niece that her study of letters should ever go 
 forward, so, for these two reasons, I easily won his consent to the 
 fulfillment of my wish, for he was fairly agape for my money, and 
 at the same time believed that his niece would vastly benefit by my 
 teaching. More even than this, by his own earnest entreaties he 
 fell in with my desires beyond anything I had dared to hope, 
 opening the way for my love; for he entrusted her wholly to my 
 guidance, begging me to give her instruction whensoever I might be 
 free from the duties of my school, no matter whether by day or by 
 night, and to punish her sternly if ever I should find her 
 negligent of her tasks. In all this the man's simplicity was 
 nothing short of astounding to me; I should not have been more 
 smitten with wonder if he had entrusted a tender lamb to the care 
 of a ravenous wolf. When he had thus given her into my charge, not 
 alone to be taught but even to be disciplined, what had he done 
 save to give free scope to my desires, and to offer me every 
 opportunity, even if I had not sought it, to bend her to my will 
 with threats and blows if I failed to do so with caresses? There 
 were, however, two things which particularly served to allay any 
 foul suspicion: his own love for his niece, and my former 
 reputation for continence. 
   
 Why should I say more: We were united first in the dwelling that 
 sheltered our love, and then in the hearts that burned with it. 
 Under the pretext of study we spent our hours in the happiness of 
 love, and learning held out to us the secret opportunities that our 
 passion craved. Our speech was more of love than of the book which 
 lay open before us; our kisses far outnumbered our reasoned words. 
 Our hands sought less the book than each other's bosoms; love drew 
 our eyes together far more than the lesson drew them to the pages 
 of our text. In order that there might be no suspicion, there were, 
 indeed, sometimes blows, but love gave them, not anger; they were 
 the marks, not of wrath, but of a tenderness surpassing the most 
 fragrant balm in sweetness. What followed? No degree in love's 
 progress was left untried by our passion, and if love itself could 
 imagine any wonder as yet unknown, we discovered it. And our 
 inexperience of such delights made us all the more ardent in our 
 pursuit of them, so that our thirst for one another was still 
 unquenched. 
   
 In measure as this passionate rapture absorbed me more and more, I 
 devoted ever less time to philosophy and to the work of the school. 
 Indeed it became loathsome to me to go to the school or to linger 
 there; the labour, moreover, was very burdensome, since my nights 
 were vigils of love and my days of study. My lecturing became 
 utterly careless and lukewarm; I did nothing because of 
 inspiration, but everything merely as a matter of habit. I had 
 become nothing more than a reciter of my former discoveries, and 
 though I still wrote poems, they dealt with love, not with the 
 secrets of philosophy. Of these songs you yourself well know how 
 some have become widely known and have been sung in many lands, 
 chiefly, methinks, by those who delighted in the things of this 
 world. As for the sorrow, the groans, the lamentations of my 
 students when they perceived the preoccupation, nay, rather the 
 chaos, of my mind, it is hard even to imagine them. 
   
 A thing so manifest could deceive only a few, no one, methinks, 
 save him whose shame it chiefly bespoke, the girl's uncle, Fulbert. 
 The truth was often enough hinted to him, and by many persons, but 
 he could not believe it, partly, as I have said, by reason of his 
 boundless love for his niece, and partly because of the well-known 
 continence of my previous life. Indeed we do not easily suspect 
 shame in those whom we most cherish, nor can there be the blot of 
 foul suspicion on devoted love. Of this St. Jerome in his epistle 
 to Sabinianus (Epist. 48) says: "We are wont to be the last to know 
 the evils of our own households, and to be ignorant of the sins of 
 our children and our wives, though our neighbours sing them aloud." 
 But no matter how slow a matter may be in disclosing itself, it is 
 sure to come forth at last, nor is it easy to hide from one what is 
 known to all. So, after the lapse of several months, did it happen 
 with us. Oh, how great was the uncle's grief when he learned the 
 truth, and how bitter was the sorrow of the lovers when we were 
 forced to part! With what shame was I overwhelmed, with what 
 contrition smitten because of the blow which had fallen on her I 
 loved, and what a tempest of misery burst over her by reason of my 
 disgrace! Each grieved most, not for himself, but for the other. 
 Each sought to allay, not his own sufferings, but those of the one 
 he loved. The very sundering of our bodies served but to link our 
 souls closer together; the plentitude of the love which was denied 
 to us inflamed us more than ever. Once the first wildness of shame 
 had passed, it left us more shameless than before, and as shame 
 died within us the cause of it seemed to us ever more desirable. 
 And so it chanced with us as, in the stories that the poets tell, 
 it once happened with Mars and Venus when they were caught together. 
   
 It was not long after this that Héloïse found that she was 
 pregnant, and of this she wrote to me in the utmost exultation, 
 at the same time asking me to consider what had best be done. 
 Accordingly, on a night when her uncle was absent, we carried out 
 the plan we had determined on, and I stole her secretly away from 
 her uncle's house, sending her without delay to my own country. She 
 remained there with my sister until she gave birth to a son, whom 
 she named Astrolabe. Meanwhile her uncle, after his return, was 
 almost mad with grief; only one who had then seen him could rightly 
 guess the burning agony of his sorrow and the bitterness of his 
 shame. What steps to take against me, or what snares to set for me, 
 he did not know. If he should kill me or do me some bodily hurt, he 
 feared greatly lest his dear-loved niece should be made to suffer 
 for it among my kinsfolk. He had no power to seize me and imprison 
 me somewhere against my will, though I make no doubt he would have 
 done so quickly enough had he been able or dared, for I had taken 
 measures to guard against any such attempt. 
   
 At length, however, in pity for his boundless grief, and bitterly 
 blaming myself for the suffering which my love had brought upon him 
 through the baseness of the deception I had practiced, I went to 
 him to entreat his forgiveness, promising to make any amends that 
 he himself might decree. I pointed out that what had happened could 
 not seem incredible to any one who had ever felt the power of love, 
 or who remembered how, from the very beginning of the human race, 
 women had cast down even the noblest men to utter ruin. And in 
 order to make amends even beyond his extremest hope, I offered to 
 marry her whom I had seduced, provided only the thing could be kept 
 secret, so that I might suffer no loss of reputation thereby. To 
 this he gladly assented, pledging his own faith and that of his 
 kindred, and sealing with kisses the pact which I had sought of 
 him--and all this that he might the more easily betray me. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER VII (OF THE ARGUMENTS OF HÉLOÏSE AGAINST WEDLOCK--OF HOW NONE THE LESS HE MADE HER HIS WIFE) 
   
 Forthwith I repaired to my own country, and brought back thence my 
 mistress, that I might make her my wife. She, however, most 
 violently disapproved of this, and for two chief reasons: the 
 danger thereof, and the disgrace which it would bring upon me. She 
 swore that her uncle would never be appeased by such satisfaction 
 as this, as, indeed, afterwards proved only too true. She asked how 
 she could ever glory in me if she should make me thus inglorious, 
 and should shame herself along with me. What penalties, she said, 
 would the world rightly demand of her if she should rob it of so 
 shining a light! What curses would follow such a loss to the 
 Church, what tears among the philosophers would result from such a 
 marriage! How unfitting, how lamentable it would be for me, whom 
 nature had made for the whole world, to devote myself to one woman 
 solely, and to subject myself to such humiliation! She vehemently 
 rejected this marriage, which she felt would be in every way 
 ignominious and burdensome to me. 
   
 Besides dwelling thus on the disgrace to me, she reminded me of the 
 hardships of married life, to the avoidance of which the Apostle 
 exhorts us, saying: "Art thou loosed from a wife? seek not a wife. 
 But and if thou marry, thou hast not sinned; and if a virgin marry, 
 she hath not sinned. Nevertheless such shall have trouble in the 
 flesh: but I spare you" (I Cor. vii, 27). And again: "But I would 
 have you to be free from cares" (I Cor. vii, 32). But if I would 
 heed neither the counsel of the Apostle nor the exhortations of the 
 saints regarding this heavy yoke of matrimony, she bade me at least 
 consider the advice of the philosophers, and weigh carefully what 
 had been written on this subject either by them or concerning their 
 lives. Even the saints themselves have often and earnestly spoken 
 on this subject for the purpose of warning us. Thus St. Jerome, 
 in his first book against Jovinianus, makes Theophrastus set forth 
 in great detail the intolerable annoyances and the endless 
 disturbances of married life, demonstrating with the most 
 convincing arguments that no wise man should ever have a wife, and 
 concluding his reasons for this philosophic exhortation with these 
 words: "Who among Christians would not be overwhelmed by such 
 arguments as these advanced by Theophrastus?" 
   
 Again, in the same work, St. Jerome tells how Cicero, asked by 
 Hircius after his divorce of Terentia whether he would marry the 
 sister of Hircius, replied that he would do no such thing, saying 
 that he could not devote himself to a wife and to philosophy at the 
 same time. Cicero does not, indeed, precisely speak of "devoting 
 himself," but he does add that he did not wish to undertake 
 anything which might rival his study of philosophy in its demands 
 upon him. 
   
 Then, turning from the consideration of such hindrances to the 
 study of philosophy, Héloïse bade me observe what were the 
 conditions of honourable wedlock. What possible concord could there 
 be between scholars and domestics, between authors and cradles, 
 between books or tablets and distaffs, between the stylus or the 
 pen and the spindle? What man, intent on his religious or 
 philosophical meditations, can possibly endure the whining of 
 children, the lullabies of the nurse seeking to quiet them, or the 
 noisy confusion of family life? Who can endure the continual 
 untidiness of children? The rich, you may reply, can do this, 
 because they have palaces or houses containing many rooms, and 
 because their wealth takes no thought of expense and protects them 
 from daily worries. But to this the answer is that the condition of 
 philosophers is by no means that of the wealthy, nor can those 
 whose minds are occupied with riches and worldly cares find time 
 for religious or philosophical study. For this reason the renowned 
 philosophers of old utterly despised the world, fleeing from its 
 perils rather than reluctantly giving them up, and denied 
 themselves all its delights in order that they might repose in the 
 embraces of philosophy alone. One of them, and the greatest of all, 
 Seneca, in his advice to Lucilius, says: "Philosophy is not a thing 
 to be studied only in hours of leisure; we must give up everything 
 else to devote ourselves to it, for no amount of time is really 
 sufficient thereto" (Epist. 73). 
   
 It matters little, she pointed out, whether one abandons the study 
 of philosophy completely or merely interrupts it, for it can never 
 remain at the point where it was thus interrupted. All other 
 occupations must be resisted; it is vain to seek to adjust life to 
 include them, and they must simply be eliminated. This view is 
 maintained, for example, in the love of God by those among us who 
 are truly called monastics, and in the love of wisdom by all those 
 who have stood out among men as sincere philosophers. For in every 
 race, gentiles or Jews or Christians, there have always been a few 
 who excelled their fellows in faith or in the purity of their 
 lives, and who were set apart from the multitude by their 
 continence or by their abstinence from worldly pleasures. 
   
 Among the Jews of old there were the Nazarites, who consecrated 
 themselves to the Lord, some of them the sons of the prophet Elias 
 and others the followers of Eliseus, the monks of whom, on the 
 authority of St. Jerome (Epist. 4 and 13), we read in the Old 
 Testament. More recently there were the three philosophical sects 
 which Josephus defines in his Book of Antiquities (xviii, 2), 
 calling them the Pharisees, the Sadducees and the Essenes. In our 
 times, furthermore, there are the monks who imitate either the 
 communal life of the Apostles or the earlier and solitary life of 
 John. Among the gentiles there are, as has been said, the 
 philosophers. Did they not apply the name of wisdom or philosophy 
 as much to the religion of life as to the pursuit of learning, as 
 we find from the origin of the word itself, and likewise from the 
 testimony of the saints? 
   
 There is a passage on this subject in the eighth book of St. 
 Augustine's "City of God," wherein he distinguishes between the 
 various schools of philosophy. "The Italian school," he says, "had 
 as its founder Pythagoras of Samos, who, it is said, originated the 
 very word 'philosophy.' Before his time those who were regarded as 
 conspicuous for the praiseworthiness of their lives were called 
 wise men, but he, on being asked of his profession, replied that he 
 was a philosopher, that is to say a student or a lover of wisdom, 
 because it seemed to him unduly boastful to call himself a wise 
 man." In this passage, therefore, when the phrase "conspicuous for 
 the praiseworthiness of their lives" is used, it is evident that 
 the wise, in other words the philosophers, were so called less 
 because of their erudition than by reason of their virtuous lives. 
 In what sobriety and continence these men lived it is not for me to 
 prove by illustration, lest I should seem to instruct Minerva 
 herself. 
   
