letter. Sure all the misfortunes of lovers are conveyed to them thro'
their eyes. Upon reading your letter I felt all mine renewed, I
reproached myself for having been so long without venting my sorrows,
when the rage of our unrelenting enemies still burns with the same
fury. Since length of time, which disarms the strongest hatred, seems
but to aggravate theirs; since it is decreed that your virtue shall
be persecuted till it takes refuge in the grave, and even beyond
that, your ashes perhaps, will not be suffered to rest in peace,--let
me always meditate on your calamities, let me publish them thro' all
the world, if possible, to shame an age that has not known how to
value you. I will spare no one, since no one would interest himself
to protect you, and your enemies are never weary of oppressing your
innocence, Alas! my memory is perpetually filled with bitter
remembrances of past evils, and are there more to be feared still?
shall my _Abelard_ be never mentioned without tears? shall thy
dear name be never spoken but with sighs? Observe, I beseech you, to
what a wretched condition you have reduced me: sad, afflicted,
without any possible comfort, unless it proceed from you. Be not then
unkind, nor deny, I beg you that little relief which you can only
give. Let me have a faithful account of all that concerns you. I
would know every thing, be it ever so unfortunate. Perhaps, by
mingling my sighs with yours, I may make your sufferings less, if
that observation be true, that all sorrows divided are made lighter.
Tell me not, by way of excuse, you will spare our tears; the tears
of women, shut up in a melancholy place, and devoted to penitence,
are not to be spared. And if you wait for an opportunity to write
pleasant and agreeable things to us, you will delay writing too long.
Prosperity seldom chuses the side of the virtuous; and Fortune is so
blind, that in a crowd in which there is perhaps but one wife and
brave man, it is not to be expected she should single him out. Write
to me then immediately, and wait not for miracles; they are too
scarce, and we too much accustomed to misfortunes to expect any happy
turn. I shall always have this, if you please, and this will be
always agreeable to me, that when I receive any letters from you, I
shall know you still remember me. Seneca, (with whose writings you
made me acquainted,) as much a Stoic as he was, seemed to be so very
sensible of this kind of pleasure, that upon opening any letters from
Lucilius, he imagined he felt the same delight as when they conversed
together.
I have made it an observation, since our absence, that we are much
fonder of the pictures of those we love, when they are at a great
distance, than when they are near to us. It seems to me, as if the
farther they are removed their pictures grow the more finished, and
acquire a greater resemblance; at least, our imagination, which
perpetually figures them to us by the desire we have of seeing them
again, makes us think so. By a peculiar power, Love can make that
seem life itself, which, as soon as the loved object returns, is
nothing but a little canvas and dead colours. I have your picture in
my room; I never pass by it without stopping to look at it; and yet
when you were present with me, I scarce ever cast my eyes upon it. If
a picture, which is but a mute representation of an object, can give
such pleasure, what cannot letters inspire? They have souls; they can
speak; they have in them all that force which expresses the
transports of the heart; they have all the fire of our passions; they
can raise them as much as if the persons themselves were present;
they have all the softness and delicacy of speech, and sometimes a
boldness of expression even beyond it.
We may write to each other; so innocent a pleasure is not
forbidden us. Let us not lose, through negligence, the only happiness
which is left us, and the only one, perhaps, which the malice of our
enemies can never ravish from us. I shall read that you are my
husband, and you shall see me address you as a wife. In spite of all
your misfortunes, you may be what you please in your letter. Letters
were first invented for comforting such solitary wretches as myself.
Having lost the substantial pleasures of seeing and possessing you, I
shall in some measure compensate this loss by the satisfaction I
shall find in your writing. There I shall read your most secret
thoughts; I shall carry them always about me; I shall kiss them every
moment: if you can be capable of any jealousy, let it be for the fond
caresses I shall bestow on your letters, and envy only the happiness
of those rivals. That writing may be no trouble to you, write always
to me carelessly, and without study: I had rather read the dictates
of the heart than of the brain. I cannot live if you do not tell me
you always love me; but that language ought to be so natural to you,
that I believe you cannot speak otherwise to me without great
violence to yourself. And since, by that melancholy relation to your
friend, you have awakened all my sorrows, it is but reasonable you
should allay them by some marks of an inviolable love.
