those pleasures which yet I think of with delight? At least I will
exert some generous endeavour, and, by smothering in my heart those
desires to which the frailty of my nature may give birth, I will
exercise torments upon myself, like those the rage of your enemies
has made you suffer. I will endeavour by that means to satisfy you at
least, if I cannot appease an angry God. For, to show you what a
deplorable condition I am in, and how far my repentance is from being
available, I dare even accuse Heaven every moment of cruelty for
delivering you into those snares which were prepared for you. My
repinings kindle the divine wrath, when I should endeavour to draw
down mercy.
In order to expiate a crime, it is not sufficient that we bear the
punishment; whatever we suffer is accounted as nothing, if the
passions still continue, and the heart is inflamed with the same
desires. It is an easy matter to confess a weakness, and to inflict
some punishment upon ourselves; but it is the last violence to our
nature to extinguish the memory of pleasures which, by a sweet habit,
have gained absolute possession of our minds. How many persons do we
observe who make an outward confession of their faults, yet, far from
being afflicted for them, take a new pleasure in the relating them.
Bitterness of heart ought to accompany the confession of the mouth,
yet that very rarely happens. I, who have experienced so many
pleasures in loving you, feel, in spite of myself that I cannot
repent of them, nor forbear enjoying them over again as much as is
possible, by recollecting them in my memory. Whatever endeavours I
use, on whatever side I turn me, the sweet idea still pursues me and
every object brings to my mind what I ought to forget. During the
still night, when my heart ought to be in quiet in the midst of
sleep, which suspends the greatest disturbances, I cannot avoid those
illusions my heart entertains. I think I am still with my dear
_Abelard_. I see him, I speak to him, and hear him answer.
Charmed with each other, we quit our philosophic studies to entertain
ourselves with our passion. Sometimes, too, I seem to be a witness of
the bloody enterprise of your enemies; I oppose their fury; I fill
our apartment with fearful cries, and in a moment I wake in tears.
Even in holy places before the altar I carry with me the memory of
our guilty loves. They are my whole business, and, far from lamenting
for having been seduced, I sigh for having lost them.
I remember (for nothing is forgot by lovers) the time and place in
which you first declared your love to me, and swore you would love me
till death. Your words, your oaths, are all deeply graven in my
heart. The disorder of my discourse discovers to everyone the trouble
of my mind. My sighs betray me; and your name is continually in my
mouth. When I am in this condition, why dost not thou, O Lord, pity
my weakness, and strengthen me by thy grace? You are happy, _Abelard_;
this grace has prevented you; and your misfortune has been the
occasion of your finding rest. The punishment of your body has cured
the deadly wounds of your soul. The tempest has driven you into the
haven. God who seemed to lay his hand heavily upon you, fought only
to help you: he is a father chastising, and not an enemy revenging; a
wife physician, putting you to some pain in order to preserve your
life. I am a thousand times more to be lamented than you; I have a
thousand passions to combat with. I must resist those fires which
Jove kindles in a young heart. Our sex is nothing but weakness, and I
have the greater difficulty to defend myself, because the enemy that
attacks me pleases. I dote on the danger which threatens me, how then
can I avoid falling?
In the midst of these struggles I endeavour at least to conceal my
weakness from those you have entrusted to my care. All who are about
me admired my virtue, but could their eyes penetrate into my heart,
what would they not discover? My passions there are in a rebellion; I
preside over others, but cannot rule myself. I have but a false
covering, and this seeming virtue is a real vice. Men judge me
praise-worthy, but I am guilty before God, from whose all-seeing eye
nothing is hid, and who views, through all their foldings, the
secrets of all hearts. I cannot escape his discovery. And yet it is a
great deal to me to maintain even this appearance of virtue. This
troublesome hypocrisy is in some sort commendable. I give no scandal
to the world, which is so easy to take bad impressions. I do not
shake the virtue of these feeble ones who are under my conduct. With
my heart full of the love of man, I exhort them at least to love only
God: charmed with the pomp of worldly pleasures, I endeavour to show
them that they are all deceit and vanity. I have just strength enough
to conceal from them my inclinations, and I look upon that as a
powerful effect of grace. If it is not sufficient to make me embrace
virtue, it is enough to keep me from committing sin.
And yet it is in vain to endeavour to separate those two things.
