history question essay ( only who is good in history make shake hand )
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Peter Abelard: Historia Calamitatum
The Story of My Misfortunes
Translated by Henry Adams Bellows
Copyright 1922
[Reissued by in New York by Macmillan, 1972, with no notification of copyright renewal]
Peter Abelard (1079-1142) was one of the great intellectuals of the 12th century, with especial
importance in the field of logic. His tendency to disputation is perhaps best demonstrated by his
book Sic et Non , a list of 158 philosophical and theological questions about which there were
divided opinions. This dialectical method of intellectual reflection -- also seen in Gratian's
approach to canon law -- was to become an important feature of western education and
distinguishes it sharply from other world cultures such as Islam and the Confucian world.
Abelard's mistake was to leave the questions open for discussion and so he was repeatedly
charged with heresy. For a long period all his wor ks were included in the later Index of
Forbidden Books. The text here gives a good account of Abelard's pugnaciousness.
He is perhaps as famous today for his love affair with Heloise (1100/01- 1163/4) and its
disastrous consequences, which resulted in her giving birth to son (called Astrolabe), to
Abelard's castration by Heloise's angry r elatives, and to both their retreats to monastic life.
Heloise was one of the most literate women of her time, and an able administrator: as a result
her monastic career was notably successful. Abelard, an intellectual jouster throughout his life
was notabl y less happy as a monk. He incurred the displeasure and enmity of abbots, bishops,
his own monks, a number of Church counci ls and St. Bernard of Clairvaux. The last months of
his life were spent under the protection of Peter the Venerable of Cluny, where he died. The tomb
of Abelard and Heloise can now be visited in the Pére Lachaise cemetery in Paris.
The Historia Calamitatum, although in the literary form of a letter, is a sort of autobiography,
with distinct echoes of Augustine's Confessions. It is one of the most readable documents to
survive from the period, and as well as presenting a remarkably frank self -portrait, is a valuable
account of intellectual life in Paris before the formalization of the University, of the intellectual
excitement of the per iod, of monastic life and of a love story that in some respects deserves its
long reputation.
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CHAPTER VI
OF HOW, BROUGHT LOW BY HIS LOVE FOR HELOISE, HE WAS WOUNDED IN BODY AND SOUL
NOW there dwelt in that same city of Paris a certain y oung girl named Heloise, 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 https://sourcebooks.fordham.edu/basis/abelard-histcal.asp
in the bonds of love, and indeed the thing seemed to me very easy to be done. So distinguished
was my name, and I pos sessed 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 he r
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, utte rly 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 t o 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 f or 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 s implicity 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 se rved 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 books which lay open before us; our kisses far outnumbered our
reasoned words. Our hands s ought 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 wer e 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 nothi ng
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 https://sourcebooks.fordham.edu/basis/abelard-histcal.asp
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 nei ghbours 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 t he 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 togethe r; 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 cha nced 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 Heloise 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 remai ned 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 happ ened 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 https://sourcebooks.fordham.edu/basis/abelard-histcal.asp
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 HELOISE AGAINST WEDLOCK
OF HOW NONE THE LESS HE MADE HER HIS WIFE
FORTHWITH I repaired to my own country, and brought back thence my mistre ss, 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 s o 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 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 t he 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 conclud ing 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, Heloise 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 me ditations, 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 https://sourcebooks.fordham.edu/basis/abelard-histcal.asp
untidiness of children? The rich, you may reply, can do this, because they have pa laces 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 i ts 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 hereto" (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 wa s 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, an d 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 Elis eus, 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 Sad ducees 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 https://sourcebooks.fordham.edu/basis/abelard-histcal.asp
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 with standing 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 earl y 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. Heloise, 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 Heloise by forcing her to become a nun.
Violently incensed, they laid a plot aga inst 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 astou nded 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.
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CHAPTER VIII
OF THE SUFFERING OF HIS BODY
OF HOW HE BECAME A MONK IN THE MONASTERY OF ST. DENIS AND HELOISE 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 wa s 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. Heloise 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 i ntolerable 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 re ligious life. For https://sourcebooks.fordham.edu/basis/abelard-histcal.asp
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 pain 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
withd rawn 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 t he 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.
He re, 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 way took who sought to belittle me in every possible 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, tha t 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 dignit aries of the Church they could reach.