I do not, however, reproach you for the innocent artifice you made
use of to comfort a person in affliction, by comparing his misfortune
to another much greater. Charity is ingenious in finding out such
pious artifices, and to be commended for using them. But do you owe
nothing more to us than to that friend, be the friendship between you
ever so intimate? We are called your sisters; we call ourselves your
Children; and if it were possible to think of any expression which
could signify a dearer relation, or a more affectionate regard and
mutual obligation between us, we would use them: if we could be so
ungrateful as not to speak our just acknowledgments to you, this
church, these altars, these Walls, would reproach our silence, and
speak for us, But without leaving it to that, it will be always a
pleasure to me to say, that you only are the founder of this house;
it is wholly your work. You, by inhabiting here, have given fame and
function to a place known before only for robberies and murders. You
have, in the literal sense, made the den of thieves a house of
prayer. These cloisters owe nothing to public charities; our walls
were not raised by the usury of publicans, nor their foundations laid
in base extortion. The God whom we serve sees nothing but innocent
riches and harmless votaries, whom you have placed here. Whatever
this young vineyard is, is owing all to you; and it is your part to
employ your whole care to cultivate and improve it; this ought to be
one of the principal affairs of your life. Though our holy
renunciation, our vows, and our manner of life, seem to secure us
from all temptations; though our walls and grates prohibit all
approaches, yet it is the outside only, the bark of the tree is
covered from injuries; while the sap of original corruption may
imperceptibly spread within, even to the heart, and prove fatal to
the most promising plantation, unless continual care be taken to
cultivate and secure it. Virtue in us is grafted upon Nature and the
Woman; the one is weak, and the other is always changeable. To plant
the Lord's vine is a work of no little labour; and after it is
planted it will require great application and diligence to manure it.
The Apostle of the Gentiles; as great a labourer as he was, says, _He
hath planted, and Apollo hath watered; but it is God that giveth the
increase._ Paul had planted the Gospel among the Corinthians, by
his holy and earnest preaching; _Apollos_, a zealous disciple of
that great master, continued to cultivate it by frequent
exhortations; and the grace of God, which their constant prayers,
implored for that church, made the endeavours of both successful.
This ought to be an example for your conduct towards us. I know
you are not slothful; yet your labours are not directed to us; your
cares are wasted upon a set of men whose thoughts are only earthly,
and you refuse to reach out your hand to support those who are weak
and staggering in their way to heaven, and who, with all their
endeavours, can scarcely preserve themselves from falling. You fling
the pearls of the gospel before swine, when you speak to those who
are filled with the good things of this world, and nourished with the
fatness of the earth; and you neglect the innocent sheep, who, tender
as they are, would yet follow you thro' deserts and mountains. Why
are such pains thrown away upon the ungrateful, while not a thought
is bestowed upon your children, whose souls would be filled with a
sense of your goodness? But why should I intreat you in the name of
your children? Is it possible I should fear obtaining any thing of
you, when I ask it in my own name? And must I use any other prayers
than my own to prevail upon you? The St. Austins, Tertullians, and
Jeromes, have wrote to the Eudoxas, Paulas, and Melanias; and can you
read those names, though of saints, and not remember mine? Can it be
criminal for you to imitate St. Jerome, and discourse with me
concerning the Scripture? or Tertullian, and preach mortification? or
St. Austin, and explain to me the nature of grace? Why should I only
reap no advantage from your learning? When you write to me, you will
write to your wife. Marriage has made such a correspondence lawful;
and since you can, without giving the least scandal, satisfy me, why
will you not? I have a barbarous uncle, whose inhumanity is a
security against any criminal desire which tenderness and the
remembrance of our past enjoyments might inspire. There is nothing
that can cause you any fear; you need not fly to conquer. You may see
me, hear my sighs, and be a witness of all my sorrows, without
incurring any danger, since you can only relieve me with tears and
words. If I have put myself into a cloister with reason, persuade me
to continue in it with devotion: you have been the occasion of all my
misfortunes, you therefore must be the instrument of all my comforts.
