_Heloise to Abelard_
Dear Abelard,--You expect, perhaps, that I should accuse you of
negligence. You have not answered my last letter, and, thanks to
Heaven, in the condition I am now in it is a relief to me that you
show so much insensibility for the passion which I betrayed. At last,
Abelard, you have lost Heloise for ever. Notwithstanding all the
oaths I made to think of nothing but you, and to be entertained by
nothing but you, I have banished you from my thoughts, I have forgot
you. Thou charming idea of a lover I once adored, thou wilt be no
more my happiness! Dear image of Abelard! thou wilt no longer follow
me, no longer shall I remember thee. O celebrity and merit of that
man who, in spite of his enemies, is the wonder of the age! O
enchanting pleasures to which Heloise resigned herself--you, you have
been my tormentors! I confess my inconstancy, Abelard, without a
blush; let my infidelity teach the world that there is no depending
on the promises of women--we are all subject to change. This troubles
you, Abelard; this news without surprises you; you never imagined
Heloise could be inconstant. She was prejudiced by such a strong
inclination towards you that you cannot conceive how Time could alter
it. But be undeceived, I am going to disclose to you my falseness,
though, instead of reproaching me, I persuade myself you will shed
tears of joy. When I tell you what Rival hath ravished my heart from
you, you will praise my inconstancy, and pray this Rival to fix it.
By this you will know that 'tis God alone that takes Heloise from
you. Yes, my dear Abelard, He gives my mind that tranquillity which a
vivid remembrance of our misfortunes formerly forbade. Just Heaven!
what other rival could take me from you? Could you imagine it
possible for a mere human to blot you from my heart? Could you think
me guilty of sacrificing the virtuous and learned Abelard to any
other but God? No, I believe you have done me justice on this point.
I doubt not you are eager to learn what means God used to accomplish
so great an end? I will tell you, that you may wonder at the secret
ways of Providence. Some few days after you sent me your last letter
I fell dangerously ill; the physicians gave me over, and I expected
certain death. Then it was that my passion, which always before
seemed innocent, grew criminal in my eyes. My memory represented
faithfully to me all the past actions of my life, and I confess to
you pain for our love was the only pain I felt. Death, which till
then I had only viewed from a distance, now presented itself to me as
it appears to sinners. I began to dread the wrath of God now I was
near experiencing it, and I repented that I had not better used the
means of Grace. Those tender letters I wrote to you, those fond
conversations I have had with you, give me as much pain now as they
had formerly given pleasure. ‘Ah, miserable Heloise!’ I said, ‘if it
is a crime to give oneself up to such transports, and if, after this
life is ended, punishment certainly follows them, why didst thou not
resist such dangerous temptations? Think on the tortures prepared for
thee, consider with terror the store of torments, and recollect, at
the same time, those pleasures which thy deluded soul thought so
entrancing. Ah! dost thou not despair for having rioted in such false
pleasures?’ In short, Abelard, imagine all the remorse of mind I
suffered, and you will not be astonished at my change.
Solitude is insupportable to the uneasy mind; its troubles increase
in the midst of silence, and retirement heightens them. Since I have
been shut up in these walls I have done nothing but weep our
misfortunes. This cloister has resounded with my cries, and, like a
wretch condemned to eternal slavery, I have worn out my days with
grief. Instead of fulfilling God's merciful design towards me I have
offended against Him; I have looked upon this sacred refuge as a
frightful prison, and have borne with unwillingness the yoke of the
Lord. Instead of purifying myself with a life of penitence I have
confirmed my condemnation. What a fatal mistake! But Abelard, I have
torn off the bandage which blinded me, and, if I dare rely upon my
own feelings, I have now made myself worthy of your esteem. You are
to me no more the loving Abelard who constantly sought private
conversations with me by deceiving the vigilance of our observers.
Our misfortunes gave you a horror of vice, and you instantly
consecrated the rest of your days to virtue, and seemed to submit
willingly to the necessity. I indeed, more tender than you, and more
sensible to pleasure, bore misfortune with extreme impatience, and
you have heard my exclaimings against your enemies. You have seen my
resentment in my late letters; it was this, doubtless, which deprived
me of the esteem of my Abelard. You were alarmed at my repinings,
and, if the truth be told, despaired of my salvation. You could not
foresee that Heloise would conquer so reigning a passion; but you
were mistaken, Abelard, my weakness, when supported by grace, has not
hindered me from winning a complete victory. Restore me, then, to
your esteem; your own piety should solicit you to this.