 Now, she added, if laymen and gentiles, bound by no profession of 
 religion, lived after this fashion, what ought you, a cleric and a 
 canon, to do in order not to prefer base voluptuousness to your 
 sacred duties, to prevent this Charybdis from sucking you down 
 headlong, and to save yourself from being plunged shamelessly and 
 irrevocably into such filth as this? If you care nothing for your 
 privileges as a cleric, at least uphold your dignity as a 
 philosopher. If you scorn the reverence due to God, let regard for 
 your reputation temper your shamelessness. Remember that Socrates 
 was chained to a wife, and by what a filthy accident he himself 
 paid for this blot on philosophy, in order that others thereafter 
 might be made more cautious by his example. Jerome thus mentions 
 this affair, writing about Socrates in his first book against 
 Jovinianus: "Once when he was withstanding a storm of reproaches 
 which Xantippe was hurling at him from an upper story, he was 
 suddenly drenched with foul slops; wiping his head, he said only, 
 'I knew there would be a shower after all that thunder.'" 
   
 Her final argument was that it would be dangerous for me to take 
 her back to Paris, and that it would be far sweeter for her to be 
 called my mistress than to be known as my wife; nay, too, that 
 this would be more honourable for me as well. In such case, she 
 said, love alone would hold me to her, and the strength of the 
 marriage chain would not constrain us. Even if we should by chance 
 be parted from time to time, the joy of our meetings would be all 
 the sweeter by reason of its rarity. But when she found that she 
 could not convince me or dissuade me from my folly by these and 
 like arguments, and because she could not bear to offend me, with 
 grievous sighs and tears she made an end of her resistance, saying: 
 "Then there is no more left but this, that in our doom the sorrow 
 yet to come shall be no less than the love we two have already 
 known." Nor in this, as now the whole world knows, did she lack the 
 spirit of prophecy. 
   
 So, after our little son was born, we left him in my sister's care, 
 and secretly returned to Paris. A few days later, in the early 
 morning, having kept our nocturnal vigil of prayer unknown to all 
 in a certain church, we were united there in the benediction of 
 wedlock, her uncle and a few friends of his and mine being present. 
 We departed forthwith stealthily and by separate ways, nor 
 thereafter did we see each other save rarely and in private, thus 
 striving our utmost to conceal what we had done. But her uncle and 
 those of his household, seeking solace for their disgrace, began to 
 divulge the story of our marriage, and thereby to violate the 
 pledge they had given me on this point. Héloïse, on the contrary, 
 denounced her own kin and swore that they were speaking the most 
 absolute lies. Her uncle, aroused to fury thereby, visited her 
 repeatedly with punishments. No sooner had I learned this than I 
 sent her to a convent of nuns at Argenteuil, not far from Paris, 
 where she herself had been brought up and educated as a young girl. 
 I had them make ready for her all the garments of a nun, suitable 
 for the life of a convent, excepting only the veil, and these I 
 bade her put on. 
   
 When her uncle and his kinsmen heard of this, they were convinced 
 that now I had completely played them false and had rid myself 
 forever of Héloïse by forcing her to become a nun. Violently 
 incensed, they laid a plot against me, and one night, while I, all 
 unsuspecting, was asleep in a secret room in my lodgings, they 
 broke in with the help of one of my servants, whom they had bribed. 
 There they had vengeance on me with a most cruel and most shameful 
 punishment, such as astounded the whole world, for they cut off 
 those parts of my body with which I had done that which was the 
 cause of their sorrow. This done, straightway they fled, but two of 
 them were captured, and suffered the loss of their eyes and their 
 genital organs. One of these two was the aforesaid servant, who, 
 even while he was still in my service, had been led by his avarice 
 to betray me. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER VIII (OF THE SUFFERING OF HIS BODY--OF HOW HE BECAME A MONK IN THE MONASTERY OF ST. DENIS AND HÉLOISE A NUN AT ARGENTEUIL) 
   
 When morning came the whole city was assembled before my dwelling. 
 It is difficult, nay, impossible, for words of mine to describe the 
 amazement which bewildered them, the lamentations they uttered, the 
 uproar with which they harassed me, or the grief with which they 
 increased my own suffering. Chiefly the clerics, and above all my 
 scholars, tortured me with their intolerable lamentations and 
 outcries, so that I suffered more intensely from their compassion 
 than from the pain of my wound. In truth I felt the disgrace more 
 than the hurt to my body, and was more afflicted with shame than 
 with pain. My incessant thought was of the renown in which I had so 
 much delighted, now brought low, nay, utterly blotted out, so 
 swiftly by an evil chance. I saw, too, how justly God had punished 
 me in that very part of my body whereby I had sinned. I perceived 
 that there was indeed justice in my betrayal by him whom I had 
 myself already betrayed; and then I thought how eagerly my rivals 
 would seize upon this manifestation of justice, how this disgrace 
 would bring bitter and enduring grief to my kindred and my friends, 
 and how the tale of this amazing outrage would spread to the very 
 ends of the earth. 
   
 What path lay open to me thereafter? How could I ever again hold up 
 my head among men, when every finger should be pointed at me in 
 scorn, every tongue speak my blistering shame, and when I should be 
 a monstrous spectacle to all eyes? I was overwhelmed by the 
 remembrance that, according to the dread letter of the law, God 
 holds eunuchs in such abomination that men thus maimed are 
 forbidden to enter a church, even as the unclean and filthy; nay, 
 even beasts in such plight were not acceptable as sacrifices. Thus 
 in Leviticus (xxii, 24) is it said: "Ye shall not offer unto the 
 Lord that which hath its stones bruised, or crushed, or broken, or 
 cut." And in Deuteronomy (xxiii, 1), "He that is wounded in the 
 stones, or hath his privy member cut off, shall not enter into the 
 congregation of the Lord." 
   
 I must confess that in my misery it was the overwhelming sense of 
 my disgrace rather than any ardour for conversion to the religious 
 life that drove me to seek the seclusion of the monastic cloister. 
 Héloïse had already, at my bidding, taken the veil and entered a 
 convent. Thus it was that we both put on the sacred garb, I in the 
 abbey of St. Denis, and she in the convent of Argenteuil, of which 
 I have already spoken. She, I remember well, when her fond friends 
 sought vainly to deter her from submitting her fresh youth to the 
 heavy and almost intolerable yoke of monastic life, sobbing and 
 weeping replied in the words of Cornelia: 
   
     "... O husband most noble, 
     Who ne'er shouldst have shared my couch! Has fortune such power 
 To smite so lofty a head? Why then was I wedded 
 Only to bring thee to woe? Receive now my sorrow, 
 The price I so gladly pay." 
                         (Lucan, "Pharsalia," viii, 94.) 
   
 With these words on her lips did she go forthwith to the altar, and 
 lifted therefrom the veil, which had been blessed by the bishop, 
 and before them all she took the vows of the religious life. For my 
 part, scarcely had I recovered from my wound when clerics sought me 
 in great numbers, endlessly beseeching both my abbot and me myself 
 that now, since I was done with learning for the sake of gain or 
 renown, I should turn to it for the sole love of God. They bade me 
 care diligently for the talent which God had committed to my 
 keeping (Matthew, xxv, 15), since surely He would demand it back 
 from me with interest. It was their plea that, inasmuch as of old I 
 had laboured chiefly in behalf of the rich, I should now devote 
 myself to the teaching of the poor. Therein above all should I 
 perceive how it was the hand of God that had touched me, when I 
 should devote my life to the study of letters in freedom from the 
 snares of the flesh and withdrawn from the tumultuous life of this 
 world. Thus, in truth, should I become a philosopher less of this 
 world than of God. 
   
 The abbey, however, to which I had betaken myself was utterly 
 worldly and in its life quite scandalous. The abbot himself was as 
 far below his fellows in his way of living and in the foulness of 
 his reputation as he was above them in priestly rank. This 
 intolerable state of things I often and vehemently denounced, 
 sometimes in private talk and sometimes publicly, but the only 
 result was that I made myself detested of them all. They gladly 
 laid hold of the daily eagerness of my students to hear me as an 
 excuse whereby they might be rid of me; and finally, at the 
 insistent urging of the students themselves, and with the hearty 
 consent of the abbot and the rest of the brotherhood, I departed 
 thence to a certain hut, there to teach in my wonted way. To this 
 place such a throng of students flocked that the neighbourhood 
 could not afford shelter for them, nor the earth sufficient 
 sustenance. 
   
 Here, as befitted my profession, I devoted myself chiefly to 
 lectures on theology, but I did not wholly abandon the teaching of 
 the secular arts, to which I was more accustomed, and which was 
 particularly demanded of me. I used the latter, however, as a hook, 
 luring my students by the bait of learning to the study of the true 
 philosophy, even as the Ecclesiastical History tells of Origen, the 
 greatest of all Christian philosophers. Since apparently the Lord 
 had gifted me with no less persuasiveness in expounding the 
 Scriptures than in lecturing on secular subjects, the number of my 
 students in these two courses began to increase greatly, and the 
 attendance at all the other schools was correspondingly diminished. 
 Thus I aroused the envy and hatred of the other teachers. Those who 
 sought to belittle me in every possible way took advantage of my 
 absence to bring two principal charges against me: first, that it 
 was contrary to the monastic profession to be concerned with the 
 study of secular books; and, second, that I had presumed to teach 
 theology without ever having been taught therein myself. This they 
 did in order that my teaching of every kind might be prohibited, 
 and to this end they continually stirred up bishops, archbishops, 
 abbots and whatever other dignitaries of the Church they could 
 reach. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER IX (OF HIS BOOK ON THEOLOGY AND HIS PERSECUTION AT THE HANDS OF HIS FELLOW STUDENTS--OF THE COUNCIL AGAINST HIM) 
   
 It so happened that at the outset I devoted myself to analyzing the 
 basis of our faith through illustrations based on human 
 understanding, and I wrote for my students a certain tract on the 
 unity and trinity of God. This I did because they were always 
 seeking for rational and philosophical explanations, asking rather 
 for reasons they could understand than for mere words, saying that 
 it was futile to utter words which the intellect could not possibly 
 follow, that nothing could be believed unless it could first be 
 understood, and that it was absurd for any one to preach to others 
 a thing which neither he himself nor those whom he sought to teach 
 could comprehend. Our Lord Himself maintained this same thing when 
 He said: "They are blind leaders of the blind" (Matthew, xv, 14). 
   
 Now, a great many people saw and read this tract, and it became 
 exceedingly popular, its clearness appealing particularly to all 
 who sought information on this subject. And since the questions 
 involved are generally considered the most difficult of all, their 
 complexity is taken as the measure of the subtlety of him who 
 succeeds in answering them. As a result, my rivals became furiously 
 angry, and summoned a council to take action against me, the chief 
 instigators therein being my two intriguing enemies of former days, 
 Alberic and Lotulphe. These two, now that both William and Anselm, 
 our erstwhile teachers, were dead, were greedy to reign in their 
 stead, and, so to speak, to succeed them as heirs. While they were 
 directing the school at Rheims, they managed by repeated hints to 
 stir up their archbishop, Rodolphe, against me, for the purpose of 
 holding a meeting, or rather an ecclesiastical council, at 
 Soissons, provided they could secure the approval of Conon, Bishop 
 of Praeneste, at that time papal legate in France. Their plan was 
 to summon me to be present at this council, bringing with me the 
 famous book I had written regarding the Trinity. In all this, 
 indeed, they were successful, and the thing happened according to 
 their wishes. 
   
 Before I reached Soissons, however, these two rivals of mine so 
 foully slandered me with both the clergy and the public that on the 
 day of my arrival the people came near to stoning me and the few 
 students of mine who had accompanied me thither. The cause of their 
 anger was that they had been led to believe that I had preached and 
 written to prove the existence of three gods. No sooner had I 
 reached the city, therefore, than I went forthwith to the legate; 
 to him I submitted my book for examination and judgment, declaring 
 that if I had written anything repugnant to the Catholic faith, I 
 was quite ready to correct it or otherwise to make satisfactory 
 amends. The legate directed me to refer my book to the archbishop 
 and to those same two rivals of mine, to the end that my accusers 
 might also be my judges. So in my case was fulfilled the saying: 
 "Even our enemies are our judges" (Deut. Xxxii, 31). 
   