You cannot but remember, (for what do not lovers remember?) with
what pleasure I have past whole days in hearing your discourse. How,
when you were absent, I shut myself from everyone to write to you;
how uneasy I was till my letter had come to your hands; what artful
management it required to engage confidents. This detail, perhaps,
surprises you, and you are in pain for what will fellow. But I am no
longer ashamed that my passion has had no bounds for you; for I have
done more than all this: I have hated myself that I might love you; I
came hither to ruin myself in a perpetual imprisonment, that I might
make you live quiet and easy. Nothing but virtue, joined to a love
perfectly disengaged from the commerce of the senses, could have
produced such effect. Vice never inspires any thing like this; it is
too much enslaved to the body. When we love pleasures, we love the
living, and not the dead; we leave off burning with desire for those
who can no longer burn for us. This was my cruel uncle's notions; he
measured my virtue by the frailty of my sex, and thought it was the
man, and not the person, I loved. But he has been guilty to no
purpose. I love you more than ever; and to revenge myself of him, I
will still love you with all the tenderness of my soul till the last
moment of my life. If formerly my affection for you was not so pure,
if in those days the mind and the body shared in the pleasure of
loving you, I often told you, even then, that I was more pleased with
possessing your heart than with any other happiness, and the man was
the thing I least valued in you.
You cannot but be entirely persuaded of this by the extreme
unwillingness I showed to marry you: tho' I knew that the name of
Wife was honourable in the world, and holy in religion, yet the name
of your mistress had greater charms, because it was more free. The
bonds of matrimony, however honourable, still bear with them a
necessary engagement; and I was very unwilling to be necessitated to
love always a man who, perhaps, would not always love me. I despised
the name of Wife, that I might live happy with that of Mistress; and
I find, by your letter to your friend, you have not forgot that
delicacy of passion in a woman who loved you always with the utmost
tenderness, and yet wished to love you more, you have very justly
observed in your letter, that I esteemed those public engagements
insipid which form alliances only to be dissolved by death, and which
put life and love under the same unhappy necessity. But you have not
added how often I have made protestations that it was infinitely
preferable to me to live with _Abelard_ as his mistress than
with any other as empress of the world, and that I was more happy in
obeying you, than I should have been in lawfully captivating the lord
of the universe. Riches and pomp are not the charms of love. True
tenderness make us to separate the lover from all that is external to
him, and setting aside his quality, fortune, and employments,
consider him singly by himself.
'Tis not love, but the desire of riches and honour, which makes
women run into the embraces of an indolent husband. Ambition, not
affection, forms such marriages. I believe indeed they may be
followed with some honours and advantages, but I can never think that
this is the way to enjoy the pleasures of an affectionate union, nor
to feel those secret and charming emotions of hearts that have long
strove to be united. These martyrs of marriage pine always for large
fortunes, which they think they have lost. The wife sees husbands
richer that her own, and the husband wives better portioned than his.
Their interested vows occasion regret, and regret produces hatred.
They soon part, or always desire it. This restless and tormenting
passion punishes them for aiming at other advantages of love than
love itself.
If there is any thing which may properly be called happiness here
below, I am persuaded it is in the union of two persons who love each
other with perfect liberty, who are united by a secret inclination,
and satisfied with each other's merit; their hearts are full and
leave no vacancy for any other passion; they enjoy perpetual
tranquillity, because they enjoy content.
If I could believe you as truly persuaded of my merit as I am of
yours, I might say there has been such a time when we were such a
pair. Alas! how was it possible I should not be certain of your
merit? If I could ever have doubted it, the universal esteem would
have made me determine in your favour. What country, what city, has
not desired your presence? Could you ever retire but you drew the
eyes and hearts of all after you? Did not every one rejoice in having
seen you? Even women, breaking through the laws of decorum, which
custom had imposed upon them, showed manifestly they felt something
more for you than esteem. I have known some who have been profuse in
their husband's praises, who have yet envied my happiness, and given
strong intimations they could have refused you nothing. But what
could resist you? Your reputation, which so much soothed the vanity
of our sex; your air, your manner; that life in your eyes, which so
admirably expressed the vivacity of your mind; your conversation with
that ease and elegance which gave every thing you spoke such an
agreeable and insinuating turn; in short, every thing spoke for you;
very different from some mere scholars, who, with all their learning,
have not the capacity to keep up an ordinary conversation, and with
all their wit cannot win the affection of women who have a much less
share than themselves.