They must be guilty who merit nothing; and they depart from virtue
who delay to approach it. Besides, we ought to have no other motive
than the love of God. Alas! what can I then hope for? I own, to my
confusion, I fear more the offending of man than the provoking of
God, and study less to please him than you. Yes, it was your command
only, and not a sincere vocation, as is imagined, that shut me up in
these cloisters. I fought to give you ease, and not to sanctify
myself. How unhappy am I? I tear myself from all that pleases me? I
bury myself here alive, I exercise my self in the most rigid
fastings; and such severities as cruel laws impose on us; I feed
myself with tears and sorrows, and, notwithstanding this, I deserve
nothing for all the hardships I suffer. My false piety has long
deceived you as well as others. You have thought me easy, and yet I
was more disturbed than ever. You persuaded yourself I was wholly
taken up with my duty, yet I had no business but love. Under this
mistake you desire my prayers; alas! I must expect yours. Do not
presume upon my virtue and my care. I am wavering, and you must fix
me by your advice. I am yet feeble, you must sustain and guide me by
your counsel.
What occasion had you to praise me? praise is often hurtful to
those on whom it is bestowed. A secret vanity springs up in the
heart, blinds us, and conceals from us wounds that are ill cured. A
seducer flatters us, and at the same time, aims at our destruction. A
sincere friend disguises nothing from us, and from passing a light
hand over the wound, makes us feel it the more intensely, by applying
remedies. Why do you not deal after this manner with me? Will you be
esteemed a base dangerous flatterer; or, if you chance to see any
thing commendable in me, have you no fear that vanity, which is so
natural to all women, should quite efface it? but let us not judge of
virtue by outward appearances, for then the reprobates as well as the
elect may lay claim to it. An artful impostor may, by his address
gain more admiration than the true zeal of a saint.
The heart of man is a labyrinth, whose windings are very difficult
to be discovered. The praises you give me are the more dangerous, in
regard that I love the person who gives them. The more I desire to
please you, the readier am I to believe all the merit you attribute
to me. Ah, think rather how to support my weaknesses by wholesome
remonstrances! Be rather fearful than confident of my salvation: say
our virtue is founded upon weakness, and that those only will be
crowned who have fought with the greatest difficulties: but I seek
not for that crown which is the reward of victory, I am content to
avoid only the danger. It is easier to keep off than to win a battle.
There are several degrees in glory, and I am not ambitious of the
highest; those I leave to souls of great courage, who have been often
victorious. I seek not to conquer, out of fear lest I should be
overcome. Happy enough, if I can escape shipwreck, and at last gain
the port. Heaven commands me to renounce that fatal passion which
unites me to you; but oh! my heart will never be able to consent to
it. Adieu.
LETTER V.
_HELOISE to ABELARD._
_Heloise_ had been dangerously ill at the Convent of
the Paraclete: immediately upon her recovery she wrote this Letter to
_Abelard_, She seems now to have disengaged herself from him,
and to have resolved to think of nothing but repentance; yet
discovers some emotions, which make it doubtful whether devotion had
entirely triumphed over her passion.
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 now am, it is a happiness to me that you
show so much insensibility for the fatal passion which had engaged
me to you. At last _Abelard_, you have lost _Heloise_ for ever.
Notwithstanding all the oaths I made to think of nothing but
you only, and to be entertained with 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 no more be my happiness! Dear image of
_Abelard_! thou wilt no more follow me every where; I will no
more remember thee. O celebrated merit of a man, who, in spite of his
enemies is the wonder of his age! O enchanting pleasures, to which
_Heloise_ entirely resigned herself, you, you have been my
tormentors! I confess _Abelard_, without a blush, my infidelity;
let my inconstancy teach the world that there is no depending upon
the promises of women; they are all subject to change. This troubles
you, _Abelard_; this news, without doubt, surprises you; you
could never imagine _Heloise_, should be inconstant. She was
prejudiced by so strong an inclination to you, that you cannot
conceive how time could alter it. But be undeceived; I am going to
discover to you my falseness, though instead of reproaching me, I
persuade myself you will shed tears of joy. When I shall have told
you what rival hath ravished my heart from you, you will praise my
inconstancy, and will pray this rival to fix it. By this you may
judge that it is God alone that takes _Heloise_ from you. Yes,
my dear _Abelard_, he gives my mind that tranquillity which a
quick remembrance of our misfortunes would not suffer me to enjoy.