 These three, then, took my book and pawed it over and examined it 
 minutely, but could find nothing therein which they dared to use as 
 the basis for a public accusation against me. Accordingly they put 
 off the condemnation of the book until the close of the council, 
 despite their eagerness to bring it about. For my part, everyday 
 before the council convened I publicly discussed the Catholic faith 
 in the light of what I had written, and all who heard me were 
 enthusiastic in their approval alike of the frankness and the logic 
 of my words. When the public and the clergy had thus learned 
 something of the real character of my teaching, they began to say 
 to one another: "Behold, now he speaks openly, and no one brings 
 any charge against him. And this council, summoned, as we have 
 heard, chiefly to take action upon his case, is drawing toward its 
 end. Did the judges realize that the error might be theirs rather 
 than his?" 
   
 As a result of all this, my rivals grew more angry day by day. On 
 one occasion Alberic, accompanied by some of his students, came to 
 me for the purpose of intimidating me, and, after a few bland 
 words, said that he was amazed at something he had found in my 
 book, to the effect that, although God had begotten God, I denied 
 that God had begotten Himself, since there was only one God. I 
 answered unhesitatingly: "I can give you an explanation of this if 
 you wish it." "Nay," he replied, "I care nothing for human 
 explanation or reasoning in such matters, but only for the words 
 of authority." "Very well." I said; "turn the pages of my book and 
 you will find the authority likewise." The book was at hand, for he 
 had brought it with him. I turned to the passage I had in mind, 
 which he had either not discovered or else passed over as 
 containing nothing injurious to me. And it was God's will that I 
 quickly found what I sought. This was the following sentence, under 
 the heading "Augustine, On the Trinity, Book I": "Whosoever 
 believes that it is within the power of God to beget Himself is 
 sorely in error; this power is not in God, neither is it in any 
 created thing, spiritual or corporeal. For there is nothing that 
 can give birth to itself." 
   
 When those of his followers who were present heard this, they were 
 amazed and much embarrassed. He himself, in order to keep his 
 countenance, said: "Certainly, I understand all that." Then I 
 added: "What I have to say further on this subject is by no means 
 new, but apparently it has nothing to do with the case at issue, 
 since you have asked for the word of authority only, and not for 
 explanations. If, however, you care to consider logical 
 explanations, I am prepared to demonstrate that, according to 
 Augustine's statement, you have yourself fallen into a heresy in 
 believing that a father can possibly be his own son." When Alberic 
 heard this he was almost beside himself with rage, and straightway 
 resorted to threats, asserting that neither my explanations nor my 
 citations of authority would avail me aught in this case. With this 
 he left me. 
   
 On the last day of the council, before the session convened, the 
 legate and the archbishop deliberated with my rivals and sundry 
 others as to what should be done about me and my book, this being 
 the chief reason for their having come together. And since they had 
 discovered nothing either in my speech or in what I had hitherto 
 written which would give them a case against me, they were all 
 reduced to silence, or at the most to maligning me in whispers. 
 Then Geoffroi, Bishop of Chartres, who excelled the other bishops 
 alike in the sincerity of his religion and in the importance of his 
 see, spoke thus: 
   
 "You know, my lords, all who are gathered here, the doctrine of 
 this man, what it is, and his ability, which has brought him many 
 followers in every field to which he has devoted himself. You know 
 how greatly he has lessened the renown of other teachers, both his 
 masters and our own, and how he has spread as it were the offshoots 
 of his vine from sea to sea. Now, if you impose a lightly 
 considered judgment on him, as I cannot believe you will, you well 
 know that even if mayhap you are in the right there are many who 
 will be angered thereby, and that he will have no lack of 
 defenders. Remember above all that we have found nothing in this 
 book of his that lies before us whereon any open accusation can be 
 based. Indeed it is true, as Jerome says: 'Fortitude openly 
 displayed always creates rivals, and the lightning strikes the 
 highest peaks.' Have a care, then, lest by violent action you only 
 increase his fame, and lest we do more hurt to ourselves through 
 envy than to him through justice. A false report, as that same wise 
 man reminds us, is easily crushed, and a man's later life gives 
 testimony as to his earlier deeds. If, then, you are disposed to 
 take canonical action against him, his doctrine or his writings 
 must be brought forward as evidence, and he must have free 
 opportunity to answer his questioners. In that case, if he is found 
 guilty or if he confesses his error, his lips can be wholly sealed. 
 Consider the words of the blessed Nicodemus, who, desiring to free 
 Our Lord Himself, said: 'Doth our law judge any man before it hear 
 him and know what he doeth? '" (John, vii, 51). 
   
 When my rivals heard this they cried out in protest, saying: "This 
 is wise counsel, forsooth, that we should strive against the 
 wordiness of this man, whose arguments, or rather, sophistries, the 
 whole world cannot resist!" And yet, methinks, it was far more 
 difficult to strive against Christ Himself, for Whom, nevertheless, 
 Nicodemus demanded a hearing in accordance with the dictates of the 
 law. When the bishop could not win their assent to his proposals, 
 he tried in another way to curb their hatred, saying that for the 
 discussion of such an important case the few who were present were 
 not enough, and that this matter required a more thorough 
 examination. His further suggestion was that my abbot, who was 
 there present, should take me back with him to our abbey, in other 
 words to the monastery of St. Denis, and that there a large 
 convocation of learned men should determine, on the basis of a 
 careful investigation, what ought to be done. To this last proposal 
 the legate consented, as did all the others. 
   
 Then the legate arose to celebrate mass before entering the 
 council, and through the bishop sent me the permission which had 
 been determined on, authorizing me to return to my monastery and 
 there await such action as might be finally taken. But my rivals, 
 perceiving that they would accomplish nothing if the trial were to 
 be held outside of their own diocese, and in a place where they 
 could have little influence on the verdict, and in truth having 
 small wish that justice should be done, persuaded the archbishop 
 that it would be a grave insult to him to transfer this case to 
 another court, and that it would be dangerous for him if by chance 
 I should thus be acquitted. They likewise went to the legate, and 
 succeeded in so changing his opinion that finally they induced him 
 to frame a new sentence, whereby he agreed to condemn my book 
 without any further inquiry, to burn it forthwith in the sight of 
 all, and to confine me for a year in another monastery. The 
 argument they used was that it sufficed for the condemnation of my 
 book that I had presumed to read it in public without the approval 
 either of the Roman pontiff or of the Church, and that, 
 furthermore, I had given it to many to be transcribed. Methinks it 
 would be a notable blessing to the Christian faith if there were 
 more who displayed a like presumption. The legate, however, being 
 less skilled in law than he should have been, relied chiefly on the 
 advice of the archbishop, and he, in turn, on that of my rivals. 
 When the Bishop of Chartres got wind of this, he reported the whole 
 conspiracy to me, and strongly urged me to endure meekly the 
 manifest violence of their enmity. He bade me not to doubt that 
 this violence would in the end react upon them and prove a blessing 
 to me, and counseled me to have no fear of the confinement in a 
 monastery, knowing that within a few days the legate himself, who 
 was now acting under compulsion, would after his departure set me 
 free. And thus he consoled me as best he might, mingling his tears 
 with mine. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER X (OF THE BURNING OF HIS BOOK--OF THE PERSECUTION HE HAD AT THE HANDS OF HIS ABBOT AND THE BRETHREN) 
   
 Straightway upon my summons I went to the council, and there, 
 without further examination or debate, did they compel me with my 
 own hand to cast that memorable book of mine into the flames. 
 Although my enemies appeared to have nothing to say while the book 
 was burning, one of them muttered something about having seen it 
 written therein that God the Father was alone omnipotent. This 
 reached the ears of the legate, who replied in astonishment that he 
 could not believe that even a child would make so absurd a blunder. 
 "Our common faith," he said, "holds and sets forth that the Three 
 are alike omnipotent." A certain Tirric, a schoolmaster, hearing 
 this, sarcastically added the Athanasian phrase, "And yet there are 
 not three omnipotent Persons, but only One." 
   
 This man's bishop forthwith began to censure him, bidding him 
 desist from such treasonable talk, but he boldly stood his ground, 
 and said, as if quoting the words of Daniel: "'Are ye such fools, 
 ye sons of Israel, that without examination or knowledge of the 
 truth ye have condemned a daughter of Israel? Return again to the 
 place of judgment,' (Daniel, xiii, 48--The History of Susanna) and 
 there give judgment on the judge himself. You have set up this 
 judge, forsooth, for the instruction of faith and the correction of 
 error, and yet, when he ought to give judgment, he condemns himself 
 out of his own mouth. Set free today, with the help of God's mercy, 
 one who is manifestly innocent, even as Susanna was freed of old 
 from her false accusers." 
   
 Thereupon the archbishop arose and confirmed the legate's 
 statement, but changed the wording thereof, as indeed was most 
 fitting. "It is God's truth," he said, "that the Father is 
 omnipotent, the Son is omnipotent, the Holy Spirit is omnipotent. 
 And whosoever dissents from this is openly in error, and must not 
 be listened to. Nevertheless, if it be your pleasure, it would be 
 well that this our brother should publicly state before us all the 
 faith that is in him, to the end that, according to its deserts, it 
 may either be approved or else condemned and corrected." 
   
 When, however, I fain would have arisen to profess and set forth my 
 faith, in order that I might express in my own words that which was 
 in my heart, my enemies declared that it was not needful for me to 
 do more than recite the Athanasian Symbol, a thing which any boy 
 might do as well as I. And lest I should allege ignorance, 
 pretending that I did not know the words by heart, they had a copy 
 of it set before me to read. And read it I did as best I could for 
 my groans and sighs and tears. Thereupon, as if I had been a 
 convicted criminal, I was handed over to the Abbot of St. Médard, 
 who was there present, and led to his monastery as to a prison. And 
 with this the council was immediately dissolved. 
   
 The abbot and the monks of the aforesaid monastery, thinking that I 
 would remain long with them, received me with great exultation, and 
 diligently sought to console me, but all in vain. O God, who dost 
 judge justice itself, in what venom of the spirit, in what 
 bitterness of mind, did I blame even Thee for my shame, accusing 
 Thee in my madness! Full often did I repeat the lament of St. 
 Anthony: "Kindly Jesus, where wert Thou?" The sorrow that tortured 
 me, the shame that overwhelmed me, the desperation that wracked my 
 mind, all these I could then feel, but even now I can find no words 
 to express them. Comparing these new sufferings of my soul with 
 those I had formerly endured in my body, it seemed that I was in 
 very truth the most miserable among men. Indeed that earlier 
 betrayal had become a little thing in comparison with this later 
 evil, and I lamented the hurt to my fair name far more than the one 
 to my body. The latter, indeed, I had brought upon myself through 
 my own wrongdoing, but this other violence had come upon me solely 
 by reason of the honesty of my purpose and my love of our faith, 
 which had compelled me to write that which I believed. 
   
 The very cruelty and heartlessness of my punishment, however, made 
 every one who heard the story vehement in censuring it, so that 
 those who had a hand therein were soon eager to disclaim all 
 responsibility, shouldering the blame on others. Nay, matters came 
 to such a pass that even my rivals denied that they had had 
 anything to do with the matter, and as for the legate, he publicly 
 denounced the malice with which the French had acted. Swayed by 
 repentance for his injustice, and feeling that he had yielded 
 enough to satisfy their rancour, he shortly freed me from the 
 monastery whither I had been taken, and sent me back to my own. 
 Here, however, I found almost as many enemies as I had in the 
 former days of which I have already spoken, for the vileness and 
 shamelessness of their way of living made them realize that they 
 would again have to endure my censure. 
   
 After a few months had passed, chance gave them an opportunity by 
 which they sought to destroy me. It happened that one day, in the 
 course of my reading, I came upon a certain passage of Bede, in his 
 commentary on the Acts of the Apostles, wherein he asserts that 
 Dionysius the Areopagite was the bishop, not of Athens, but of 
 Corinth. Now, this was directly counter to the belief of the monks, 
 who were wont to boast that their Dionysius, or Denis, was not only 
 the Areopagite but was likewise proved by his acts to have been the 
 Bishop of Athens. Having thus found this testimony of Bede's in 
 contradiction of our own tradition, I showed it somewhat jestingly 
 to sundry of the monks who chanced to be near. Wrathfully they 
 declared that Bede was no better than a liar, and that they had a 
 far more trustworthy authority in the person of Hilduin, a former 
 abbot of theirs, who had travelled for a long time throughout 
 Greece for the purpose of investigating this very question. He, 
 they insisted, had by his writings removed all possible doubt on 
 the subject, and had securely established the truth of the 
 traditional belief. 
   
