A re-telling of the true 12th century love story of Heloise and Abelard. Abelard is a great philosopher and theologian who has taken, like many academics of the time, a vow of celibacy. When he is hired as a tutor for the brilliant and beautiful Hel...
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Abelard had moved to Paris to study at the cathedral school of Notre-Dame de Champs. As you probably know, most cathedrals in Europe hold such schools within them; these schools were originally meant to be for the training of priests, but their reach grew to capture the scholarly pursuits of others outside of the clergy. Among these 'others' was Abelard.
He'd grown up wealthy, as the son of a nobleman. He gave up his inheritance to his family's estate and money in order to pursue his education, moving from his home country of Brittany to venture all around France. Eventually, he landed on the beautiful island of Paris on the Seine river.
I can see him there now. He must have been beautiful, crossing the Grand Pont bridge and arriving to the sight of his new home: the stone streets, the tops of the steeples that dotted the skies...
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The school of the cathedral was meant to be theological in nature, but Abelard was always reaching for the secular. More accurately, he was always reaching for a blurring between the two. From deep within the walls of the cathedrals, he was always trying to tackle its teachings with a secular, logical eye. His entire demeanour screamed "secular". For one thing, the church did not stress individuality and pride - as the church and its people (including its students) were supposed to act as one, coherent body, as in the body of Christ. These traits - individuality and pride - Abelard had in abundance; and he all but argued for their merits.
He was somewhat of what you'd call a heretic. I don't think he was ever meant to be in the church; and if scholarly pursuits could have been found outside of it, he would have been a secular academic through and through. He was in love with Aristotelian philosophies, and kept trying to apply logic and reason to the study of theology. This was, as an understatement, unpopular; secular philosophies should not, many thought, be mixed with the divine study of scripture. But confident he certainly was in his opinions. He would propose them loudly and shamelessly, and he spent more time getting into fights with his teachers and fellow students than he ever did reading or writing.
He was studying under William de Champeaux. You've probably heard of him. He respected his star pupil dearly, but even he was not immune to the fits and fury of Abelard's temper, and the way his convictions to his own opinions would set upon him with a ferocity. You did not want to be in his path.
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That, de Champeaux, came to be. Always prideful, Abelard convinced himself he could be a greater teacher than de Champeaux - that he had outgrown him! He even opened up his own school just to prove it. Students flocked there to follow him, and soon he was requested back at Notre Dame - he would be taking up de Champeaux's old post, as he had retired in defeat.
Do you see what I mean? Do you see how magnetic he was? Imagine, following a sole teacher wherever he went. Can you imagine what a teacher, what a speaker, he was?
It did not end there. He was not called the idol of Paris for no reason. Students even from as far as Sweden flocked to his cathedral.
This is when I first knew him - in these days he was lecturing at the great cathedral of Notre Dame. All this to say: you would have known of him. If you hadn't, you would have at least known someone who had known of him.
Philosophy - or theology, or his distinct blurring of the two; whatever you wish to call what he did - was his greatest love. His only love.
Angry were his many disciples when, after only months of knowing me, he suddenly could write nothing but love poems.
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If they had not grown angry... if he had not dedicated himself so fully to me, draining the life out of all his other pursuits... perhaps things would have been different.
But this is not the course of our story.
As it stood, we did not yet know the weight of the clock pressing over us. Our time was limited. We were stealing these moments not from time itself, but from our future selves. Robbing ourselves of future happiness. For these moments, we would mourn the rest of our lives. For decades, we would live only in their shadows.
