Letters of Abelard and Heloise
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.
My dear husband! (this is the last time I shall use that
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