But what secret trouble rises in my soul--what unthought-of emotion
now rises to oppose the resolution I have formed to sigh no more for
Abelard? Just Heaven! have I not triumphed over my love? Unhappy
Heloise! as long as thou drawest a breath it is decreed thou must
love Abelard. Weep, unfortunate wretch, for thou never hadst a more
just occasion. I ought to die of grief; grace had overtaken me and I
had promised to be faithful to it, but now am I perjured once more,
and even grace is sacrificed to Abelard. This sacrilege fills up the
measure of my iniquity. After this how can I hope that God will open
to me the treasure of His mercy, for I have tired out His
forgiveness. I began to offend Him from the first moment I saw
Abelard; an unhappy sympathy engaged us both in a guilty love, and
God raised us up an enemy to separate us. I lament the misfortune
which lighted upon us and I adore the cause. Ah! I ought rather to
regard this misfortune as the gift of Heaven, which disapproved of
our engagement and parted us, and I ought to apply myself to
extirpate my passion. How much better it were to forget entirely the
object of it than to preserve a memory so fatal to my peace and
salvation? Great God! shall Abelard possess my thoughts for ever? Can
I never free myself from the chains of love? But perhaps I am
unreasonably afraid; virtue directs all my acts and they are all
subject to grace. Therefore fear not, Abelard; I have no longer those
sentiments which being described in my letters have occasioned you so
much trouble. I will no more endeavour, by the relation of those
pleasures our passion gave us, to awaken any guilty fondness you may
yet feel for me. I free you from all your oaths; forget the titles of
lover and husband and keep only that of father. I expect no more from
you than tender protestations and those letters so proper to feed the
flame of love. I demand nothing of you but spiritual advice and
wholesome discipline. The path of holiness, however thorny it be,
will yet appear agreeable to me if I may but walk in your footsteps.
You will always find me ready to follow you. I shall read with more
pleasure the letters in which you shall describe the advantages of
virtue than ever I did those in which you so artfully instilled the
poison of passion. You cannot now be silent without a crime. When I
was possessed with so violent a love, and pressed you so earnestly to
write to me, how many letters did I send you before I could obtain
one from you? You denied me in my misery the only comfort which was
left me, because you thought it pernicious. You endeavoured by
severities to force me to forget you, nor do I blame you; but now you
have nothing to fear. This fortunate illness, with which Providence
has chastised me for my good, has done what all human efforts and
your cruelty in vain attempted. I see now the vanity of that
happiness we had set our hearts upon, as if it were eternal. What
fears, what distress have we not suffered for it!
No, Lord, there is no pleasure upon earth but that which virtue
gives. The heart amidst all worldly delights feels a sting; it is
uneasy and restless until fixed on Thee. What have I not suffered,
Abelard, whilst I kept alive in my retirement those fires which
ruined me in the world? I saw with hatred the walls that surrounded
me; the hours seemed as long as years. I repented a thousand times
that I had buried myself here. But since grace has opened my eyes all
the scene is changed; solitude looks charming, and the peace of the
place enters my very heart. In the satisfaction of doing my duty I
feel a delight above all that riches, pomp or sensuality could
afford. My quiet has indeed cost me dear, for I have bought it at the
price of my love; I have offered a violent sacrifice I thought beyond
my power. But if I have torn you from my heart, be not jealous; God,
who ought always to have possessed it, reigns there in your stead. Be
content with having a place in my mind which you shall never lose; I
shall always take a secret pleasure in thinking of you, and esteem it
a glory to obey those rules you shall give me.
* * * * *
This very moment I receive a letter from you; I will read it and
answer it immediately. You shall see by my promptitude in writing to
you that you are always dear to me.
You very obligingly reproach me for delay in writing you any news; my
illness must excuse that. I omit no opportunities of giving you marks
of my remembrance. I thank you for the uneasiness you say my silence
caused you, and the kind fears you express concerning my health.
Yours, you tell me, is but weakly, and you thought lately you should
have died. With what indifference, cruel man, do you tell me a thing
so certain to afflict me? I told you in my former letter how unhappy
I should be if you died, and if you love me you will moderate the
rigours of your austere life. I represented to you the occasion I had
for your advice, and consequently the reason there was you should
take care of yourself;--but I will not tire you with repetitions. You
desire us not to forget you in our prayers: ah! dear Abelard, you may
depend upon the zeal of this society; it is devoted to you and you
cannot justly fear its forgetfulness. You are our Father, and we are
your children; you are our guide, and we resign ourselves to your
direction with full assurance in your piety. You command; we obey; we
faithfully execute what you have prudently ordered. We impose no
penance on ourselves but what you recommend, lest we should rather
follow an indiscreet zeal than solid virtue. In a word, nothing is
thought right but what has Abelard's approbation. You tell me one
thing that perplexes me--that you have heard that some of our Sisters
are bad examples, and that they are generally not strict enough.
Ought this to seem strange to you who know how monasteries are filled
nowadays? Do fathers consult the inclination of their children when
they settle them? Are not interest and policy their only rules? This
is the reason that monasteries are often filled with those who are a
scandal to them. But I conjure you to tell me what are the
irregularities you have heard of, and to show me the proper remedy
for them. I have not yet observed any looseness: when I have I will
take due care. I walk my rounds every night and make those I catch
abroad return to their chambers; for I remember all the adventures
that happened in the monasteries near Paris.