 One of the monks went so far as to ask me brazenly which of the 
 two, Bede or Hilduin, I considered the better authority on this 
 point. I replied that the authority of Bede, whose writings are 
 held in high esteem by the whole Latin Church, appeared to me the 
 better. Thereupon in a great rage they began to cry out that at 
 last I had openly proved the hatred I had always felt for our 
 monastery, and that I was seeking to disgrace it in the eyes of the 
 whole kingdom, robbing it of the honour in which it had 
 particularly gloried, by thus denying that the Areopagite was their 
 patron saint. To this I answered that I had never denied the fact, 
 and that I did not much care whether their patron was the 
 Areopagite or some one else, provided only he had received his 
 crown from God. Thereupon they ran to the abbot and told him of the 
 misdemeanour with which they charged me. 
   
 The abbot listened to their story with delight, rejoicing at having 
 found a chance to crush me, for the greater vileness of his life 
 made him fear me more even than the rest did. Accordingly he 
 summoned his council, and when the brethren had assembled he 
 violently threatened me, declaring that he would straightway send 
 me to the king, by him to be punished for having thus sullied his 
 crown and the glory of his royalty. And until he should hand me 
 over to the king, he ordered that I should be closely guarded. In 
 vain did I offer to submit to the customary discipline if I had in 
 any way been guilty. Then, horrified at their wickedness, which 
 seemed to crown the ill fortune I had so long endured, and in utter 
 despair at the apparent conspiracy of the whole world against me, I 
 fled secretly from the monastery by night, helped thereto by some 
 of the monks who took pity on me, and likewise aided by some of my 
 scholars. 
   
 I made my way to a region where I had formerly dwelt, hard by the 
 lands of Count Theobald (of Champagne). He himself had some slight 
 acquaintance with me, and had compassion on me by reason of my 
 persecutions, of which the story had reached him. I found a home 
 there within the walls of Provins, in a priory of the monks of 
 Troyes, the prior of which had in former days known me well and 
 shown me much love. In his joy at my coming he cared for me with 
 all diligence. It chanced, however, that one day my abbot came to 
 Provins to see the count on certain matters of business. As soon as 
 I had learned of this, I went to the count, the prior accompanying 
 me, and besought him to intercede in my behalf with the abbot. I 
 asked no more than that the abbot should absolve me of the charge 
 against me, and give me permission to live the monastic life 
 wheresoever I could find a suitable place. The abbot, however, and 
 those who were with him took the matter under advisement, saying 
 that they would give the count an answer the day before they 
 departed. It appeared from their words that they thought I wished 
 to go to some other abbey, a thing which they regarded as an 
 immense disgrace to their own. They had, indeed, taken particular 
 pride in the fact that, upon my conversion, I had come to them, as 
 if scorning all other abbeys, and accordingly they considered that 
 it would bring great shame upon them if I should now desert their 
 abbey and seek another. For this reason they refused to listen 
 either to my own plea or to that of the count. Furthermore, they 
 threatened me with excommunication unless I should instantly 
 return; likewise they forbade the prior with whom I had taken 
 refuge to keep me longer, under pain of sharing my excommunication. 
 When we heard this both the prior and I were stricken with fear. 
 The abbot went away still obdurate, but a few days thereafter he 
 died. 
   
 As soon as his successor had been named, I went to him, accompanied 
 by the Bishop of Meaux, to try if I might win from him the 
 permission I had vainly sought of his predecessor. At first he 
 would not give his assent, but finally, through the intervention of 
 certain friends of mine, I secured the right to appeal to the king 
 and his council, and in this way I at last obtained what I sought. 
 The royal seneschal, Stephen, having summoned the abbot and his 
 subordinates that they might state their case, asked them why they 
 wanted to keep me against my will. He pointed out that this might 
 easily bring them into evil repute, and certainly could do them no 
 good, seeing that their way of living was utterly incompatible with 
 mine. I knew it to be the opinion of the royal council that the 
 irregularities in the conduct of this abbey would tend to bring it 
 more and more under the control of the king, making it increasingly 
 useful and likewise profitable to him, and for this reason I had 
 good hope of easily winning the support of the king and those about 
 him. 
   
 Thus, indeed, did it come to pass. But in order that the monastery 
 might not be shorn of any of the glory which it had enjoyed by 
 reason of my sojourn there, they granted me permission to betake 
 myself to any solitary place I might choose, provided only I did 
 not put myself under the rule of any other abbey. This was agreed 
 upon and confirmed on both sides in the presence of the king and 
 his councellors. Forthwith I sought out a lonely spot known to me 
 of old in the region of Troyes, and there, on a bit of land which 
 had been given to me, and with the approval of the bishop of the 
 district, I built with reeds and stalks my first oratory in the 
 name of the Holy Trinity. And there concealed, with but one 
 comrade, a certain cleric, I was able to sing over and over again 
 to the Lord: "Lo, then would I wander far off, and remain in the 
 wilderness" (Ps. IV, 7). 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XI (OF HIS TEACHING IN THE WILDERNESS) 
   
 No sooner had scholars learned of my retreat than they began to 
 flock thither from all sides, leaving their towns and castles to 
 dwell in the wilderness. In place of their spacious houses they 
 built themselves huts; instead of dainty fare they lived on the 
 herbs of the field and coarse bread; their soft beds they exchanged 
 for heaps of straw and rushes, and their tables were piles of turf. 
 In very truth you may well believe that they were like those 
 philosophers of old of whom Jerome tells us in his second book 
 against Jovinianus. 
   
 "Through the senses," says Jerome, "as through so many windows, do 
 vices win entrance to the soul. The metropolis and citadel of the 
 mind cannot be taken unless the army of the foe has first rushed in 
 through the gates. If any one delights in the games of the circus, 
 in the contests of athletes, in the versatility of actors, in the 
 beauty of women, in the glitter of gems and raiment, or in aught 
 else like to these, then the freedom of his soul is made captive 
 through the windows of his eyes, and thus is fulfilled the 
 prophecy: `For death is come up into our windows' (Jer. ix, 21). 
 And then, when the wedges of doubt have, as it were, been driven 
 into the citadels of our minds through these gateways, where will 
 be its liberty? where its fortitude? where its thought of God? Most 
 of all does the sense of touch paint for itself the pictures of 
 past raptures, compelling the soul to dwell fondly upon remembered 
 iniquities, and so to practice in imagination those things which 
 reality denies to it. 
   
 "Heeding such counsel, therefore, many among the philosophers 
 forsook the thronging ways of the cities and the pleasant gardens 
 of the countryside, with their well-watered fields, their shady 
 trees, the song of birds, the mirror of the fountain, the murmur of 
 the stream, the many charms for eye and ear, fearing lest their 
 souls should grow soft amid luxury and abundance of riches, and 
 lest their virtue should thereby be defiled. For it is perilous to 
 turn your eyes often to those things whereby you may some day be 
 made captive, or to attempt the possession of that which it would 
 go hard with you to do without. Thus the Pythagoreans shunned all 
 companionship of this kind, and were wont to dwell in solitary and 
 desert places. Nay, Plato himself, although he was a rich man, let 
 Diogenes trample on his couch with muddy feet, and in order that he 
 might devote himself to philosophy established his academy in a 
 place remote from the city, and not only uninhabited but unhealthy 
 as well. This he did in order that the onslaughts of lust might be 
 broken by the fear and constant presence of disease, and that his 
 followers might find no pleasure save in the things they learned." 
   
 Such a life, likewise, the sons of the prophets who were the 
 followers of Eliseus are reported to have led. Of these Jerome also 
 tells us, writing thus to the monk Rusticus as if describing the 
 monks of those ancient days: "The sons of the prophets, the monks 
 of whom we read in the Old Testament, built for themselves huts by 
 the waters of the Jordan, and forsaking the throngs and the cities, 
 lived on pottage and the herbs of the field" (Epist. iv). 
   
 Even so did my followers build their huts above the waters of the 
 Arduzon, so that they seemed hermits rather than scholars. And as 
 their number grew ever greater, the hardships which they gladly 
 endured for the sake of my teaching seemed to my rivals to reflect 
 new glory on me, and to cast new shame on themselves. Nor was it 
 strange that they, who had done their utmost to hurt me, should 
 grieve to see how all things worked together for my good, even 
 though I was now, in the words of Jerome, afar from cities and the 
 market place, from controversies and the crowded ways of men. And 
 so, as Quintilian says, did envy seek me out even in my hiding 
 place. Secretly my rivals complained and lamented one to another, 
 saying: "Behold now, the whole world runs after him, and our 
 persecution of him has done nought save to increase his glory. We 
 strove to extinguish his fame, and we have but given it new 
 brightness. Lo, in the cities scholars have at hand everything they 
 may need, and yet, spurning the pleasures of the town, they seek 
 out the barrenness of the desert, and of their own free will they 
 accept wretchedness." 
   
 The thing which at that time chiefly led me to undertake the 
 direction of a school was my intolerable poverty, for I had not 
 strength enough to dig, and shame kept me from begging. And so, 
 resorting once more to the art with which I was so familiar, I was 
 compelled to substitute the service of the tongue for the labour of 
 my hands. The students willingly provided me with whatsoever I 
 needed in the way of food and clothing, and likewise took charge of 
 the cultivation of the fields and paid for the erection of 
 buildings, in order that material cares might not keep me from my 
 studies. Since my oratory was no longer large enough to hold even a 
 small part of their number, they found it necessary to increase its 
 size, and in so doing they greatly improved it, building it of 
 stone and wood. Although this oratory had been founded in honour of 
 the Holy Trinity, and afterwards dedicated thereto, I now named it 
 the Paraclete, mindful of how I had come there a fugitive and in 
 despair, and had breathed into my soul something of the miracle of 
 divine consolation. 
   
 Many of those who heard of this were greatly astonished, and some 
 violently assailed my action, declaring that it was not permissible 
 to dedicate a church exclusively to the Holy Spirit rather than to 
 God the Father. They held, according to an ancient tradition, that 
 it must be dedicated either to the Son alone or else to the entire 
 Trinity. The error which led them into this false accusation 
 resulted from their failure to perceive the identity of the 
 Paraclete with the Spirit Paraclete. Even as the whole Trinity, or 
 any Person in the Trinity, may rightly be called God or Helper, so 
 likewise may It be termed the Paraclete, that is to say the 
 Consoler. These are the words of the Apostle: "Blessed be God, even 
 the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the 
 God of all comfort; who comforteth us in all our tribulation" 
 (2 Cor. i, 3). And likewise the word of truth says: "And he shall 
 give you another comforter" (Greek "another Paraclete," John, xiv, 16). 
   
 Nay, since every church is consecrated equally in the name of the 
 Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, without any difference in 
 their possession thereof, why should not the house of God be 
 dedicated to the Father or to the Holy Spirit, even as it is to the 
 Son? Who would presume to erase from above the door the name of him 
 who is the master of the house? And since the Son offered Himself 
 as a sacrifice to the Father, and accordingly in the ceremonies of 
 the mass the prayers are offered particularly to the Father, and 
 the immolation of the Host is made to Him, why should the altar not 
 be held to be chiefly His to whom above all the supplication and 
 sacrifice are made? Is it not called more rightly the altar of Him 
 who receives than of Him who makes the sacrifice? Who would admit 
 that an altar is that of the Holy Cross, or of the Sepulchre, or of 
 St. Michael, or John, or Peter, or of any other saint, unless 
 either he himself was sacrificed there or else special sacrifices 
 and prayers are made there to him? Methinks the altars and temples 
 of certain ones among these saints are not held to be idolatrous 
 even though they are used for special sacrifices and prayers to 
 their patrons. 
   
