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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Letters of Abelard and Heloise + +Author: Pierre Bayle + +Translator: John Hughes + +Release Date: April 27, 2011 [EBook #35977] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LETTERS OF ABELARD AND HELOISE *** + + + + +Produced by Jim Adcock. Special Thanks to the Internet Archive. + + + + + +</pre> + +<P ALIGN=CENTER><BR><BR> +</P> +<H1 ALIGN=CENTER><BR>LETTERS<BR>of<BR>Abelard and Heloise.</H1> +<P ALIGN=CENTER><BR><BR><BR><BR>LETTERS<BR>OF<BR>Abelard and +Heloise.<BR><BR>To which is prefix'd<BR>A PARTICULAR ACCOUNT<BR>OF +THEIR<BR><I>Lives, Amours, and Misfortunes.</I><BR>BY THE LATE JOHN +HUGHES, ESQ.<BR>Together with the<BR><I>POEM OF ELOISA TO ABELARD.</I><BR>BY +MR. POPE.<BR>And, (to which is now added) the<BR><I>POEM OF ABELARD +TO ELOISA,</I><BR>BY MRS. MADAN.<BR><BR>——————<BR><BR>LONDON:<BR><BR>Printed +for W. OSBORNE, and T. GRIFFIN in<BR>Holborn, and J. MOZLEY, in +Gainsborough.<BR><BR>MDCCLXXXII.</P> +<P><BR><BR> +</P> +<P><BR><BR> +</P> +<A NAME="start"></A> +<H2 ALIGN=CENTER>PREFACE +</H2> +<P>It is very surprising that the <I>Letters of Abelard and Heloise</I> +have not sooner appeared in English, since it is generally allowed, +by all who have seen them in other languages, that they are written +with the greatest passion of any in this kind which are extant. And +it is certain that the <I>Letters from a Nun to a Cavalier</I>, which +have so long been known and admired among us, are in all respects +inferior to them. Whatever those were, these are known to be genuine +Pieces occasioned by an amour which had very extraordinary +consequences, and made a great noise at the time when it happened, +being between two of the most distinguished Persons of that age.</P> +<P>These <I>Letters</I>, therefore, being truly written by the +Persons themselves, whose names they bear, and who were both +remarkable for their genius and learning, as well as by a most +extravagant passion for each other, are every where full of +sentiments of the heart, (which are not to be imitated in a feigned +story,) and touches of Nature, much more moving than any which could +flow from the Pen of a Writer of Novels, or enter into the +imagination of any who had not felt the like emotions and distresses. +</P> +<P>They were originally written in Latin, and are extant in a +Collection of the Works of <I>Abelard</I>, printed at Paris in the +year 1616. With what elegance and beauty of stile they were written +in that language, will sufficiently appear to the learned Reader, +even by those few citations which are set at the bottom of the page +in some places of the following history. But the Book here mentioned +consisting chiefly of school-divinity, and the learning of those +times, and therefore being rarely to be met with but in public +libraries, and in the hands of some learned men, the Letters of +<I>Abelard</I> and <I>Heloise</I> are much more known by a +Translation, or rather Paraphrase of them, in French, first published +at the Hague in 1693, and which afterwards received several other +more complete Editions. This Translation is much applauded, but who +was the Author of it is not certainly known. Monsieur Bayle says he +had been informed it was done by a woman; and, perhaps, he thought no +one besides could have entered so thoroughly into the passion and +tenderness of such writings, for which that sex seems to have a more +natural disposition than the other. This may be judged of by the +Letters themselves, among which those of <I>Heloise</I> are the most +moving, and the Master seems in this particular to have been excelled +by the Scholar. +</P> +<P>In some of the later Editions in French, there has been prefixed +to the Letters an Historical Account of <I>Abelard</I> and <I>Heloise</I>; +this is chiefly extracted from the Preface of the Editor of <I>Abelard's</I> +Works in Latin, and from the <I>Critical Dictionary</I> of Monsieur +Bayle*, who has put together, under several articles, all the +particulars he was able to collect concerning these two famous +Persons; and though the first Letter of <I>Abelard to Philintus</I>, +in which he relates his own story, may seem to have rendered this +account in part unnecessary; yet the Reader will not be displeased to +see the thread of the relation entire, and continued to the death of +the Persons whose misfortunes had made their lives so very +remarkable. +</P><BR> +<P>* <I>Vide Artic</I>. Abelard, Heloise, Foulques, <I>and</I> +Paraclete +</P><BR> +<P>It is indeed impossible to be unmoved at the surprising and +multiplied afflictions and persecutions which befel a man of +<I>Abelard's</I> fine genius, when we see them so feelingly described +by his own hand. Many of these were owing to the malice of such as +were his enemies on the account of his superior learning and merit; +yet the great calamities of his life took their rise from his unhappy +indulgence of a criminal passion, and giving himself a loose to +unwarrantable pleasures. After this he was perpetually involved in +sorrow and distress, and in vain sought for ease and quiet in a +monastic life. The <I>Letters</I> between him and his beloved <I>Heloise</I> +were not written till long after their marriage and separation, and +when each of them was dedicated to a life of religion. Accordingly we +find in them surprising mixtures of devotion and tenderness, and +remaining frailty, and a lively picture of human nature in its +contrarieties of passion and reason, its infirmities, and its +sufferings. +</P> +<P><BR><BR> +</P> +<A NAME="TOC"></A> +<H2 ALIGN=CENTER>CONTENTS. +</H2> +<DIV ALIGN=CENTER><BR><BR> +</DIV> +<DIV ALIGN=CENTER><A HREF="#a_HIS" NAME="a_sub_HIS">The History of +Abelard and Heloise</A></DIV><BR> +<DIV ALIGN=CENTER><A HREF="#a_LET" NAME="a_sub_LET">LETTERS.</A></DIV><BR> +<DIV ALIGN=CENTER><A HREF="#a_CHI" NAME="a_sub_CHI">I. Abelard to +Philintus.</A></DIV><BR> +<DIV ALIGN=CENTER><A HREF="#a_CHII" NAME="a_sub_CHII">II. Heloise to +Abelard.</A></DIV><BR> +<DIV ALIGN=CENTER><A HREF="#a_CHIII" NAME="a_sub_CHIII">III. Abelard +to Heloise.</A></DIV><BR> +<DIV ALIGN=CENTER><A HREF="#a_CHIV" NAME="a_sub_CHIV">IV. Heloise to +Abelard.</A></DIV><BR> +<DIV ALIGN=CENTER><A HREF="#a_CHV" NAME="a_sub_CHV">V. Heloise to +Abelard.</A></DIV><BR> +<DIV ALIGN=CENTER><A HREF="#a_CHVI" NAME="a_sub_CHVI">VI. Abelard to +Heloise.</A></DIV><BR> +<DIV ALIGN=CENTER><A HREF="#a_CHVII" NAME="a_sub_CHVII">VII. Eloisa to +Abelard. A poem. by Mr. Pope.</A></DIV><BR> +<DIV ALIGN=CENTER><A HREF="#a_CHVIII" NAME="a_sub_CHVIII">VIII. +Abelard to Eloisa. A poem. by Mrs. Madan.</A></DIV> +<P><BR><BR><BR><BR> +</P> +<H2 ALIGN=CENTER><A NAME="a_HIS"></A>The History of Abelard and +Heloise</H2> +<P><BR><BR> +</P> +<P><I>Peter Abelard</I> was born in the village of Palais in Britany. +He lived in the twelfth century, in the reigns of <I>Louis the Gross</I>, +and <I>Louis the Young</I>. His Father's name was <I>Beranger</I>, a +gentleman of a considerable and wealthy family. He took care to give +his children a liberal and pious education, especially his eldest son +<I>Peter</I>, on whom he endeavoured to bestow all possible +improvements, because there appeared in him an extraordinary vivacity +of wit joined with sweetness of temper, and all imaginable presages +of a great man. +</P> +<P>When he had made some advancement in learning, he grew so fond of +his books, that, lest affairs of the world might interrupt his +proficiency in them, he quitted his birthright to his younger +brothers, and applied himself entirely to the studies of Philosophy +and Divinity. +</P> +<P>Of all the sciences to which he applied himself, that which +pleased him most, and in which he made the greatest progress, was +Logick. He had a very subtile wit, and was incessantly whetting it by +disputes, out of a restless ambition to be master of his weapons. So +that in a short time he gained the reputation of the greatest +philosopher of his age; and has always been esteemed the founder of +what we call the <I>Learning of the Schoolmen</I>. +</P> +<P>He finished his studies at Paris, where learning was then in a +flourishing condition. In this city he found that famous professor of +philosophy William des Champeaux, and soon became his favourite +scholar; but this did not last long. The professor was so hard put to +it to answer the subtle objections of his new scholar, that he grew +uneasy with him. The school soon run into parties. The senior +scholars, transported with envy against <I>Abelard</I>, seconded +their master's resentment. All this served only to increase the young +man's presumption, who now thought himself sufficiently qualified to +set up a school of his own. For this purpose he chose an advantageous +place, which was the town of Melun, ten leagues from Paris, where the +French court resided at that time. Champeaux did all that he could to +hinder the erecting of this school; but some of the great courtiers +being his enemies, the opposition he made to it only promoted the +design of his rival. +</P> +<P>The reputation of this new professor made a marvellous progress, +and eclipsed that of Champeaux. These successes swelled <I>Abelard</I> +so much that he removed his school to Corbeil, in order to engage his +enemy the more closer in more frequent disputations. But his +excessive application to study brought upon him a long and dangerous +sickness, which constrained him to return to his own native air. +</P> +<P>After he had spent two years in his own country he made a second +adventure to Paris, where he found that his old antagonist Champeaux +had resigned his chair to another, and was retired into a convent of +Canons Regular, among whom he continued his lectures. <I>Abelard</I> +attacked him with such fury, that he quickly forced him to renounce +his tenets. Whereupon the poor monk became so despicable, and