Letters of Abelard and Heloise
dear upon it? I have renounced without difficulty all the charms of
life, preserving only my love, and the secret pleasure of thinking
incessantly of you, and hearing that you live; and yet alas! you do
not live for me, and I dare not even flatter myself with the hopes
that I shall ever enjoy a sight of you more. This is the greatest of
my afflictions. Merciless Fortune! hast thou not persecuted me
enough? Thou dost not give me any respite? thou hast exhausted all
thy vengeance upon me, and reserved thyself nothing whereby thou
mayst appear terrible to others. Thou hast wearied thyself in
tormenting me, and others have nothing now to fear from thy anger.
But to what purpose dost thou still arm thyself against me? The
wounds I have already received leave no room for new ones; why cannot
I urge thee to kill me? or dost thou fear, amidst the numerous
torments thou heapest on me, dost thou fear that such a stroke would
deliver me from all? Therefore thou preservest me from death, in
order to make me die every moment.
Dear _Abelard_, pity my despair! Was ever any thing so
miserable! The higher you raised me above other women who envied me
your love, the more sensible am I now of the loss of your heart. I
was exalted to the top of happiness, only that I might have a more
terrible fall. Nothing could formerly be compared to my pleasures,
and nothing now can equal my misery. My glory once raised the envy of
my rivals; my present wretchedness moves the compassion of all that
see me. My fortune has been always in extremes, she has heaped on me
her most delightful favours, that she might load me with the greatest
of her afflictions. Ingenious in tormenting me, she has made the
memory of the joys I have lost, an inexhaustible spring of my tears.
Love, which possest was her greatest gift, being taken away,
occasions all my sorrow. In short, her malice has entirely succeeded,
and I find my present afflictions proportionably bitter as the
transports which charmed me were sweet.
But what aggravates my sufferings yet more, is, that we began to
be miserable at a time when we seemed the least to deserve it. While
we gave ourselves up to the enjoyment of a criminal love, nothing
opposed our vicious pleasures. But scarce had we retrenched what was
unlawful in our passion, and taken refuge in marriage against that
remorse which might have pursued us, but the whole wrath of heaven
fell on us in all its weight. But how barbarous was your punishment?
The very remembrance makes me shake with horror. Could an outrageous
husband make a villain suffer more that had dishonoured his bed? Ah!
What right had a cruel uncle over us? We were joined to each other
even before the altar, which should have protected you from the rage
of your enemies. Must a wife draw on you that punishment which ought
not to fall on any but an adulterous lover? Besides, we were
separated; you were busy in your exercises, and instructed a learned
auditory in mysteries which the greatest geniuses before you were not
able to penetrate; and I, in obedience to you, retired to a cloister.
I there spent whole days in thinking of you, and sometimes meditating
on holy lessons, to which I endeavoured to apply myself. In this very
juncture you became the victim of the most unhappy love. You alone
expiated the crime common to us both: You only were punished, though
both of us were guilty. You, who were least so, was the object of the
whole vengeance of a barbarous man. But why should I rave at your
assassins? I, wretched I, have ruined you, I have been the original
of all your misfortunes! Good Heaven! Why was I born to be the
occasion of so tragical an accident? How dangerous is it for a great
man to suffer himself to be moved by our sex! He ought from his
infancy to be inured to insensibility of heart, against all our
charms. _Hearken, my Son_, (said formerly the wisest of Men)
_attend and keep my instructions; if a beautiful woman by her
looks endeavour to intice thee, permit not thyself to be overcome by
a corrupt inclination; reject the poison she offers, and follow not
the paths which she directs. Her house is the gate of destruction and
death_. I have long examined things, and have found that death
itself is a less dangerous evil than beauty. 'Tis the shipwreck of
liberty, a fatal snare, from which it is impossible ever to get free.
'Twas woman which threw down the first man from that glorious
condition in which heaven had placed him. She who was created in
order to partake of his happiness, was the sole cause of his ruin.
How bright had been the glory, _Sampson_, if thy heart had been
as firm against the charms of _Dalilah_, as against the weapons
of the _Philistines_! A woman disarmed and betrayed thee, who
hadst been a glorious conqueror of armies. Thou saw'st thyself
delivered into the hands of they enemies; thou wast deprived of thy
eyes, those inlets of love into thy soul: distracted and despairing
didst thou die, without any consolation but that of involving thy
enemies in thy destruction. _Solomon_, that he might please
women, forsook the care of pleasing God. That king, whose wisdom
princes came from all parts to admire, he whom God had chose to build
him a temple, abandoned the worship of those very alters he had had
defended, and proceeded to such a pitch of folly as even to burn
incense to idols. _Job_ had no enemy more cruel than his wife:
what temptations did he not bear? The evil spirit, who had declared
himself his persecutor, employed a woman as an instrument to shake
his constancy; and the same evil spirit made _Heloise_ an
instrument to ruin _Abelard_! All the poor comfort I have is,
that I am not the voluntary cause of your misfortune. I have not
betrayed you; but my constancy and love have been destructive to you.
If I have committed a crime in having loved you with constancy, I
shall never be able to repent of that crime. Indeed I gave myself up
too much to the captivity of those soft errors into which my rising
passion seduced me. I have endeavoured to please you even at the
expence of my virtue, and therefore deserve those pains I feel. My
guilty transports could not but have a tragical end. As soon as I was
persuaded of your love, alas! I scarce delayed a moment, resigning
myself to all your protestations. To be beloved by _Abelard_
was, in my esteem, too much glory, and I too impatiently desired it
not to believe it immediately. I endeavoured at nothing but
convincing you of my utmost passion. I made no use of those defences
of disdain and honour; those enemies of pleasure which tyrannize over
our sex, made in me but a weak and unprofitable resistance. I
sacrificed all to my love, and I forced my duty to give place to the
ambition of making happy the most gallant and learned person of the
age. If any consideration had been able to stop me, it would have
been without doubt the interest of my love. I feared, lest having
nothing further for you to desire, your passion might become languid,
and you might seek for new pleasures in some new conquest. But it was
easy for you to cure me of a suspicion so opposite to my own
inclination. I ought to have forseen other more certain evils, and to
have considered, that the idea of lost enjoyments would be the
trouble of my whole life.
How happy should I be could I wash out with my tears the memory of
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