expression) shall I never see you again? shall I never have the
pleasure of embracing you before death? What doth thou say, wretched
_Heloise_? dost thou know what thou desirest? Canst thou behold
those lovely eyes without recollecting those amorous glances which
have been so fatal to thee? canst thou view that majestic air of
_Abelard_ without entertaining a jealousy of every one that sees
so charming a man? that mouth, which cannot be looked upon without
desire? In short all the person of _Abelard_ cannot be viewed by
any woman without danger. Desire therefore no more to see _Abelard_.
If the memory of him has caused thee so much trouble, _Heloise_,
what will not his presence do? what desires will it not excite in thy
soul? how will it be possible for thee to keep thy reason at the
sight of so amiable a man? I will own to you what makes the greatest
pleasure I have in my retirement: After having passed the day in
thinking of you, full of the dear idea, I give myself up at night to
sleep. Then it is that _Heloise_, who dares not without
trembling think of you by day, resigns herself entirely to the
pleasure of hearing you and speaking to you. I see you, _Abelard_,
and glut my eyes with the sight. Sometimes you entertain me with the
story of your secret troubles and grievances, and create in me a
sensible sorrow; sometimes forgetting the perpetual obstacles to our
desires, you press me to make you happy, and I easily yield to your
transports. Sleep gives you what your enemies rage has deprived you
of; and our souls, animated with the same passion, are sensible of
the same pleasure. But, oh! you delightful illusion, soft errors, how
soon do you vanish away! At my awaking I open my eyes and see no
_Abelard_; I stretch out my arm to take hold of him, but he is
not there; I call him, he hears me not. What a fool am I to tell you
my dreams, who are sensible of 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 language as formerly when Fulbert
committed her to your care? when you awake are you pleased or sorry?
Pardon me; _Abelard_, pardon a mistaken lover. I must no more
expect that vivacity from you which once animated all your actions.
'Tis no more time to require from you a perfect correspondence of
desires. We have bound ourselves to severe austerities, and must
follow them, let them cost us ever so dear. Let us think of our
duties in these rigours, and make a good use of that necessity which
keeps us separate. You _Abelard_, will happily finish your
course; your desires and ambition will be no obstacles to your
salvation. _Heloise_ only must lament, she only must weep,
without being certain whether all her tears will be available or not
to her salvation.
I had like to have ended my letter without acquainting you with
what happened here a few days ago. A young nun, who was one of those
who are forced to take up with a convent without any examination.
whether it will suit with their tempers or not, is by a stratagem I
knew nothing of, escaped, and, as they say, fled with a young
gentleman she was in love with into England. I have ordered all the
house to conceal the matter. Ah, _Abelard_! if you were near us
these disorders would not happen. All the sisters, charmed with
seeing and hearing you, would think of nothing but practicing 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 holily. If your eyes were witnesses of our actions,
they would be innocent. When we slipt, you would lift us up, and
establish us by your counsels; we should march with sure steps in the
rough paths of virtue. I begin to perceive; _Abelard_, that I
take too much pleasure in writing to you. I ought to burn my letter.
It shows you I am still engaged in a deep passion for you, though at
the beginning of it I designed to persuade you of the contrary. I am
sensible of the motions both of grace and passion, and by turns
yield to each. Have pity, _Abelard_, of the condition to which
you have brought me, and make, in some measure, the latter days of my
life as quiet as the first have been uneasy and disturbed.
LETTER VI.
_ABELARD to HELOISE._
_Abelard_, having at last conquered the remains of
his unhappy passion, had determined to put an end to so dangerous a
correspondence as that between _Heloise_ and himself. The
following Letter therefore, though written with no less concern than
his former, is free from mixtures of a worldly passion, and is full
of the warmest sentiments of piety, and the most moving exhortations.
Write no more to me, _Heloise_; write no more to me; it is a
time to end a commerce which makes our mortifications of no advantage
to us. We retired from the world to sanctify ourselves; and by a
conduit directly contrary to Christian morality, we become odious to
Jesus Christ. Let us no more deceive ourselves; by flattering
ourselves with the remembrance of our past pleasures, we shall make
our lives troublesome, and we shall be incapable of relishing the
sweets of solitude. Let us make a good use of our austerities, and no
longer preserve the ideas of our crimes amongst the severities of
penitence. Let a mortification of body and mind, a strick fasting,
continual solitude, profound and holy meditations, and a sincere love
of God, succeed our former irregularities.
