The Renaissance | Page 4

the
windows of Le Mans, and the work of the later Renaissance, the work
of Jean Cousin and Germain Pilon, thus healing that rupture between
the middle age and the Renaissance which has so often been

exaggerated. But it is not so much the ecclesiastical art of the middle
age, its sculpture and painting--work certainly done in a great measure
for pleasure's sake, in which even a secular, a rebellious spirit often
betrays itself--but rather its profane poetry, the poetry of Provence, and
the magnificent after-growth of that poetry in Italy and France, which
those French writers have in view when they speak of this medieval
Renaissance. In that poetry, earthly passion, with its intimacy, its
freedom, its variety--the liberty of the heart--makes itself felt; and the
name of Abelard, the great scholar and the great lover, connects the
expression of this liberty of heart with the free [4] play of human
intelligence around all subjects presented to it, with the liberty of the
intellect, as that age understood it.
Every one knows the legend of Abelard, a legend hardly less passionate,
certainly not less characteristic of the middle age, than the legend of
Tannhäuser; how the famous and comely clerk, in whom Wisdom
herself, self-possessed, pleasant, and discreet, seemed to sit enthroned,
came to live in the house of a canon of the church of Notre-Dame,
where dwelt a girl, Heloïse, believed to be the old priest's orphan niece;
how the old priest had testified his love for her by giving her an
education then unrivalled, so that rumour asserted that, through the
knowledge of languages, enabling her to penetrate into the mysteries of
the older world, she had become a sorceress, like the Celtic druidesses;
and how as Abelard and Heloïse sat together at home there, to refine a
little further on the nature of abstract ideas, "Love made himself of the
party with them." You conceive the temptations of the scholar, who, in
such dreamy tranquillity, amid the bright and busy spectacle of the
"Island," lived in a world of something like shadows; and that for one
who knew so well how to assign its exact value to every abstract
thought, those restraints which lie on the consciences of other men had
been relaxed. It appears that he composed many verses in the vulgar
tongue: already the young men sang them on the quay below the house.
Those songs, says M. de Rémusat, [5] were probably in the taste of the
Trouvères, "of whom he was one of the first in date, or, so to speak, the
predecessor." It is the same spirit which has moulded the famous
"letters," written in the quaint Latin of the middle age.

At the foot of that early Gothic tower, which the next generation raised
to grace the precincts of Abelard's school, on the "Mountain of Saint
Geneviève," the historian Michelet sees in thought "a terrible assembly;
not the hearers of Abelard alone, fifty bishops, twenty cardinals, two
popes, the whole body of scholastic philosophy; not only the learned
Heloïse, the teaching of languages, and the Renaissance; but Arnold of
Brescia--that is to say, the revolution." And so from the rooms of this
shadowy house by the Seine side we see that spirit going abroad, with
its qualities already well defined, its intimacy, its languid sweetness, its
rebellion, its subtle skill in dividing the elements of human passion, its
care for physical beauty, its worship of the body, which penetrated the
early literature of Italy, and finds an echo even in Dante.
That Abelard is not mentioned in the Divine Comedy may appear a
singular omission to the reader of Dante, who seems to have inwoven
into the texture of his work whatever had impressed him as either
effective in colour or spiritually significant among the recorded
incidents of actual life. Nowhere in his great poem do we find the name,
nor so much as an allusion to the story of [6] one who had left so deep
a mark on the philosophy of which Dante was an eager student, of
whom in the Latin Quarter, and from the lips of scholar or teacher in
the University of Paris, during his sojourn among them, he can hardly
have failed to hear. We can only suppose that he had indeed considered
the story and the man, and abstained from passing judgment as to his
place in the scheme of "eternal justice."
In the famous legend of Tannhäuser, the erring knight makes his way to
Rome, to seek absolution at the centre of Christian religion. "So soon,"
thought and said the Pope, "as the staff in his hand should bud and
blossom, so soon might the soul of Tannhäuser be saved, and no
sooner"; and it came to pass not long after that the dry