Just Heaven! what other rival could take me from you? Could you
imagine it possible for any mortal to blot you from my heart? Could
you think me guilty of sacrificing the virtuous and learned _Abelard_
to any other but to God? No, I believe you have done me justice in
this point. I question not but you are impatient to know what means
God used to accomplish so great an end; I will tell you, and 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, appeared criminal to me. My memory
represented faithfully to me all the past actions of my life, and I
confess to you my love was the only pain I felt. Death which till
then I had always considered as at a distance, now presented itself
to me such as it appears to sinners. I began to dread the wrath of
God, now I was going to experience it; and I repented I had made no
better use of his grace. Those tender letters I have wrote to you,
and those passionate conversations I have had with you, gave me as
much pain now as they formerly did pleasure. Ah! miserable _Heloise_,
said I, if it is a crime to give one's self up to such soft
transports, and if after this life is ended punishment certainly
follows them, why didst thou not resist so dangerous an inclination?
Think on the tortures that are prepared for thee; consider with
terror that store of torments, and recollect at the same time those
pleasures which thy deluded soul thought so entrancing. Ah! pursued
I, dost thou not almost despair for having rioted in such false
pleasure? In short, _Abelard_, imagine all the remorse of mind I
suffered, and you will not be astonished at my change.
Solitude is insupportable to a mind which is not easy, its
troubles increase in the midst of silence, and retirement heightens
them. Since I have been shut up within these walls, I have done
nothing but wept for our misfortunes. This cloister has resounded
with my cries, and like a wretch condemned to eternal slavery, I have
worn out my days in grief and sighing. Instead of fulfilling God's
merciful design upon me, I have offended him; I have looked upon this
sacred refuge like a frightful prison, and have borne with
unwillingness the yoke of the Lord. Instead of sanctifying myself by
a life of penitence, I have confirmed my reprobation. What a fatal
wandering! But _Abelard_, I have torn off the bandage which
blinded me, and if I dare rely upon the emotions which I have felt, I
have made myself worthy of your esteem. You are no more that amorous
_Abelard_, who, to gain a private conversation with me by night,
used incessantly to contrive new ways to deceive the vigilance of our
observers. The misfortune, which happened to you after so many happy
moments, gave you a horror for vice, and you instantly consecrated
the rest of your days to virtue and seemed to submit to this
necessity willingly. I indeed, more tender than you, and more
sensible of soft pleasures, bore this misfortune with extreme
impatience. You have heard my exclamations against your enemies; you
have seen my whole resentment in those Letters I wrote to you; it was
this, without doubt, which deprived me of the esteem of my _Abelard_.
You were alarmed at my transport, and if you will confess the truth,
you, perhaps, despaired of my salvation. You could not foresee that
_Heloise_ would conquer so reigning a passion; but you have been
deceived, _Abelard_; my weakness, when supported by grace, hath
not hindered me from obtaining a complete victory. Restore me, then,
to your good opinion; your own piety ought to solicit you to this.
But what secret trouble rises in my soul, what unthought-of motion
opposes the resolution I formed of sighing no more for _Abelard_?
Just Heaven! have I not yet triumphed over my love? Unhappy _Heloise_!
as long as thou drawest a breath it is decreed thou must love
_Abelard_: weep unfortunate wretch that thou art, thou never had
a more just occasion. Now I ought to die with grief. Grace had
overtaken me, and I had promised to be faithful to it, but I now
perjure myself, and sacrifice even grace to _Abelard_. This
sacrilegious Sacrifice fills up the measure of my iniquities. After
this can I hope God should open to me the treasures of his mercy?
Have I not tired out his forgiveness? I began to offend him from the
moment I first saw _Abelard_; an unhappy sympathy engaged us
both in a criminal commerce; and God raised us up an enemy to
separate us. I lament and hate the misfortune which hath lighted upon
us and adore the cause. Ah! I ought rather to explain this accident
as the secret ordinance of Heaven, which disapproved of our
engagement, and apply myself to extirpate my passion. How much better
were it entirely to forget the object of it, than to preserve the
memory of it, so fatal to the quiet of my life and salvation? Great
God! shall _Abelard_ always possess my thoughts? can I never
free myself from those chains which bind me to him? But, perhaps, I
am unreasonably afraid; virtue directs all my motions, and they are
all subject to grace, Fear no more, dear _Abelard_; I have no
longer any of 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 new-born passion gave us, to awaken
that criminal fondness you may have for me; I free you from all your
oaths; forget the names of Lover and husband but keep always that of
Father. I expect no more from you those tender protestations, and
those letters so proper to keep up the commerce of love. I demand
nothing of you but spiritual advice and wholesome directions. The
path of holiness, however thorny it may be, will yet appear agreeable
when I walk in your steps. You will always find me ready to follow
you. I shall read with more pleasure the letters in which you shall
describe to me the advantages of virtue than ever I did those by
which you so artfully instilled the fatal poison of our 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 can I blame you; but now you have nothing to fear. A
lucky disease which providence seemed to have chastised me with for
my sanctification, hath done what all human efforts, and your cruelty
in vain attempted. I see now the vanity of that happiness which we
had set our hearts upon, as if we were never to have lost it. What
fears, what uneasiness, have we been obliged to suffer!