 Some, however, may perchance argue that churches are not built or 
 altars dedicated to the Father because there is no feast which is 
 solemnized especially for Him. But while this reasoning holds good 
 as regards the Trinity itself, it does not apply in the case of the 
 Holy Spirit. For this Spirit, from the day of Its advent, has had 
 Its special feast of the Pentecost, even as the Son has had since 
 His coming upon earth His feast of the Nativity. Even as the Son 
 was sent into this world, so did the Holy Spirit descend upon the 
 disciples, and thus does It claim Its special religious rites. Nay, 
 it seems more fitting to dedicate a temple to It than to either of 
 the other Persons of the Trinity, if we but carefully study the 
 apostolic authority, and consider the workings of this Spirit 
 Itself. To none of the three Persons did the apostle dedicate a 
 special temple save to the Holy Spirit alone. He does not speak of 
 a temple of the Father, or a temple of the Son, as he does of a 
 temple of the Holy Spirit, writing thus in his first epistle to the 
 Corinthians: "But he that is joined unto the Lord is one spirit." 
 (I Cor. vi, 17). And again: "What? know ye not that your body is 
 the temple of the Holy Spirit which is in you, which ye have of 
 God, and ye are not your own?" (ib. 19). 
   
 Who is there who does not know that the sacraments of God's 
 blessings pertaining to the Church are particularly ascribed to the 
 operation of divine grace, by which is meant the Holy Spirit? 
 Forsooth we are born again of water and of the Holy Spirit in 
 baptism, and thus from the very beginning is the body made, as it 
 were, a special temple of God. In the successive sacraments, 
 moreover, the seven-fold grace of the Spirit is added, whereby 
 this same temple of God is made beautiful and is consecrated. What 
 wonder is it, then, if to that Person to Whom the apostle assigned 
 a spiritual temple we should dedicate a material one? Or to what 
 Person can a church be more rightly said to belong than to Him to 
 Whom all the blessings which the church administers are 
 particularly ascribed? It was not, however, with the thought of 
 dedicating my oratory to one Person that I first called it the 
 Paraclete, but for the reason I have already told, that in this 
 spot I found consolation. 'None the less, even if I had done it for 
 the reason attributed to me, the departure from the usual custom 
 would have been in no way illogical. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XII ( OF THE PERSECUTION DIRECTED AGAINST HIM BY SUNDRY NEW ENEMIES OR, AS IT WERE, APOSTLES) 
   
 And so I dwelt in this place, my body indeed hidden away, but my 
 fame spreading throughout the whole world, till its echo 
 reverberated mightily-echo, that fancy of the poet's, which has so 
 great a voice, and nought beside. My former rivals, seeing that 
 they themselves were now powerless to do me hurt, stirred up 
 against me certain new apostles in whom the world put great faith. 
 One of these (Norbert of Prémontré) took pride in his position as 
 canon of a regular order; the other (Bernard of Clairvaux) made it 
 his boast that he had revived the true monastic life. These two ran 
 hither and yon preaching and shamelessly slandering me in every way 
 they could, so that in time they succeeded in drawing down on my 
 head the scorn of many among those having authority, among both the 
 clergy and the laity. They spread abroad such sinister reports of 
 my faith as well as of my life that they turned even my best 
 friends against me, and those who still retained something of their 
 former regard for me were fain to disguise it in every possible way 
 by reason of their fear of these two men. 
   
 God is my witness that whensoever I learned of the convening of a 
 new assemblage of the clergy, I believed that it was done for the 
 express purpose of my condemnation. Stunned by this fear like one 
 smitten with a thunderbolt, I daily expected to be dragged before 
 their councils or assemblies as a heretic or one guilty of impiety. 
 Though I seem to compare a flea with a lion, or an ant with an 
 elephant, in very truth my rivals persecuted me no less bitterly 
 than the heretics of old hounded St. Athanasius. Often, God knows, 
 I sank so deep in despair that I was ready to leave the world of 
 Christendom and go forth among the heathen, paying them a 
 stipulated tribute in order that I might live quietly a Christian 
 life among the enemies of Christ. It seemed to me that such people 
 might indeed be kindly disposed toward me, particularly as they 
 would doubtless suspect me of being no good Christian, imputing my 
 flight to some crime I had committed, and would therefore believe 
 that I might perhaps be won over to their form of worship. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XIII (OF THE ABBEY TO WHICH HE WAS CALLED AND OF THE PERSECUTION HE HAD FROM HIS SONS, THAT IS TO SAY THE MONKS, AND FROM THE LORD OF THE LAND) 
   
 While I was thus afflicted with so great perturbation of the 
 spirit, and when the only way of escape seemed to be for me to seek 
 refuge with Christ among the enemies of Christ, there came a chance 
 whereby I thought I could for a while avoid the plottings of my 
 enemies. But thereby I fell among Christians and monks who were far 
 more savage than heathens and more evil of life. The thing came 
 about in this wise. There was in lesser Brittany, in the bishopric 
 of Vannes, a certain abbey of St. Gildas at Ruits, then mourning 
 the death of its shepherd. To this abbey the elective choice of the 
 brethren called me, with the approval of the prince of that land, 
 and I easily secured permission to accept the post from my own 
 abbot and brethren. Thus did the hatred of the French drive me 
 westward, even as that of the Romans drove Jerome toward the East. 
 Never, God knows, would I have agreed to this thing had it not been 
 for my longing for any possible means of escape from the sufferings 
 which I had borne so constantly. 
   
 The land was barbarous and its speech was unknown to me; as for the 
 monks, their vile and untameable way of life was notorious almost 
 everywhere. The people of the region, too, were uncivilized and 
 lawless. Thus, like one who in terror of the sword that threatens 
 him dashes headlong over a precipice, and to shun one death for a 
 moment rushes to another, I knowingly sought this new danger in 
 order to escape from the former one. And there, amid the dreadful 
 roar of the waves of the sea, where the land's end left me no 
 further refuge in flight, often in my prayers did I repeat over and 
 over again: "From the end of the earth will I cry unto Thee, when 
 my heart is overwhelmed" (Ps. lxi, 2). 
   
 No one, methinks, could fail to understand how persistently that 
 undisciplined body of monks, the direction of which I had thus 
 undertaken, tortured my heart day and night, or how constantly I 
 was compelled to think of the danger alike to my body and to my 
 soul. I held it for certain that if I should try to force them to 
 live according to the principles they had themselves professed, I 
 should not survive. And yet, if I did not do this to the utmost of 
 my ability, I saw that my damnation was assured. Moreover, a 
 certain lord who was exceedingly powerful in that region had some 
 time previously brought the abbey under his control, taking 
 advantage of the state of disorder within the monastery to seize 
 all the lands adjacent thereto for his own use, and he ground down 
 the monks with taxes heavier than those which were extorted from 
 the Jews themselves. 
   
 The monks pressed me to supply them with their daily necessities, 
 but they held no property in common which I might administer in 
 their behalf, and each one, with such resources as he possessed, 
 supported himself and his concubines, as well as his sons and 
 daughters. They took delight in harassing me on this matter, and 
 they stole and carried off whatsoever they could lay their hands 
 on, to the end that my failure to maintain order might make me 
 either give up trying to enforce discipline or else abandon my post 
 altogether. Since the entire region was equally savage, lawless and 
 disorganized, there was not a single man to whom I could turn for 
 aid, for the habits of all alike were foreign to me. Outside the 
 monastery the lord and his henchmen ceaselessly hounded me, and 
 within its walls the brethren were forever plotting against me, so 
 that it seemed as if the Apostle had had me and none other in mind 
 when he said: "Without were fightings, within were fears" (II Cor. vii, 5). 
   
 I considered and lamented the uselessness and the wretchedness of 
 my existence, how fruitless my life now was, both to myself and to 
 others; how of old I had been of some service to the clerics whom I 
 had now abandoned for the sake of these monks, so that I was no 
 longer able to be of use to either; how incapable I had proved 
 myself in everything I had undertaken or attempted, so that above 
 all others I deserved the reproach, "This man began to build, and 
 was not able to finish" (Luke xiv, 30). My despair grew still 
 deeper when I compared the evils I had left behind with those to 
 which I had come, for my former sufferings now seemed to me as 
 nought. Full often did I groan: "Justly has this sorrow come upon 
 me because I deserted the Paraclete, which is to say the Consoler, 
 and thrust myself into sure desolation; seeking to shun threats I 
 fled to certain peril." 
   
 The thing which tormented me most was the fact that, having 
 abandoned my oratory, I could make no suitable provision for the 
 celebration there of the divine office, for indeed the extreme 
 poverty of the place would scarcely provide the necessities of one 
 man. But the true Paraclete Himself brought me real consolation in 
 the midst of this sorrow of mine, and made all due provision for 
 His own oratory. For it chanced that in some manner or other, 
 laying claim to it as having legally belonged in earlier days to 
 his monastery, my abbot of St. Denis got possession of the abbey of 
 Argenteuil, of which I have previously spoken, wherein she who was 
 now my sister in Christ rather than my wife, Héloïse, had taken the 
 veil. From this abbey he expelled by force all the nuns who had 
 dwelt there, and of whom my former companion had become the 
 prioress. The exiles being thus dispersed in various places, I 
 perceived that this was an opportunity presented by God himself to 
 me whereby I could make provision anew for my oratory. And so, 
 returning thither, I bade her come to the oratory, together with 
 some others from the same convent who had clung to her. 
   
 On their arrival there I made over to them the oratory, together 
 with everything pertaining thereto, and subsequently, through the 
 approval and assistance of the bishop of the district, Pope 
 Innocent II promulgated a decree confirming my gift in perpetuity 
 to them and their successors. And this refuge of divine mercy, 
 which they served so devotedly, soon brought them consolation, even 
 though at first their life there was one of want, and for a time of 
 utter destitution. But the place proved itself a true Paraclete to 
 them, making all those who dwelt round about feel pity and 
 kindliness for the sisterhood. So that, methinks, they prospered 
 more through gifts in a single year than I should have done if I 
 had stayed there a hundred. True it is that the weakness of 
 womankind makes their needs and sufferings appeal strongly to 
 people's feelings, as likewise it makes their virtue all the more 
 pleasing to God and man. And God granted such favour in the eyes of 
 all to her who was now my sister, and who was in authority over the 
 rest, that the bishops loved her as a daughter, the abbots as a 
 sister, and the laity as a mother. All alike marvelled at her 
 religious zeal, her good judgment and the sweetness of her 
 incomparable patience in all things. The less often she allowed 
 herself to be seen, shutting herself up in her cell to devote 
 herself to sacred meditations and prayers, the more eagerly did 
 those who dwelt without demand her presence and the spiritual 
 guidance of her words. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XIV (OF THE EVIL REPORT OF HIS INIQUITY) 
   
 Before long all those who dwelt thereabouts began to censure me 
 roundly, complaining that I paid far less attention to their needs 
 than I might and should have done, and that at least I could do 
 something for them through my preaching. As a result, I returned 
 thither frequently, to be of service to them in whatsoever way I 
 could. Regarding this there was no lack of hateful murmuring, and 
 the thing which sincere charity induced me to do was seized upon by 
 the wickedness of my detractors as the subject of shameless outcry. 
 They declared that I, who of old could scarcely endure to be parted 
 from her I loved, was still swayed by the delights of fleshly lust. 
 Many times I thought of the complaint of St. Jerome in his letter 
 to Asella regarding those women whom he was falsely accused of 
 loving, when he said (Epist. xcix): "I am charged with nothing save 
 the fact of my sex, and this charge is made only because Paula is 
 setting forth to Jerusalem." And again: "Before I became intimate 
 in the household of the saintly Paula, the whole city was loud in 
 my praise, and nearly every one deemed me deserving of the highest 
 honours of priesthood. But I know that my way to the kingdom of 
 Heaven lies through good and evil report alike." 
   
 When I pondered over the injury which slander had done to so great 
 a man as this, I was not a little consoled thereby. If my rivals, I 
 told myself, could but find an equal cause for suspicion against 
 me, with what accusations would they persecute me! But how is it 
 possible for such suspicion to continue in my case, seeing that 
 divine mercy has freed me therefrom by depriving me of all power to 
 enact such baseness? How shameless is this latest accusation! In 
 truth that which had happened to me so completely removes all 
 suspicion of this iniquity among all men that those who wish to 
 have their women kept under close guard employ eunuchs for that 
 purpose, even as sacred history tells regarding Esther and the 
 other damsels of King Ahasuerus (Esther ii, 5). We read, too, of 
 that eunuch of great authority under Queen Candace who had charge 
 of all her treasure, him to whose conversion and baptism the 
 apostle Philip was directed by an angel (Acts viii, 27). Such men, 
 in truth, are enabled to have far more importance and intimacy 
 among modest and upright women by the fact that they are free from 
 any suspicion of lust. 
   