Let us try to carry religious perfection to a very difficult
point. 'Tis beautiful to find, in Christianity minds so disengaged
from the earth, from the creatures and themselves, that they seem to
act independently of those bodies they are joined to, and to use them
as their slaves. We can never raise ourselves to too great heights
when God is the object. Be our endeavours ever so great, they will
always come short of reaching that exalted dignity, which even our
apprehensions cannot reach. Let us act for God's glory, independent
of the creatures or ourselves, without any regard to our own desires,
or the sentiments of others. Were we in this temper of mind, _Heloise_,
I would willingly make my abode at the Paraclete. My earnest care for
a house I have founded would draw a thousand blessings on it. I would
instruct it by my words, and animate it by my example. I would watch
over the lives of my sisters, and would command nothing but what I
myself would perform. I would direct you to pray, meditate, labour
and keep vows of silence; and I would myself pray, meditate, labour
and be silent.
However, when I spoke, it should be to lift you up when you should
fall, to strengthen you in your weaknesses, to enlighten you in that
darkness and obscurity which might at any time surprise you. I would
comfort you under those severities used by persons of great virtue. I
would moderate the vivacity of your zeal and piety, and give your
virtue an even temperament. I would point out those duties which you
ought to know, and satisfy you in those doubts which the weakness of
your reason might occasion. I would be your master and father; and,
by a marvellous talent, I would become lively, flow, soft or severe,
according to the different characters of those I should guide in the
painful path of Christian perfection.
But whither does my vain imagination carry me?
Ah? _Heloise_! how far are we from such a happy temper? Your
heart still burns with that fatal fire which you cannot extinguish,
and mine is full of trouble and uneasiness. Think not, _Heloise_,
that I enjoy here a perfect peace: I will, for the last time open my
heart to you. I am not yet disengaged from you; I fight against my
excessive tenderness for you; yet in spite of all endeavours, the
remaining fraility makes me but too sensible of your sorrows, and
gives me a share in them. Your Letters have indeed moved me; I could
not read with indifference characters wrote by that dear hand. I
sigh, I weep, and all my reason is, scarce sufficient to conceal my
weakness from my pupils. This, unhappy _Heloise_! is the
miserable condition of _Abelard_. The world, which generally
errs in its notion, thinks I am easy, and as if I had loved only in
you the gratification of sense, imagines I have now forgot you; but
what a mistake is this! People, indeed, did not mistake in thinking,
when we separated, that shame and grief for having been so cruelly
used made me abandon the world. It was not, as you know, a sincere
repentance for having offended God which inspired me with a design of
retiring; however, I considered the accident which happened to us as
a secret design of Providence to punish our crimes; and only looked
upon Fulbert as the instrument of Divine vengeance. Grace drew me
into an asylum, where I might yet have remained, if the rage of my
enemies would have permitted. I have endured all their persecutions,
not doubting but God himself raised them up in order to purify me.
When he saw me perfectly obedient to his holy will, he permitted
that I should justify my doctrine. I made its purity public, and
showed in the end that my faith was not only orthodox, but also
perfectly clear from even the suspicion of novelty.
I should be happy if I had none to fear but my enemies, and no
other hinderance to my salvation but their calumny: but, _Heloise_,
you make me tremble. Your Letters declare to me that you are enslaved
to a fatal passion; and yet if you cannot conquer it you cannot be
saved; and what part would you have me take in this case? Would you
have me stifle the inspirations of the Holy Ghost? shall I, to soothe
you dry up those tears which the evil spirit makes you shed? Shall
this be the fruit of my meditations? No; let us be more firm in our
resolutions. We have not retired but in order to lament our sins, and
to gain heaven; let us then resign ourselves to God with all our
heart.
I know every thing in the beginning is difficult, but it is
glorious to undertake the beginning of a great action, and that glory
increases proportionably as the difficulties are more considerable.
We ought upon this account to surmount bravely all obstacles which
might hinder us in the practice of Christian virtue. In a monastery
men are proved as gold in the furnace. No one can continue long there
unless he bear worthily the yoke of our Lord.
Attempt to break those shameful chains which bind you to the
flesh; and, if by the assistance of grace you are so happy as to
accomplish this, I intreat you to think of me in your prayers.
Endeavour with all your strength to be the pattern of a perfect
Christian. It is difficult, I confess, but not impossible; and I
expect this beautiful triumph from your teachable disposition. If
your first endeavours prove weak, give not yourself up to despair;
that would be cowardice: besides, I would have you informed, that you
must necessarily take great pains; because you drive to conquer a
terrible enemy, to extinguish raging fire, and to reduce to
subjection your dearest affections. You must fight against your own
desires; be not therefore pressed down with the weight of your
corrupt nature: you have to do with a cunning adversary, who will use
all means to seduce you; be always upon your guard; While we live we
are exposed to temptations: this made a great saint say, that _the
whole life of man was a temptation._ The devil, who never sleeps,
walks continually around us, in order to surprise us on some
unguarded side, and enters into our soul to destroy it.