With what ease did you compose verses? and yet those ingenious
trifles, which were but a recreation after your more serious studies,
are still the entertainment and delight of persons of the best taste.
The smallest song, nay, the least sketch of any thing you made for
me, had a thousand beauties capable of making it last as long as
there are love or lovers in the world. Thus those songs will be sung
in honour of other women which you designed only for me? and those
tender and natural expressions which spoke your love will help others
to explain their passion, with much more advantage than what they
themselves are capable of.
What rivals did your gallantries of this kind occasion me? How
many ladies laid claim to them? 'Twas a tribute their self-love paid
to their beauty. How many have I seen with sighs declare their
passion for you, when, after some common visit you had made them,
they chanced to be complimented for the Sylvia of your poems? others,
in despair and envy, have reproached me, that I had no charms but
what your wit bestowed on me, nor in any thing the advantage over
them but in being beloved by you. Can you believe if I tell you,
that, notwithstanding the vanity of my sex, I thought myself
peculiarly happy in having a lover to whom I was obliged for my
charms, and took a secret pleasure in being admired by a man who,
when he pleased, could raise his mistress to the character of a
goddess? Pleased with your glory only, I read with delight all those
praises you offered me, and without reflecting how little I deserved,
I believed myself such as you described me, that I might be more
certain I pleased you.
But oh! where is that happy time fled? I now lament my lover, and
of all my joys there remains nothing but the painful remembrance that
_they are past_. Now learn, all you my rivals who once viewed my
happiness with such jealous eyes, that he you once envied me can
never more be yours or mine. I loved him, my love was his crime, and
the cause of his punishment. My beauty once charmed him: pleased with
each other, we passed our brightest days in tranquillity and
happiness. If that was a crime, 'tis a crime I am yet fond of, and I
have no other regret, than that against my will I must necessarily be
innocent. But what do I say? My misfortune was to have cruel
relations, whose malice disturbed the calm we enjoyed. Had they been
capable of the returns of reason, I had now been happy in the
enjoyment of my dear husband. Oh! how cruel were they when their
blind fury urged a villain to surprise you in your sleep! Where was
I? Where was your _Heloise_ then? What joy should I have had in
defending my lover! I would have guarded you from violence, though at
the expence of my life; my cries and the shrieks alone would have
stopped the hand.--! Oh! whither does the excess of passion
hurry me? Here love is shocked, and modesty, joined with despair,
deprive me of words. 'Tis eloquence to be silent, where no expression
can reach the greatness of the misfortune.
But, tell me, whence proceeds your neglect of me since my being
professed? You know nothing moved me to it but your disgrace, nor did
I give any consent but yours. Let me hear what is the occasion of
your coldness, or give me leave to tell you now my opinion. Was it
not the sole view of pleasure which engaged you to me? and has not my
tenderness, by leaving you nothing to wish for, extinguished your
desires? Wretched _Heloise_! You could please when you wished to
avoid it; you merited incense, when you could remove to a distance
the hand that offered it; but since your heart has been softened, and
has yielded; since you have devoted and sacrificed yourself, you are
deserted and forgotten. I am convinced, by sad experience, that
it is natural to avoid those to whom we have been too much obliged;
and that uncommon generosity produces neglect rather than
acknowledgement. My heart surrendered too soon to gain the esteem of
the conqueror; you took it without difficulty, and give it up easily.
But, ungrateful as you are, I will never content to it. And though in
this place I ought not to retain a wish of my own, yet I have ever
secretly preserved the desire of being beloved by you. When I
pronounced my sad vow, I then had about me your last letter, in which
you protested you would be wholly mine, and would never live but to
love me. 'Tis to you, therefore, I have offered myself; you had my
heart, and I had yours; do not demand any thing back; you must bear
with my passion as a thing which of right belongs to you, and from
which you can no ways be disengaged.