 The sixth book of the Ecclesiastical History tells us that the 
 greatest of all Christian philosophers, Origen, inflicted a like 
 injury on himself with his own hand, in order that all suspicion of 
 this nature might be completely done away with in his instruction 
 of women in sacred doctrine. In this respect, I thought, God's 
 mercy had been kinder to me than to him, for it was judged that he 
 had acted most rashly and had exposed himself to no slight censure, 
 whereas the thing had been done to me through the crime of another, 
 thus preparing me for a task similar to his own. Moreover, it had 
 been accomplished with much less pain, being so quick and sudden, 
 for I was heavy with sleep when they laid hands on me, and felt 
 scarcely any pain at all. 
   
 But alas, I thought, the less I then suffered from the wound, the 
 greater is my punishment now through slander, and I am tormented 
 far more by the loss of my reputation than I was by that of part of 
 my body. For thus is it written: "A good name is rather to be 
 chosen than great riches" (Prov. xxii, 1). And as St. Augustine 
 tells us in a sermon of his on the life and conduct of the clergy, 
 "He is cruel who, trusting in his conscience, neglects his 
 reputation." Again he says: "Let us provide those things that are 
 good, as the apostle bids us (Rom. xii, 17), not alone in the eyes 
 of God, but likewise in the eyes of men. Within himself each one's 
 conscience suffices, but for our own sakes our reputations ought 
 not to be tarnished, but to flourish. Conscience and reputation are 
 different matters: conscience is for yourself, reputation for your 
 neighbour." Methinks the spite of such men as these my enemies 
 would have accused the very Christ Himself, or those belonging to 
 Him, prophets and apostles, or the other holy fathers, if such 
 spite had existed in their time, seeing that they associated in 
 such familiar intercourse with women, and this though they were 
 whole of body. On this point St. Augustine, in his book on the duty 
 of monks, proves that women followed our Lord Jesus Christ and the 
 apostles as inseparable companions, even accompanying them when 
 they preached (Chap. 4). "Faithful women," he says, "who were 
 possessed of worldly wealth went with them, and ministered to them 
 out of their wealth, so that they might lack none of those things 
 which belong to the substance of life." And if any one does not 
 believe that the apostles thus permitted saintly women to go about 
 with them wheresoever they preached the Gospel, let him listen to 
 the Gospel itself, and learn therefrom that in so doing they 
 followed the example of the Lord. For in the Gospel it is written 
 thus: "And it came to pass afterward, that He went throughout every 
 city and village, preaching and showing the glad tidings of the 
 kingdom of God: and the twelve were with Him, and certain women, 
 which had been healed of evil spirits and infirmities, Mary called 
 Magdalene, and Joanna the wife of Chuza, Herod's steward, and 
 Susanna, and many others, which ministered unto Him of their 
 substance" (Luke viii, i-3). 
   
 Leo the Ninth, furthermore, in his reply to the letter of 
 Parmenianus concerning monastic zeal, says: "We unequivocally 
 declare that it is not permissible for a bishop, priest, deacon or 
 subdeacon to cast off all responsibility for his own wife on the 
 grounds of religious duty, so that he no longer provides her with 
 food and clothing; albeit he may not have carnal intercourse with 
 her. We read that thus did the holy apostles act, for St. Paul 
 says: 'Have we not power to lead about a sister, a wife, as well as 
 other apostles, and as the brethren of the Lord, and Cephas?' (I 
 Cor. ix, 5). Observe, foolish man, that he does not say: 'have we 
 not power to embrace a sister, a wife,' but he says 'to lead 
 about,' meaning thereby that such women may lawfully be supported 
 by them out of the wages of their preaching, but that there must be 
 no carnal bond between them." 
   
 Certainly that Pharisee who spoke within himself of the Lord, 
 saying: "This man, if He were a prophet, would have known who and 
 what manner of woman this is that toucheth Him: for she is a 
 sinner" (Luke vii, 39), might much more reasonably have suspected 
 baseness of the Lord, considering the matter from a purely human 
 standpoint, than my enemies could suspect it of me. One who had 
 seen the mother of Our Lord entrusted to the care of the young man 
 (John xix, 27), or who had beheld the prophets dwelling and 
 sojourning with widows (I Kings xvii, 10), would likewise have had 
 a far more logical ground for suspicion. And what would my 
 calumniators have said if they had but seen Malchus, that captive 
 monk of whom St. Jerome writes, living in the same but with his 
 wife? Doubtless they would have regarded it as criminal in the 
 famous scholar to have highly commended what he thus saw, saying 
 thereof: "There was a certain old man named Malchus, a native of 
 this region, and his wife with him in his hut. Both of them were 
 earnestly religious, and they so often passed the threshold of the 
 church that you might have thought them the Zacharias and Elisabeth 
 of the Gospel, saving only that John was not with them." 
   
 Why, finally, do such men refrain from slandering the holy fathers, 
 of whom we frequently read, nay, and have even seen with our own 
 eyes, founding convents for women and making provision for their 
 maintenance, thereby following the example of the seven deacons 
 whom the apostles sent before them to secure food and take care of 
 the women? (Acts vi, 5). For the weaker sex needs the help of the 
 stronger one to such an extent that the apostle proclaimed that the 
 head of the woman is ever the man (I Cor. xi, 3), and in sign 
 thereof he bade her ever wear her head covered (ib. 5). For this 
 reason I marvel greatly at the customs which have crept into 
 monasteries, whereby, even as abbots are placed in charge of the 
 men, abbesses now are given authority over the women, and the women 
 bind themselves in their vows to accept the same rules as the men. 
 Yet in these rules there are many things which cannot possibly be 
 carried out by women, either as superiors or in the lower orders. 
 In many places we may even behold an inversion of the natural order 
 of things, whereby the abbesses and nuns have authority over the 
 clergy, and even over those who are themselves in charge of the 
 people. The more power such women exercise over men, the more 
 easily can they lead them into iniquitous desires, and in this way 
 can lay a very heavy yoke upon their shoulders. It was with such 
 things in mind that the satirist said: 
   
      "There is nothing more intolerable than a rich woman." 
                                (Juvenal, Sat. VI, v, 459). 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XV (OF THE PERILS OF HIS ABBEY AND OF THE REASONS FOR THE WRITING OF THIS HIS LETTER) 
   
 Reflecting often upon all these things, I determined to make 
 provision for those sisters and to undertake their care in every 
 way I could. Furthermore, in order that they might have the greater 
 reverence for me, I arranged to watch over them in person. And 
 since now the persecution carried on by my sons was greater and 
 more incessant than that which I formerly suffered at the hands of 
 my brethren, I returned frequently to the nuns, fleeing the rage of 
 the tempest as to a haven of peace. There, indeed, could I draw 
 breath for a little in quiet, and among them my labours were 
 fruitful, as they never were among the monks. All this was of the 
 utmost benefit to me in body and soul, and it was equally essential 
 for them by reason of their weakness. 
   
 But now has Satan beset me to such an extent that I no longer know 
 where I may find rest, or even so much as live. I am driven hither 
 and yon, a fugitive and a vagabond, even as the accursed Cain (Gen. 
 iv, 14). I have already said that "without were fightings, within 
 were fears" (II Cor. vii, 5), and these torture me ceaselessly, the 
 fears being indeed without as well as within, and the fightings 
 wheresoever there are fears. Nay, the persecution carried on by my 
 sons rages against me more perilously and continuously than that of 
 my open enemies, for my sons I have always with me, and I am ever 
 exposed to their treacheries. The violence of my enemies I see in 
 the danger to my body if I leave the cloister; but within it I am 
 compelled incessantly to endure the crafty machinations as well as 
 the open violence of those monks who are called my sons, and who 
 are entrusted to me as their abbot, which is to say their father. 
   
 Oh, how often have they tried to kill me with poison, even as the 
 monks sought to slay St. Benedict! Methinks the same reason which 
 led the saint to abandon his wicked sons might encourage me to 
 follow the example of so great a father, lest, in thus exposing 
 myself to certain peril, I might be deemed a rash tempter of God 
 rather than a lover of Him, nay, lest it might even be judged that 
 I had thereby taken my own life. When I had safeguarded myself to 
 the best of my ability, so far as my food and drink were concerned, 
 against their daily plottings, they sought to destroy me in the 
 very ceremony of the altar by putting poison in the chalice. One 
 day, when I had gone to Nantes to visit the count, who was then 
 sick, and while I was sojourning awhile in the house of one of my 
 brothers in the flesh, they arranged to poison me, with the 
 connivance of one of my attendants, believing that I would take no 
 precautions to escape such a plot. But divine providence so ordered 
 matters that I had no desire for the food which was set before me; 
 one of the monks whom I had brought with me ate thereof, not 
 knowing that which had been done, and straightway fell dead. As for 
 the attendant who had dared to undertake this crime, he fled in 
 terror alike of his own conscience and of the clear evidence of his 
 guilt. 
   
 After this, as their wickedness was manifest to every one, I began 
 openly in every way I could to avoid the danger with which their 
 plots threatened me, even to the extent of leaving the abbey and 
 dwelling with a few others apart in little cells. If the monks knew 
 beforehand that I was going anywhere on a journey, they bribed 
 bandits to waylay me on the road and kill me. And while I was 
 struggling in the midst of these dangers, it chanced one day that 
 the hand of the Lord smote me a heavy blow, for I fell from my 
 horse, breaking a bone in my neck, the injury causing me greater 
 pain and weakness than my former wound. 
   
 Using excommunication as my weapon to coerce the untamed 
 rebelliousness of the monks, I forced certain ones among them whom 
 I particularly feared to promise me publicly, pledging their faith 
 or swearing upon the sacrament, that they would thereafter depart 
 from the abbey and no longer trouble me in any way. Shamelessly and 
 openly did they violate the pledges they had given and their 
 sacramental oaths, but finally they were compelled to give this and 
 many other promises under oath, in the presence of the count and 
 the bishops, by the authority of the Pontiff of Rome, Innocent, who 
 sent his own legate for this special purpose. And yet even this did 
 not bring me peace. For when I returned to the abbey after the 
 expulsion of those whom I have just mentioned, and entrusted myself 
 to the remaining brethren, of whom I felt less suspicion, I found 
 them even worse than the others. I barely succeeded in escaping 
 them, with the aid of a certain nobleman of the district, for they 
 were planning, not to poison me indeed, but to cut my throat with a 
 sword. Even to the present time I stand face to face with this 
 danger, fearing the sword which threatens my neck so that I can 
 scarcely draw a free breath between one meal and the next. Even so 
 do we read of him who, reckoning the power and heaped-up wealth of 
 the tyrant Dionysius as a great blessing, beheld the sword secretly 
 hanging by a hair above his head, and so learned what kind of 
 happiness comes as the result of worldly power (Cicer. 5, Tusc.) 
 Thus did I too learn by constant experience, I who had been exalted 
 from the condition of a poor monk to the dignity of an abbot, that 
 my wretchedness increased with my wealth; and I would that the 
 ambition of those who voluntarily seek such power might be curbed 
 by my example. 
   
 And now, most dear brother in Christ and comrade closest to me in 
 the intimacy of speech, it should suffice for your sorrows and the 
 hardships you have endured that I have written this story of my own 
 misfortunes, amid which I have toiled almost from the cradle. For 
 so, as I said in the beginning of this letter, shall you come to 
 regard your tribulation as nought, or at any rate as little, in 
 comparison with mine, and so shall you bear it more lightly in 
 measure as you regard it as less. Take comfort ever in the saying 
 of Our Lord, what he foretold for his followers at the hands of the 
 followers of the devil: "If they have persecuted me, they will also 
 persecute you (John xv, 20). If the world hate you, ye know that it 
 hated me before it hated you. If ye were of the world, the world 
 would love his own" (ib. 18-19). And the apostle says: "All that 
 will live godly in Christ Jesus shall suffer persecution" (II Tim. 
 iii, 12). And elsewhere he says: "I do not seek to please men. For 
 if I yet pleased men, I should not be the servant of Christ" 
 (Galat. i, 10). And the Psalmist says: "They who have been pleasing 
 to men have been confounded, for that God hath despised them." 
   