However perfect any one may be, yet he may fall into temptations,
and, perhaps, into such as may be useful. Nor is it wonderful that
men should never be exempt from them, because he hath always within
himself their force, concupiscence. Scarce are we delivered from one
temptation, but another attacks us. Such is the lot of the posterity
of Adam, that they should always have something to suffer, because
they have forfeited their primitive happiness. We vainly flatter
ourselves that we shall conquer temptations by flying; if we join not
patience and humility, we shall torment ourselves to no purpose. We
shall more certainly compass our end by imploring God's assistance
than by using any means drawn from ourselves.
Be constant, _Heloise_; trust in God, and you will fall into
few temptations: whenever they shall come, stifle them in their
birth; let them not take root in your heart. Apply remedies to a
disease, said an Ancient, in its beginning; for when it hath gained
strength medicines will be unavailable. Temptations have their
degrees; they are at first mere thoughts, and do not appear
dangerous; the imagination receives them without any fears; a
pleasure is formed out of them; we pause upon it, and at last we
yield to it.
Do you now, _Heloise_, applaud my design of making you walk
in the steps of the saints? do my words give you any relish for
penitence? have you not remorse for your wanderings? and do you not
wish you could like Magdalen, wash our Saviour's feet with your
tears? If you have not these ardent emotions, pray that he would
inspire them. I shall never cease to recommend you in my prayers, and
always beseech him to assist you in your design of dying holily. You
have quitted the world, and what object was worthy to detain you
there? Lift up your eyes always to him so whom you have consecrated
the rest of your days. Life upon this earth is misery. The very
necessities to which our body is subject here are matter of
affliction to a saint. _Lord,_ said the Royal Prophet, _deliver
me from my necessities_! They are wretched who do not know
themselves for such, and yet they are more wretched who know their
misery, and do not hate the corruption of the age. What fools are men
to engage themselves to earthly things! they will be undeceived one
day, and will know but too late how much they have been too blame in
loving such false good. Persons truly pious do not thus mistake, they
are disengaged from all sensual pleasures, and raise their desires to
heaven. Begin _Heloise_; put your design in execution without
delay; you have yet time enough to work out your salvation. Love
Christ, and despise yourself for his sake. He would possess your
heart, and be the sole object of your sighs and tears; seek for no
comfort but in him. If you do not free yourself from me, you will
fall with me; but if you quit me, and give up yourself to him, you
will be stedfast and immoveable. If you force the Lord to forsake
you, you will fall into distress; but if you be ever faithful to him,
you will always be in joy. Magdalen wept, as thinking the Lord had
forsaken her; but Martha said, See, the Lord calls you. Be diligent
in your duty, and obey faithfully the motions of his grace, and Jesus
will remain always with you.
Attend, _Heloise_, to some instructions I have to give you.
You are at the head of a society, and you know there is this
difference between those who lead a private life and such as are
charged with the conduct of others; that the first need only labour
for their own sanctification, and, in acquitting themselves of their
duties, are not obliged to practise all the virtues in such an
apparent manner; whereas they who have the conduct of others intruded
to them, ought by their example to engage them to do all the good
they are capable of in their condition. I beseech you to attend to
this truth, and so to follow it, as that your whole life may be a
perfect model of that of a religious recluse.
God, who heartily desires our salvation, hath made all the means
of it easy to us; In the _Old Testament_ he hath written in the
Tables of the Law what he requires of us, that we might not be
bewildered in seeking after his will. In the _New Testament_ he
hath written that law of grace in our hearts, to the intent that it
might be always present with us; and, knowing the weakness and
incapacity of our nature, he hath given us grace to perform his will;
and, as if this were not enough, he hath, at all times, in all dates
of the church, raised up men who, by their exemplary life, might
excite others to their duty. To effect this, he hath chosen persons
of every age, sex, and condition. Strive now to unite in yourself all
those virtues which have been scattered in these different states.
Have the purity of virgins, the austerity of anchorites, the zeal of
pastors and bishops, and the constancy of martyrs. Be exact in the
course of your whole life to fulfil the duties of a holy and
enlightened superior, and then death, which is commonly considered as
terrible, will appear agreeable to you.
_The death of his saints_, says the Prophet, _is precious
in the sight of the Lord._ Nor is it difficult to comprehend why
their death should have this advantage over that of sinners. I have
remarked three things which might have given the Prophet an occasion
of speaking thus. First, Their resignation to the will of God.