Alas! what folly is it to talk at this rate? I see nothing here
but marks of the Deity, and I speak of nothing but man! You have been
the cruel occasion of this by your conduct. Unfaithful man! ought you
at once to break off loving me. Why did you not deceive me for a
while, rather than immediately abandon me? If you had given me at
least but some faint signs even of a dying passion, I myself had
favoured the deception. But in vain would I flatter myself that you
could be constant; you have left me no colour of making your excuse.
I am earnestly desirous to see you; but if that be impossible, I will
content myself with a few lines from your hand. Is it so hard for one
who loves to write? I ask for none of your letters filled with
learning, and writ for reputation; all I desire is such letters as
the heart dictates, and which the hand can scarce write fast enough.
How did I deceive myself with the hopes that you would be wholly mine
when I took the veil, and engaged myself to live for ever under your
laws? For in being professed, I vowed no more than to be yours only,
and I obliged myself voluntarily to a confinement in which you
desired to place me. Death only then can make me leave the place
where you have fixed me; and then too, my ashes shall rest, here and
wait for your, in order to shew my obedience and devotedness to you
to the latest moment possible.
Why should I conceal from you the secret of my call? You know it
was neither zeal nor devotion which led me to the cloister. Your
conscience is too faithful a witness to permit you to disown it. Yet
here I am, and here I will remain; to this place an unfortunate love,
and my cruel relations, have condemned me. But if you do not continue
your concern for me, If I lose your affection, what have I gained by
my imprisonment? What recompense can I hope for? The unhappy
consequence of a criminal conduit, and your disgraces, have put on me
this habit of chastity, and not the sincere desire of being truly
penitent. Thus I strive and labour in vain. Among those whose are
wedded to God I serve a man: among the heroic supporters of the
Cross, I am a poor slave to a human passion: at the head of a
religious community I am devoted to _Abelard_ only. What a
prodigy am I? Enlighten me, O Lord! Does thy grace or my own despair
draw these words from me? I am sensible I am in the Temple of
Chastity, covered only with the ashes of that fire which hath
consumed us. I am here, I confess, a sinner, but one who, far from
weeping for her sins, weeps only for her lover; far from abhorring
her crimes, endeavours only to add to them; and who, with a weakness
unbecoming the state I am in, please myself continually with the
remembrance of past actions, when it is impossible to renew them.
Good God! what is all this! I reproach myself for my own faults, I
accuse you for yours, and to what purpose? Veiled as I am, behold in
what a disorder you have plunged me! How difficult is it to fight
always for duty against inclination? I know what obligations this
veil lays on me, but I feel more strongly what power a long habitual
passion has over my heart. I am conquered by my inclination. My love
troubles my mind, and disorders my will. Sometimes I am swayed by the
sentiments of piety which arise in me, and the next moment I yield up
my imagination to all that is amorous and tender. I tell you to-day
what I would not have said to you yesterday. I had resolved to love
you no more; I considered I had made a vow, taken the veil, and am as
it were dead and buried; yet there rises unexpectedly from the bottom
of my heart a passion which triumphs over all these notions, and
darkens all my reason and devotion. You reign in such inward retreats
of my soul, that I know not where to attack you. When I endeavour to
break those chains by which I am bound to you, I only deceive myself,
and all the efforts I am able to make serve but to bind them the
faster. Oh, for Pity's sake help a wretch to renounce her desires
herself, and if it be possible, even to renounce you! If you are a
lover, a father, help a mistress, comfort a child! These tender
names, cannot they move you? Yield either to pity or love. If you
gratify my request I shall continue a Religious without longer
profaning my calling. I am ready to humble myself with you to the
wonderful providence of God, who does all things for our
sanctification; who, by his grace, pacifies all that is vicious and
corrupt in the principle, and; by the inconceivable riches of his
mercy, draws us to himself against our wishes, and by degrees opens
our eyes to discern the greatness of his bounty, which at first we
would not understand.