 Commenting on this, St. Jerome, whose heir methinks I am in the 
 endurance of foul slander, says in his letter to Nepotanius: "The 
 apostle says: 'If I yet pleased men, I should not be the servant of 
 Christ.' He no longer seeks to please men, and so is made Christ's 
 servant" (Epist. 2). And again, in his letter to Asella regarding 
 those whom he was falsely accused of loving: "I give thanks to my 
 God that I am worthy to be one whom the world hates" (Epist. 99). 
 And to the monk Heliodorus he writes: "You are wrong, brother, you 
 are wrong if you think there is ever a time when the Christian does 
 not suffer persecution. For our adversary goes about as a roaring 
 lion seeking what he may devour, and do you still think of peace? 
 Nay, he lieth in ambush among the rich." 
   
 Inspired by those records and examples, we should endure our 
 persecutions all the more steadfastly the more bitterly they harm 
 
 We should not doubt that even if they are not according to our 
 
 deserts, at least they serve for the purifying of our soul. And 
 since all things are done in accordance with the divine ordering, 
 let every one of true faith console himself amid all his 
 afflictions with the thought that the great goodness of God permits 
 nothing to be done without reason, and brings to a good end 
 whatsoever may seem to happen wrongfully. Wherefore rightly do all 
 men say: "Thy will be done." And great is the consolation to all 
 lovers of God in the word of the Apostle when he says: "We know 
 that all things work together for good to them that love God" 
 (Rom. viii, 28). The wise man of old had this in mind when he said 
 in his Proverbs: "There shall no evil happen to the just" 
 (Prov. xii, 21). By this he clearly shows that whosoever grows 
 wrathful for any reason against his sufferings has therein departed 
 from the way of the just, because he may not doubt that these 
 things have happened to him by divine dispensation. Even such are 
 those who yield to their own rather than to the divine purpose, and 
 with hidden desires resist the spirit which echoes in the words, 
 "Thy will be done," thus placing their own will ahead of the will 
 of God. Farewell. 
 
 
 
 APPENDIX Pg 12 
   
 PIERRE ABÉLARD 
   
 Petrus Abaelardus (or Abailardus) was born in the year 1079 at 
 Palets, a Breton town not far from Nantes. His father, Berengarius, 
 was a nobleman of some local importance; his mother, Lucia, was 
 likewise of noble family. The name "Abaelardus" is said to be a 
 corruption of "Habelardus," which, in turn, was substituted by 
 himself for the nickname "Bajolardus" given to him in his student 
 days. However the name may have arisen, the famous scholar 
 certainly adopted it very early in his career, and it went over 
 into the vernacular as "Abélard" or "Abailard," though with a 
 multiplicity of variations (in Villon's famous poem, for example, 
 it appears as "Esbaillart"). 
   
 For the main facts of Abélard's life his own writings remain the 
 best authority, but through his frequent contact with many of the 
 foremost figures in the intellectual and clerical life of the early 
 twelfth century it has been possible to check his own account of 
 his career with considerable accuracy. The story told in the 
 "Historia Calamitatum" covers the events of his life from boyhood 
 to about 1132 or 1133,--in other words, up to approximately his 
 fifty-third or fifty-fourth year. That the account he gives of 
 himself is substantially correct cannot be doubted; making all due 
 allowance for the violence of his feelings, which certainly led him 
 to colour many incidents in a manner unfavourable to his enemies, 
 the main facts tally closely with all the external evidence now 
 available. 
   
 A very brief summary of the events of the final years of his life 
 will serve to round out the story. The "Historia Calamitatum" was 
 written while Abélard was still abbot of the monastery of St. 
 Gildas, in Brittany. The terrors of his existence there are fully 
 dwelt on in his autobiographical letter, and finally, in 1134 or 
 1135, he fled, living for a short time in retirement. In 1136, 
 however, we find him once more lecturing, and apparently with much 
 of his former success, on Mont Ste. Genevieve. His old enemies were 
 still on his trail, and most of all Bernard of Clairvaux, to whose 
 fiery adherence to the faith Abélard's rationalism seemed a sheer 
 desecration. The unceasing activities of Bernard and others finally 
 brought Abélard before an ecclesiastical council at Sens in 1140, 
 where he was formally arraigned on charges of heresy. Had Abélard's 
 courage held good, he might have won his case, for Bernard was 
 frankly terrified at the prospect of meeting so formidable a 
 dialectitian, but Abélard, broken in spirit by the prolonged 
 persecution from which he had suffered, contented himself with 
 appealing to the Pope. The indefatigable Bernard at once proceeded 
 to secure a condemnation of Abélard from Rome, whither the accused 
 man set out to plead his case. On the way, however, he collapsed, 
 both physically and in spirit, and remained for a few months at the 
 abbey of Cluny, whence his friends removed him, a dying man, to the 
 priory of St. Marcel, near Châlons-sur-Saône. Here he died on April 
 21, 1142. 
   
 A discussion of Abélard's position among the scholastic 
 philosophers would necessarily go far beyond the proper limits of a 
 mere historical note. He stands out less commandingly as a 
 constructive philosopher than as a master of dialectics. He was, as 
 even his enemies admitted, a brilliant teacher and an unconquerable 
 logician; he was, moreover, a voluminous writer. Works by him which 
 have been preserved include letters, sermons, philosophical and 
 religious treatises, commentaries on the Bible, on Aristotle and on 
 various other books, and a number of poems. 
 Many of the misfortunes which the "Historia Calamitatum" relates 
 were the direct outcome of Abélard's uncompromising position as a 
 rationalist, and the document is above all interesting for the 
 picture it gives of the man himself, against the background of 
 early twelfth century France. 
 
 
 
 APPENDIX Pg 13 
 A few dates will help the general 
 reader to connect the life surrounding Abélard with other and more 
 familiar facts. William the Conqueror had entered England thirteen 
 years before Abélard's birth. The boy was eight years old when the 
 Conqueror died near Rouen during his struggle with Philip of 
 France. He was seventeen when the First Crusade began, and twenty 
 when the crusaders captured Jerusalem. 
   
 Two of the men who most profoundly influenced the times in which 
 Abélard lived were Hildebrand, famous as Pope Gregory VII, and 
 Louis VI (the Fat), king of France. It was to Hildebrand that the 
 Church owed much of that regeneration of the spirit which gave it 
 such vitality throughout the twelfth century. Hildebrand died, 
 indeed, when Abélard was only six years old, but he left the Church 
 such a force in the affairs of men as it had never been before. As 
 for Louis the Fat, who reigned from 1108 to 1137, it was he who 
 began to lift the royal power in France out of the shadow which the 
 slothfulness and incompetence of his immediate predecessors, Henry 
 I and Philip I, had cast over it. Discerning enough to see that the 
 chief enemies of the crown were the great nobles, and constantly 
 advised by a minister of exceptional wisdom, Suger, abbot of St. 
 Denis, Louis did his utmost to protect the towns and the churches, 
 and to bring that small part of France wherein his power was felt 
 out of the anarchy and chaos of the eleventh century. 
   
 It was the France of Louis VI and Sager which formed the background 
 for the great battle between the realists and the nominalists, the 
 battle in which Abélard played no small part. His life was divided 
 between the towns wherein he taught and the Church which 
 alternately welcomed and denounced him. His fellow-disputants have 
 their places in the history of philosophy; the story of Abélard's 
 love for Héloïse has set him apart, so that he has lived for eight 
 centuries less as a fearless thinker and masterly logician than as 
 one of the glowingly romantic figures of the Middle Ages. 
   
   
 "A FRIEND" 
   
 It is not known to whom Abélard's letter was addressed, but it may 
 be guessed that the writer intended it to reach the hands of 
 Héloïse. This actually happened, and the first and most famous 
 letter from Héloise to Abélard was substantially an answer to the 
 "Historia Calamitatum." 
   
   
 WILLIAM OF CHAMPEAUX 
   
 William of Champeaux (Gulielmus Campellensis) was born about 1070 
 at Champeaux, near Melun. He studied under Anselm of Laon and 
 Roscellinus, his training in philosophy thereby being influenced by 
 both realism and nominalism. His own inclination, however, was 
 strongly towards the former, and it was as a determined proponent 
 of realism that he began to teach in the school of the cathedral of 
 Notre Dame, of which he was made canon in 1103. In 1108 he withdrew 
 to the abbey of St. Victor, and subsequently became bishop of 
 Châlons-sur-Marne. He died in 1121. As a teacher his influence was 
 wide; he was a vigorous defender of orthodoxy and a passionate 
 adversary of the heterodox philosophy of his former master, 
 Roscellinus. 
 
 
 
 APPENDIX Pg 14 
   
 That he and Abélard disagreed was only natural, but 
 Abélard's statement that he argued William into abandoning the 
 basic principles of his philosophy is certainly untrue. 
   
   
 "THE UNIVERSALS" 
   
 It is not within the province of such a note as this to discuss in 
 detail the great controversy between the realists and the 
 nominalists which dominated the philosophical and, to some extent, 
 the religious thought of France during the first half of the 
 twelfth century. In brief, the realists maintained that the idea is 
 a reality distinct from and independent of the individuals 
 constituting it; their motto, _Universalia sunt realia_, was 
 readily capable of extension far beyond the Church, and William of 
 Champeaux himself carried it to the extent of arguing that nothing 
 is real but the universal. The nominalists, on the other hand, 
 argued that "universals" are mere notions of the mind, and that 
 individuals alone are real; their motto was _Universalia sunt 
 nomina_. Thus the central question in the long controversy 
 concerned the reality of abstract or incorporate ideas, and it is 
 to be observed that the realists held views diametrically opposite 
 to those which the word "realism" today implies. In upholding the 
 reality of the idea, they were what would now be called idealists, 
 whereas their opponents, denying the reality of abstractions and 
 insisting on that of the concrete individual or object, were 
 realists in the modern sense. 
   
 The peculiar importance of this controversy lay in its effect on 
 the status of the Church. If nominalism should prevail, then the 
 Church would be shorn of much of its authority, for its greatest 
 power lay in the conception of it as an enduring reality outside of 
 and above all the individuals who shared in its work. It is not 
 strange, then, that the ardent realism of William of Champeaux 
 should have been outraged by the nominalistic logic of Abélard. 
 Abélard, indeed, never went to such extreme lengths as the 
 arch-nominalist, Roscellinus, who was duly condemned for heresy by 
 the Council of Soissons in 1092, but he went quite far enough to 
 win for himself the undying enmity of the leading realists, who 
 were followed by the great majority of the clergy. 
   
   
 PORPHYRY 
   
 The Introduction ("Isagoge") to the Categories of Aristotle, 
 Written by the Greek scholar and neoplatonist Porphyry in the third 
 century A.D., was translated into Latin by Boetius, and in this 
 form was extensively used throughout the Middle Ages as a 
 compendium of Aristotelian logic. As a philosopher Porphyry was 
 chiefly important as the immediate successor of Plotinus in the 
 neoplatonic school at Rome, but his "Isagoge" had extraordinary 
 weight among the medieval logicians. 
 
 
 
 APPENDIX Pg 15 
   
 PRISCIAN 
   
 The _Institutiones grammaticae_ of Priscian (Priscianus 
 Caesariensis) formed the standard grammatical and philological 
 textbook of the Middle Ages, its importance being fairly indicated 
 by the fact that today there exist about a thousand manuscript 
 copies of it. 
   
   
 ANSELM 
   
 Anselm of Laon was born somewhere about 1040, and is said to have 
 studied under the famous St. Anselm, later archbishop of 
 Canterbury, at the monastery of Bec. About 1070 he began to teach 
 in Paris, where he was notably successful. Subsequently he returned 
 to Laon, where his school of theology and exegetics became the most 
 famous one in Europe. His most important work, an interlinear gloss 
 on the Scriptures, was regarded as authoritative throughout the 
 later Middle Ages. He died in 1117. That he was something of a 
 pedant is probable, but Abélard's picture of him is certainly very 
 far from doing him justice. 
   
   
 ALBERIC OF RHEIMS AND LOTULPHE THE LOMBARD 
   
 Of these two not much is known beyond what Abélard himself tells 
 
 ALberic, indeed, won a considerable reputation, and was highly 
 
 recommended to Pope Honorius II by St. Bernard. In 1139 Alberic 
 seems to have become archbishop of Bourges, dying two years later. 
 Lotulphe the Lombard is referred to by another authority as 
 Leutaldus Novariensis. 
   