Secondly, The continuation of their good works. And, lastly, The
triumph they gain over the devil.
A saint, who has accustomed himself to submit to the will of God,
yields to death without reluctance. He waits with joy (says St.
Gregory) for the Judge who is to reward him; he fears not to quit
this miserable mortal life, in order to begin an immortal happy one.
It is not so with the sinner, says the same Father; he fears, and
with reason, he trembles, at the approach of the least sickness;
death is terrible to him, because he cannot bear the presence of an
offended Judge; and having so often abused the grace of God, he sees
no way to avoid the punishment due to his sins.
The saints have besides this advantage over sinners that having
made works of piety familiar to them during their life, they exercise
them without trouble, and having gained new strength against the
devil every time they overcome him, they will find themselves in a
condition at the hour of death to obtain that victory over him, on
which depends all eternity, and the blessed union of their souls with
their Creator.
I hope, _Heloise_, that after having deplored the
irregularities of your past life, you will die (as the Prophet
prayed) the death of the righteous. Ah! how few are there who make
their end after this manner! and why? It is because there are so few
who love the Cross of Christ. Every one would be saved, but few will
use those means which Religion prescribes. And yet we can be saved by
nothing but the Cross, why then do we refuse to bear it? Hath not our
Saviour borne it before us, and died for us, to the end that we might
also bear it and desire to die also? All the saints have been
afflicted; and our Saviour himself did not pass one hour of his life
without some sorrow. Hope not, therefore to be exempted from
sufferings. The Cross, _Heloise_, is always at hand, but take
care that you do not bear it with regret; for by so doing you will
make it more heavy, and you will be oppressed by it unprofitably. On
the contrary, if you bear it with affection and courage, all your
sufferings will create in you a holy confidence, whereby you will
find comfort in God. Hear our Saviour who says: "My child
renounce yourself, take up your cross and follow me." Oh,
_Heloise_! do you doubt? Is not your soul ravished at so saving
a command? are you deaf to his voice? are you insensible to words so
full of kindness? Beware, _Heloise_, of refusing a husband who
demands you, and is more to be feared, if you slight his affection,
than any profane lover. Provoked at your contempt and ingratitude, he
will turn his love into anger, and make you feel his vengeance, How
will you sustain his presence when you shall stand before his
tribunal? He will reproach you for having despised his grace; he will
represent to you his sufferings for you. What answer can you make? he
will then be implacable. He will say to you, Go, proud creature,
dwell in everlasting flames. I separated you from the world to purify
you in solitude, and you did not second my design; I endeavoured to
save you, and you took pains to destroy yourself; go wretch, and take
the portion of the reprobates.
Oh, _Heloise_, prevent these terrible words, and avoid by a
holy course, the punishment prepared for sinners. I dare not give you
a description of those dreadful torments which ere the consequences
of a life of guilt. I am filled with horror when they offer
themselves to my imagination: and yet _Heloise_ I can conceive
nothing which can reach the tortures of the damned. The fire which we
see upon earth is but the shadow of that which burns them; and
without enumerating their endless pains, the loss of God which they
feel increases all their torments. Can any one sin who is persuaded
of this? My God! can we dare to offend thee? Tho' the riches of thy
mercy could not engage us to love thee, the dread of being thrown
into such an abyss of misery would restrain us from doing any thing
which might displease thee?
I question not, _Heloise_, but you will hereafter apply
yourself in good earnest to the business of your salvation: this
ought to be your whole concern. Banish me, therefore, for ever from
your heart; it is the best advice I can give you: for the remembrance
of a person we have loved criminally cannot but be hurtful, whatever
advances we have made in the ways of virtue. When you have extirpated
your unhappy inclination towards me, the practice of every virtue
will become easy; and when at last your life is conformable to that
of Christ, death will be desireable to you. Your soul will joyfully
leave this body, and direct its flight to heaven. Then you will
appear with confidence before your Saviour. You will not read
characters of your reprobation written in the book of life; but you
will hear your Saviour say, Come, partake of my glory, and enjoy the
eternal reward I have appointed for those virtues you have practised.
Farewell _Heloise_. This is the last advice of your dear
_Abelard_; this is the last time, let me persuade you to follow
the holy rules of the Gospel. Heaven grant that your heart, once so
sensible of my love, may now yield to be directed by my zeal! May the
idea of your loving _Abelard_, always present to your mind, be
now changed into the image of _Abelard_ truly penitent! and may
you shed as many tears for your salvation as you have done during the
course of our misfortunes!
----------------
ELOISA to ABELARD
BY MR POPE.