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 till fixed on thee. What have I not suffered,
_Abelard_, while I kept alive in my retirement those fires which
ruined me in the world? I saw with horror the walls which surrounded
me; the hours seemed as long as years. I repented a thousand times
the having buried myself here; but since grace has opened my eyes all
the scene is changed. Solitude looks charming, and the tranquillity
which I behold here enters my very heart. In the satisfaction of
doing my duty I feel a pleasure above all that riches, pomp, or
sensuality, could afford. My quiet has indeed cost me dear; I have
bought it even at the price of my love; I have offered a violent
sacrifice, and which seemed above my power. I have torn you from my
heart; and, be not jealous, God reigns there in your stead, who ought
always to have possessed it entire. 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 exactness in writing to
you, that you are always dear to me.--You very obligingly
reproach me for delaying so long to write 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 acquaint me with 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 loved me, you would moderate the
rigour 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 the repetition of
the same thing. _You desire us not to forget you in your prayers._
Ah! dear _Abelard_, you may depend upon the zeal of this
society; it is devoted to you, and you cannot justly charge it with
forgetfulness. You are our father, we your children; you are our
guide, and we resign ourselves with assurance in your piety. We
impose no pennance on ourselves but what you recommend, lest we
should rather follow an indiscreet zeal than solid virtue. In a
word, nothing is thought rightly done if without _Abelard's_
approbation. You inform me of one thing that perplexes me, that you
have heard that some of our sisters gave bad examples, and that there
is a general looseness amongst them. Ought this to seem strange to
you, who know how monasteries are filled now-a-days? Do fathers
consult the inclinations 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 teach me a proper remedy for them. I have not yet
observed that looseness you mention; 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 which
happened in the monasteries near Paris. You end your letter with a
general deploring of your unhappiness, and wish for death as the end
of a troublesome life. Is it possible a genius so great as yours
should never get above his past misfortunes? What would the world say
should they read your letters as I do? would they consider the noble
motive of your retirement, or not rather think you had shut yourself
up only to lament the condition to which my uncle's revenge had
reduced you? What would your young pupils say who came so far to hear
you, and prefer your severe lectures to the softness of a worldly
life, if they should see you secretly a slave to your passions, and
sensible of all those weakness from which your rules can secure them?
This _Abelard_ they so much admire, this great personage which
guides them, would lose his fame, and become the scorn of his pupils.
If these reasons are not sufficient to give you constancy in your
misfortunes, cast your eyes upon me, and admire my resolution of
shutting myself up by your example. I was young when we were
separated, and (if I dare believe what you were always telling me)
worthy of any gentleman's affections. If I had loved nothing in
_Abelard_ but sensual pleasure, a thousand agreeable young 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 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 accompanied them with, the innocent caresses I
profusely gave you, all this, sure, might have comforted you. Had you
observed me to grow by degrees indifferent to you, you might have had
reason to despair; but you never received greater marks of my passion
than after that cruel revenge upon you.
Let me see no more in your letters, dear _Abelard_, such
murmurs against Fortune; you are not the only one she has persecuted,
and you ought to forget her outrages. What a shame is it for a
philosopher not to be comforted for an accident which might happen to
any man! Govern yourself by my example. I was born with violent
passions; I daily strive with the most tender emotions, and glory in
triumphing and subjecting them to reason. Must a weak mind fortify
one that is so much superior? But whither am I transported? Is this
discourse directed to my dear _Abelard_? one that practices all
those virtues he teaches? If you complain of Fortune, it is not so
much that you feel her strokes, as that you cannot show your enemies
how much to blame they were 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 splendor of your
reasoning, will 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 the world; your greatest enemies confess
you are ignorant of nothing that the mind of man is capable of
knowing.