Letters of Abelard and Heloise
not describe our transports, they were not long; for the first
news _Heloise_ acquainted me with plunged me in a thousand
distractions. A floating _delos_ was to be sought for, where she
might be safely delivered of a burthen she began already to feel.
Without losing much time in debating, I made her presently quit the
Canon's house, and at break of day depart for Britany; where, she
like another goddess, gave the world another Apollo, which my sister
took care of.
This carrying off _Heloise_ was sufficient revenge upon
Fulbert. It filled him with the deepest concern, and had like to have
deprived him of all the little share of wit which Heaven had allowed
him. His sorrow and lamentation gave the censorious an occasion of
suspecting him for something more than the uncle of _Heloise_.
In short, I began to pity his misfortune, and think this robbery
which love had made me commit was a sort of treason. I endeavoured to
appease his anger by a sincere confession of all that was past, and
by hearty engagements to marry _Heloise_ secretly. He gave me
his consent and with many protestations and embraces confirmed our
reconciliation. But what dependence can be made on the word of an
ignorant devotee. He was only plotting a cruel revenge, as you will
see by what follows.
I took a journey into Britany, in order to bring back my dear
_Heloise_, whom I now considered as my wife. When I had
acquainted her with what had passed between the Canon and me, I found
she was of a contrary opinion to me. She urged all that was possible
to divert me from marriage: that it was a bond always fatal to a
philosopher; that the cries of children, and cares of a family, were
utterly inconsistent with the tranquility and application which the
study of philosophy required. She quoted to me all that was written
on the subject by Theophrastus, Cicero, and, above all, insisted on
the unfortunate Socrates, who quitted life with joy, because by that
means he left Xantippe. Will it not be more agreeable to me, said
she, to see myself your mistress than your wife? and will not love
have more power than marriage to keep our hearts firmly united?
Pleasures tasted sparingly, and with difficulty, have always a higher
relish, while every thing, by being easy and common, grows flat and
insipid.
I was unmoved by all this reasoning. _Heloise_ prevailed upon
my sister to engage me. Lucille (for that was her name) taking me
aside one day, said, What do you intend, brother? Is it possible that
_Abelard_ should in earnest think of marrying _Heloise_?
She seems indeed to deserve a perpetual affection; beauty, youth, and
learning, all that can make a person valuble, meet in her. You may
adore all this if you please; but not to flatter you, what is beauty
but a flower, which may be blasted by the least fit of sickness? When
those features, with which you have been so captivated, shall be
sunk, and those graces lost, you will too late repent that you have
entangled yourself in a chain, from which death only can free you. I
shall see you reduced to the married man's only hope of survivorship.
Do you think learning ought to make _Heloise_ more amiable? I
know she is not one of those affected females who are continually
oppressing you with fine speeches, criticising books, and deciding
upon the merit of authors, When such a one is in the fury of her
discourse, husbands, friends, servants, all fly before her. _Heloise_
has not this fault; yet it is troublesome not to be at liberty to use
the least improper expression before a wife, that you bear with
pleasure from a mistress.
But you say, you are sure of the affections of _Heloise_ I
believe it; she has given you no ordinary proofs. But can you be sure
marriage will not be the tomb of her love? The name of Husband and
Master are always harsh, and _Heloise_ will not be the phenix
you now think her. Will she not be a woman? Come, come, the head of a
philosopher is less secure than those of other men. My sister grew
warm in the argument, and was going to give me a hundred more reasons
of this kind; but I angrily interrupted her, telling her only, that
she did not know _Heloise_.
A few days after, we departed together from Britany, and came to
Paris, where I completed my project. It was my intent my marriage
should be kept secret, and therefore _Heloise_ retired among the
nuns of Argenteuil.
I now thought Fulbert's anger disarmed; I lived in peace: but,
alas! our marriage proved but a weak defence against his revenge.
Observe, _Philintus_, to what a barbarity he pursued it! He
bribed my servants; an assassin came into my bed chamber by night
with a razor in his hand, and found me in a deep sleep. I suffered
the most shameful punishment that the revenge of an enemy could
invent; in short without losing my life, I lost my manhood. I was
punished indeed in the offending part; the desire was left me, but
not the possibility of satisfying the passion. So cruel an action
escaped not unpunished; the villain suffered the same infliction;
poor comfort for so irretrievable an evil; I confess to you, shame,
more than any sincere penitence; made me resolve to hide myself from
my _Heloise_. Jealousy took possession of my mind; at the very
expence of her happiness I decreed to disappoint all rivals. Before I
put myself in a cloister, I obliged her to take the habit, and
retire into the nunnery of Argenteuil. I remember somebody would have
opposed her making such a cruel sacrifice of herself, but she
answered in the words of Cornelia, after the death of Pompey the
Great;
"--O conjux, ego te scelereta peremi,
--Te fata extrema petente
Vita digna fui? Moriar----&c.
O my lov'd lord! our fatal marriage draws
On thee this doom, and I the guilty cause!
Then whilst thou go'st th' extremes
of Fate to prove,
I'll share that fate, and expiate thus my love."
