Letters of Abelard and Heloise
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