   
 
 JEROME 
 
   
 The enormous scholarship of St. Jerome, born about 340 and dying 
 September 30, 420, made him not only the foremost authority within 
 the Church itself throughout the Middle Ages, but also one of the 
 chief guides to secular scholarship. Abélard repeatedly quotes from 
 him, particularly from his denunciation of the revival of Gnostic 
 heresies by Jovinianus and from some of his voluminous epistles. He 
 also refers extensively to the charges brought against Jerome by 
 reason of his teaching of women at Rome in the house of Marcella. 
 One of his pupils, Paula, a wealthy widow, followed him on his 
 journey through Palestine, and built three nunneries at Bethlehem, 
 of which she remained the head up to the time of her death in 404. 
   
   
 
 AUGUSTINE 
 
   
 Regarding the position of St. Augustine (354-430) throughout the 
 Middle Ages, it is here sufficient to quote a few words of Gustav 
 Krüger: "The theological position and influence of Augustine may be 
 said to be unrivalled. No single name has ever exercised such power 
 over the Christian Church, and no one mind ever made so deep an 
 impression on Christian thought. In him scholastics and mystics, 
 popes and opponents of the papal supremacy, have seen their 
 champion. He was the fulcrum on which Luther rested the thoughts by 
 which be sought to lift the past of the Church out of the rut; yet 
 the judgment of Catholics still proclaims the ideals of Augustine 
 as the only sound basis of pbilosopby." 
 
 
 
 APPENDIX Pg 16 
   
 ABBEY OF ST. DENIS 
   
 The abbey of St. Denis was founded about 625 by Dagobert, son of 
 Lothair II, at some distance from the basilica which the clergy of 
 Paris had erected in the fifth century over the saint's tomb. Long 
 renowned as the place of burial for most of the kings of France, 
 the abbey of St. Denis had a particular importance in Abélard's day 
 by reason of its close association with the reigning monarch. The 
 abbot to whom Abélard refers so bitterly was Adam of St. Denis, who 
 began his rule of the monastery about 1094. In 1106 this same Adam 
 chose as his secretary one of the inmates of the monastery, Suger, 
 destined shortly to become the most influential man in France 
 through his position as advisor to Louis VI, and also the foremost 
 historian of his time. Adam died in 1123, and his successor, 
 referred to by Abélard in Chapter X, was none other than Suger 
 himself. From 1127 to 1137 Suger devoted most of his time to the 
 reorganization and reform of the monastery of St. Denis. If we are 
 to believe Abélard, such reform was sorely needed, but other 
 contemporary evidence by no means fully sustains Abélard in his 
 condemnation of Adam and his fellow monks. 
   
   
 ORIGEN 
   
 The ALexandrian theological writer Origen, who lived from about 185 
 to 254, was the most distinguished and the most influential of all 
 the theologians of the ancient Church, with the single exception of 
 Augustine. His incredible industry resulted in such a mass of 
 Writings that Jerome himself asked in despair, "Which of us can 
 read all that he has written?" Origen's self-mutilation, referred 
 to by Abélard, was subsequently used by his enemies as an argument 
 for deposing him from his presbyterial status. 
   
   
 ATHANASIUS 
   
 Abélard's tract regarding the power of God to create Himself was 
 one of the many distant echoes of the great Arian-Athanasian 
 controversy of the fourth century. St. Athanasius, bishop of 
 Alexandria, well deserved the title conferred on him by the Church 
 as "the father of orthodoxy," and it was by his name that the 
 doctrine of identity of substance ("the Son is of the same 
 substance with the Father") became known. Much of the life of 
 Athanasius was passed amid persecutions at the hands of his 
 enemies, and on several occasions he was driven into exile. 
   
   
 RODOLPHE, ARCHBISHOP OF RHEIMS 
   
 Rodolphe, or, as some authorities call him, Rudolph or Radulph, 
 became archbishop of Rheims in 1114, after having served as 
 treasurer of the cathedral. His importance among the French clergy 
 is attested by the many references to him in contemporary 
 documents. 
 
 
 
 APPENDIX Pg 17 
   
 CONON OF PRAENESTE 
   
 Conon, bishop of Praeneste, whose real name may have been Conrad, 
 came to France as papal legate on at least two occasions. He 
 represented Paschal II in 1115 at ecclesiastical councils held in 
 Beauvais, Rheims and Châlons; in 1120 he represented Calixtus II at 
 Soissons on the occasion of Abélard's trial. 
   
   
 GEOFFROI OF CHARTRES 
   
 Geoffroi, bishop of Chartres, the second of the name to hold that 
 post, was subsequently a warm friend of St. Bernard. Abélard's high 
 estimate of him is fully confirmed by other contemporary 
 authorities. 
   
   
 ABBOT OF ST. MÉDARD 
   
 This abbot was probably, though not certainly, Anselm of Soissons, 
 who became a bishop in 1145. The chronology, however, is confusing. 
   
   
 DIONYSIUS THE AREOPAGITE 
   
 The confusion regarding the identity of Dionysius the Areopagite 
 persists to this day, at least to the extent that we do not know 
 the real name of the fourth or fifth century writer who, under this 
 pseudonym, exercised so profound an influence on medieval thought. 
 That he was not the bishop of either Athens or Corinth, nor yet the 
 Dionysius who became the patron saint of France, is clear enough. 
 Of the actual Dionysius the Areopagite we know practically nothing. 
 He is mentioned in Acts, xvii, 34, as one of those Athenians who 
 believed when they had heard Paul preach on Mars Hill. A century or 
 more later we learn from another Dionysius, bishop of Corinth, that 
 Dionysius the Areopagite was the first bishop of Athens, a 
 statement of doubtful value. In the fourth or fifth century a Greek 
 theological writer of extraordinary erudition assumed the name of 
 Dionysius the Areopagite, and as his works exerted an enormous 
 influence on later scholarship, it was quite natural that the 
 personal legend of the real Dionysius should have been extended 
 correspondingly. 
   
 The Hilduin referred to by Abélard, who was abbot of St. Denis from 
 814 to 840, was directly responsible for the extreme phase of this 
 extension. Accepting, as most of his contemporaries unquestioningly 
 did, the identity of the theological writer with the Dionysius 
 mentioned in Acts and spoken of as bishop of Athens, Hilduin went 
 one step further, and demonstrated that this Dionysius was likewise 
 the Dionysius (Denis) who had been sent into Gaul and martyred at 
 Catulliacus, the modern St. Denis. There is no evidence to support 
 Hilduin's contention, and the chronology of Gregory of Tours is 
 quite sufficient to disprove it, but none the less it was 
 enthusiastically accepted in France, and above all by the monks of 
 St. Denis. 
 
 
 
 APPENDIX Pg 18 
   
 There was, however, a persistent doubt as to the identity of the 
 Dionysius whose writings had become so famous. Bede, the authority 
 quoted by Abélard, was, of course, wrong in saying that he was the 
 bishop of Corinth, but anything which tended to shake the triple 
 identity, established by Hilduin, of the Dionysius of Athens who 
 listened to St. Paul, of the pseudo-Areopagite whose works were 
 known to every medieval scholar, and of the St. Denis who had 
 become the patron saint of France, was naturally anathematized by 
 the monks who bore the saint's name. Bede and Abélard were by no 
 means accurate, but Bede's inkling of the truth was quite enough to 
 get Abélard into serious trouble. 
   
   
 THEOBALD OF CHAMPAGNE 
   
 Theobald II, Count of Blois, Meaux and Champagne, was one of the 
 most powerful nobles in France, and by the extent of his influence 
 fully deserved the title of "the Great" by which he was 
 subsequently known. His domain included the modern departments of 
 Ardennes, Marne, Aube and Haute-Marne, with part of Aisne, Seine-et-Marne, 
 Yonne and Meuse. Furthermore, his mother Adela, was the daughter of 
 William I of England, and his younger brother, Stephen, was King of 
 England from 1135 to 1154. Theobald became Count of Blois in 1102, 
 Count of Champagne in 1125, and Count of Troyes in 1128. Had he so 
 chosen, he might likewise have become Duke of Normandy after the 
 death of his uncle, Henry I of England, in 1135. He died in 1152. 
   
   
 STEPHEN THE SENESCHAL 
   
 There is much doubt as to whether this Stephen was Stephen de 
 Garland, _dapifer_, or another Stephen, who was royal chancellor 
 under Louis the Fat. A charter of the year 1124 is signed by both 
 Stephen _dapifer_ and Stephen _cancellarius_. Probably, however, 
 the authority identifying Stephen _dapifer_ as Stephen de Garland, 
 seneschal of France, is trustworthy. 
   
   
 THE PARACLETE 
   
 Among the terms which are characteristic of, or even peculiar to, 
 the Gospel of St. John is that of "the Paraclete," rendered in the 
 King games version "the Comforter." The Greek word of which 
 "Paraclete" is a reproduction literally means "advocate," one 
 called to aid; hence "intercessor." The doctrine of the Paraclete 
 appears chiefly in John, xiv and xv. For example: (xiv, 16-17) "And 
 I will pray the Father, and he shall give you another Comforter 
 (Paraclete) that be may abide with you for ever; even the spirit of 
 truth." Again: (xiv, 26) "But the Comforter (Paraclete), which is 
 the Holy Ghost, whom the Father will send in my name, he shall 
 teach you all things." With John's words as a basis, the Paraclete 
 came to be regarded as identical with the Third Person of the 
 Trinity, but always with the special attributes of consolation and 
 intercession. 
 
 
 
 APPENDIX Pg 19 
   
 NORBERT OF PRÉMONTRÉ 
   
 In 1120 there was established at Prémontré, a desert place in the 
 diocese of Laon, a monastery of canons regular who followed the 
 so-called Rule of St. Augustine, but with supplementary statutes 
 which made the life one of exceptional severity. The head of this 
 monastery was Norbert, subsequently canonized. His order received 
 papal approbation in 1126, and thereafter it spread rapidly 
 throughout Europe; two hundred years later there were no less than 
 seventeen hundred Norbertine or Premonstratensian monasteries. 
 Norbert himself became archbishop of Magdeburg, and it was in 
 Germany that the most notable work of his order was accomplished. 
   
   
 BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX 
   
 Regarding the illustrious St. Bernard, abbot of Clairvaux, it is 
 needless here to say more than that his own age recognized in him 
 the embodiment of the highest ideal of medieval monasticism. 
 Intellectually inferior to Abélard and to some others of those over 
 whom he triumphed, he was their superior in moral strength, in 
 zeal, and above all in the power of making others share his own 
 enthusiasms. Born in 1090, he was renowned as one of the foremost 
 of French churchmen before he was thirty years old; his share in 
 the contest which followed the death of Pope Honorius II in 1130 
 made him one of the most commanding figures in all Europe. It was 
 to him that the Cistercian order owed its extraordinary expansion 
 in the twelfth century. That Abélard should have fallen before so 
 redoubtable an adversary (see the note on Pierre Abélard) is in no 
 way surprising, but there can be no doubt that St. Bernard's 
 "persecution" of Abélard was inspired solely by high ideals and an 
 intense zeal for the truth as Bernard perceived it. 
   
   
 ABBEY OF ST. GILDAS 
   
 Traditionally, at least, this abbey was the oldest one in Brittany. 
 According to the anonymous author of the Life and Deeds of St. 
 Gildas, it was founded during the reign of Childeric, the second of 
 the Merovingian kings, in the fifth century. Be that as it may, its 
 authentic history had been extensive before Abélard assumed the 
 direction of its affairs. His gruesome picture of the conditions 
 which prevailed there cannot, of course, be accepted as wholly 
 accurate, but even allowing for gross exaggeration, the life of the 
 monks must have been quite sufficiently scandalous. It was 
 apparently in the closing period of Abélard's sojourn at the abbey 
 of St. Gildas that he wrote the "Historia Calamitatum." He endured 
 the life there for nearly ten years; the date of his flight is not 
 certain, but it cannot have been far from 1134 or 1135. 
   
   
 LEO IX 
   
 Leo IX, pope from 1049 to 1054, was a native of Upper Alsace. It 
 was at the Easter synod of 1049 that he enjoined anew the celibacy 
 of the clergy, in connection with which the letter quoted by 
 Abélard was written. 
 
 
 Publication Date: January 29th 2015 https://www.bookrix.com/-mk496e398f1e345