You end your letter with a general deploring of your unhappiness and
wish for death to end a weary life. Is it possible so great a genius
as you cannot rise above your misfortunes? What would the world say
should they read the letters you send me? Would they consider the
noble motive of your retirement or not rather think you had shut
yourself up merely to lament your woes? What would your young
students say, who come so far to hear you and prefer your severe
lectures to the ease of a worldly life, if they should discover you
secretly a slave to your passions and the victim of those weaknesses
from which your rule secures them? This Abelard they so much admire,
this great leader, would lose his fame and become the sport of his
pupils. If these reasons are not sufficient to give you constancy in
your misfortune, cast your eyes upon me, and admire the resolution
with which I shut myself up at your request. I was young when we
separated, and (if I dare believe what you were always telling me)
worthy of any man's affections. If I had loved nothing in Abelard but
sensual pleasure, other men might have comforted me upon my loss of
him. You know what I have done, excuse me therefore from repeating
it; think of those assurances I gave you of loving you still with the
utmost tenderness. I dried your tears with kisses, and because you
were less powerful I became less reserved. Ah! if you had loved with
delicacy, the oaths I made, the transports I indulged, the caresses I
gave, would surely have comforted you. Had you seen me grow by
degrees indifferent to you, you might have had reason to despair, but
you never received greater tokens of my affection than after you felt
misfortune.
Let me see no more in your letters, dear Abelard, such murmurs
against Fate; you are not the only one who has felt her blows and you
ought to forget her outrages. What a shame it is that a philosopher
cannot accept what might befall any man. Govern yourself by my
example; I was born with violent passions, I daily strive with tender
emotions, and glory in triumphing and subjecting them to reason. Must
a weak mind fortify one that is so much superior? But I am carried
away. Is it thus I write to my dear Abelard? He who practises all
those virtues he preaches? If you complain of Fortune, it is not so
much that you feel her strokes as that you try to show your enemies
how much to blame they are in attempting to hurt you. Leave them,
Abelard, to exhaust their malice, and continue to charm your
auditors. Discover those treasures of learning Heaven seems to have
reserved for you; your enemies, struck with the splendour of your
reasoning, will in the end do you justice. How happy should I be
could I see all the world as entirely persuaded of your probity as I
am. Your learning is allowed by all; your greatest adversaries
confess you are ignorant of nothing the mind of man is capable of
knowing.
My dear Husband (for the last time I use that title!), shall I never
see you again? Shall I never have the pleasure of embracing you
before death? What dost thou say, wretched Heloise? Dost thou know
what thou desirest? Couldst thou behold those brilliant eyes without
recalling the tender glances which have been so fatal to thee?
Couldst thou see that majestic air of Abelard without being jealous
of everyone who beholds so attractive a man? That mouth cannot be
looked upon without desire; in short, no woman can view the person of
Abelard without danger. Ask no more therefore to see Abelard; if the
memory of him has caused thee so much trouble, Heloise, what would
not his presence do? What desires will it not excite in thy soul? How
will it be possible to keep thy reason at the sight of so lovable a
man?
I will own to you what makes the greatest pleasure in my retirement;
after having passed the day in thinking of you, full of the repressed
idea, I give myself up at night to sleep. Then it is that Heloise,
who dares not think of you by day, resigns herself with pleasure to
see and hear you. How my eyes gloat over you! Sometimes you tell me
stories of your secret troubles, and create in me a felt sorrow;
sometimes the rage of our enemies is forgotten and you press me to
you and I yield to you, and our souls, animated with the same
passion, are sensible of the same pleasures. But O! delightful dreams
and tender illusions, how soon do you vanish away! I awake and open
my eyes to find no Abelard: I stretch out my arms to embrace him and
he is not there; I cry, and he hears me not. What a fool I am to tell
my dreams to you who are insensible to these pleasures. But do you,
Abelard, never see Heloise in your sleep? How does she appear to you?
Do you entertain her with the same tender language as formerly, and
are you glad or sorry when you awake? Pardon me, Abelard, pardon a
mistaken lover. I must no longer expect from you that vivacity which
once marked your every action; no more must I require from you the
correspondence of desires. We have bound ourselves to severe
austerities and must follow them at all costs. Let us think of our
duties and our rules, and make good use of that necessity which keeps
us separate. You, Abelard, will happily finish your course; your
desires and ambitions will be no obstacle to your salvation. But
Heloise must weep, she must lament for ever without being certain
whether all her tears will avail for her salvation.
I had liked to have ended my letter without telling you what happened
here a few days ago. A young nun, who had been forced to enter the
convent without a vocation therefor, is by a stratagem I know nothing
of escaped and fled to England with a gentleman. I have ordered all
the house to conceal the matter. Ah, Abelard! if you were near us
these things would not happen, for all the Sisters, charmed with
seeing and hearing you, would think of nothing but practising your
rules and directions. The young nun had never formed so criminal a
design as that of breaking her vows had you been at our head to
exhort us to live in holiness. If your eyes were witnesses of our
actions they would be innocent. When we slipped you should lift us up
and establish us by your counsels; we should march with sure steps in
the rough path of virtue. I begin to perceive, Abelard, that I take
too much pleasure in writing to you; I ought to burn this letter. It
shows that I still feel a deep passion for you, though at the
beginning I tried to persuade you to the contrary. I am sensible of
waves both of grace and passion, and by turns yield to each. Have
pity, Abelard, on the condition to which you have brought me, and
make in some measure my last days as peaceful as my first have been
uneasy and disturbed.