Speaking these verses, she marched up to the altar, and took the
veil with a constancy which I could not have expected in a woman who
had so high a taste of pleasure which she might still enjoy. I
blushed at my own weakness; and without deliberating a moment longer,
I buried myself in a cloister, resolving to vanquish a fruitless
passion. I now reflected that God had chastised me thus grievously,
that he might save me from that destruction in which I had like to
have been swallowed up. In order to avoid idleness, the unhappy
incendiary of those criminal flames which had ruined me in the world,
I endeavoured in my retirement to put those talents to a good use
which I had before so much abused. I gave the novices rules of
divinity agreeable to the holy fathers and councils. In the mean
while, the enemies which my fame had raised up, and especially
Alberic and Lotulf, who after the death of their masters Champeaux
and Anselm affirmed the sovereignty of learning, began to attack me.
They loaded me with the falsest imputations, and, notwithstanding all
my defence, I had the mortification to see my books condemned by a
council and burnt. This was a cutting sorrow, and, believe me,
_Philintus_, the former calamity suffered by the cruelty of
Fulbert was nothing in comparison to this.
The affront I had newly received, and the scandalous debaucheries
of the monks, obliged me to banish myself, and retire near Nogent. I
lived in a desart, where I flattered myself I should avoid fame, and
be secure from the malice of my enemies. I was again deceived. The
desire of being taught by me, drew crowds of auditors even thither.
Many left the towns and their houses, and came and lived in tents;
for herbs, coarse fare, and hard lodging, they abandoned the
delicacies of a plentiful table and easy life. I looked like a
prophet in the wilderness attended by his disciples. My lectures were
perfectly clear from all that had been condemned. And happy had it
been if our solitude had been inaccessible to Envy! With the
considerable gratuities I received I built a chapel, and dedicated it
to the Holy Ghost, by the name of the Paraclete. The rage of my
enemies now awakened again, and forced me to quit this retreat. This
I did without much difficulty. But first the Bishop of Troies gave me
leave to establish there a nunnery, which I did, and committed the
care of it to my dear _Heloise_. When I had settled her here,
can you believe it, _Philintus_? I left her without taking any
leave. I did not wander long without settled habitation; for the Duke
of Britany, informed of my misfortunes, named me to the Abbey of
_Guildas_, where I now am, and where I now suffer every day
fresh persecutions.
I live in a barbarous country, the language of which I do not
understand. I have no conversation with the rudest people. My walks
are on the inaccessible shore of a sea which is perpetually stormy.
My monks are known by their dissoluteness, and living without rule or
order. Could you see the abbey _Philintus_, you would not call
it one. The doors and walls are without any ornament except the heads
of wild boars and hinds' feet, which are nailed up against them, and
the heads of frightful animals. The cells are hung with the skins of
deer. The monks have not so much as a bell to wake them; the cocks
and dogs supply that defect. In short, they pass their whole days in
hunting; would to Heaven that were their greatest fault, or that
their pleasures terminated there! I endeavour in vain to recall them
to their duty; they all combine against me, and I only expose myself
to continual vexations and dangers. I imagine that every moment a
naked sword hang over my head. Sometimes they surround me and load me
with infinite abuses; sometimes they abandon me, and I am left alone
to my own tormenting thoughts. I make it my endeavour to merit by my
sufferings, and to appease an angry God. Sometimes I grieve for the
house of the _Paraclete_, and wish to see it again. Ah,
_Philintus_! does not the love of _Heloise_ still burn in
my heart_?_ I have not yet triumphed over that happy passion. In
the midst of my retirement I sigh, I weep, I pine, I speak the dear
name of _Heloise_, pleased to hear the sound, I complain of the
severity of Heaven. But, oh! let us not deceive ourselves: I have not
made a right use of grace. I am thoroughly wretched. I have not yet
torn from my heart deep roots which vice has planted in it. For if my
conversion was sincere, how could I take a pleasure to relate my past
follies? Could I not more easily comfort myself in my afflictions?
Could I not turn to my advantage those words of God himself, _If
they have persecuted me, they will also persecute you; if the world
hate you, ye know that it hated me also_? Come _Philintus_,
let us make a strong effort, turn our misfortunes to our advantage,
make them meritorious, or at least wipe out our offences; let us
receive, without murmuring, what comes from the hand of God, and let
us not oppose our will to his. Adieu. I give you advice, which could
I myself follow, I should be happy.
LETTER II.
_HELOISE to ABELARD._
The foregoing Letter would probably not have produced any
others, if it had been delivered to the person to whom it was
directed; but falling by accident into _Heloise's_ hands, who
knew the character she opened it and read it; and by that means her
former passion being awakened, she immediately set herself to write
to her husband as follows.
*To her Lord, her Father; her Husband, her Brother; his
Servant his Child; his Wife, his Sister; and to express all that is
humble, respectful and loving to her _Abelard_, _Heloise_
writes this.
_Domino suo, imo Patri; Conjugi suo, imo Fratri;
Ancilla sua, imo Filia; ipsius Uxor, imo Soror; Abaelardo Heloisa,
&c. Abel. Op._
A consolatory letter of yours to a friend happened some days since