his +antagonist in such great esteem, that nobody went to the lectures of +Champeaux, and the very man who succeeded him in his professorship, +listed under <I>Abelard</I>, and became his scholar. +</P> +<P>He was scarce fixed in his chair before he found himself exposed +more than ever to the strokes of the most cruel envy. Endeavours were +used to do him ill offices by all those who were any ways disaffected +to him. Another professor was put into his place, who had thought it +his duty to submit to <I>Abelard</I>, in short so many enemies were +raised against him that he was forced to retreat from Paris to Melun, +and there revived his logick lectures. But this held not long; for +hearing that Champeaux with all his infantry was retired into a +country village, he came and posted himself on mount St. Genevieve, +where he erected a new school, like a kind of battery against him +whom Champeaux had left to teach at Paris. +</P> +<P>Champeaux understanding that his substitute was thus besieged in +his school, brought the Regular Canons attack again to their +monastery. But this, instead of relieving his friend, caused all his +scholars to desert him. At which the poor philosopher was so +mortified, that he followed the example of his patron Champeaux, and +turned monk too. +</P> +<P>The dispute now lay wholly between Abelard and Champeaux, who +renewed it with great warmth on both sides; but the senior had not +the best on't. While it was depending, <I>Abelard</I> was obliged to +visit his father and mother, who, according to the fashion of those +times, had resolved to forsake the world, and retire into convents, +in order to devote themselves more seriously to the care of their +salvation. +</P> +<P>Having assisted at the admission of his parents into their +respective monasteries and received their blessing, he returned to +Paris, where during his absence, his rival had been promoted to the +bishoprick of Chalons. And now being in a condition to quit his +school without any suspicions of flying from his enemy, he resolved +to apply himself wholly to Divinity. +</P> +<P>To this end he removed to Laon, where one <I>Anselm</I> read +divinity-lectures with good reputation. But <I>Abelard</I> was so +little satisfied with the old man's abilities, who has he says, had a +very mean genius, and a great fluency of words without sense, that he +took a resolution for the future to hear no other master than the +Holy Scriptures. A good resolution! if a man takes the Spirit of God +for his guide, and be more concerned to distinguish truth from +falsehood, than to confirm himself in those principles into which +his, own fancy or complexion, or the prejudices of his birth and +education, have insensibly led him. +</P> +<P><I>Abelard</I>, together with the Holy Scriptures, read the +ancient fathers and doctors of the church, in which he spent whole +days and nights, and profited so well, that instead of returning to +<I>Anselm's</I> lectures, he took up the same employment, and began +to explain the Prophet <I>Ezekiel</I> to some of his fellow-pupils. +He performed this part so agreeably; and in so easy a method that he +soon got a crowd of auditors. +</P> +<P>The jealous <I>Anselm</I> could not bear this; he quickly found +means to get the lecturer silenced. Upon this <I>Abelard</I> removed +to Paris once more, where he proceeded with his public exposition on +Ezekiel, and soon acquired the same reputation for his divinity he +had before gained for his philosophy. His eloquence and learning +procured him an incredible number of scholars from all parts; so that +if he had minded saving of money, he might have grown rich with ease +in a short time. And happy had it been for him, if, among all the +enemies his learning exposed him to, he had guarded his heart against +the charms of love. But, alas! the greatest doctors are not always +the wisest men, as appears from examples in every age; but from none +more remarkable than that of this learned man, whose story I am now +going to tell you. +</P> +<P><I>Abelard</I>, besides his uncommon merit as a scholar, had all +the accomplishments of a gentleman. He had a greatness of soul which +nothing could shock; his passions were delicate, his judgment solid, +and his taste exquisite. He was of a graceful person, and carried +himself with the air of a man of quality. His conversation was sweet, +complaisant, easy, and gentleman-like. It seemed as tho' Nature had +designed him for a more elevated employment than that of teaching the +sciences. He looked upon riches and grandeur with contempt, and had +no higher ambition than to make his name famous among learned men, +and to be reputed the greatest doctor of his age: but he had human +frailty, and all his philosophy could not guard him from the attacks +of love. For some time indeed, he had defended himself against this +passion pretty well, when the temptation was but slight; but upon a +more intimate familiarity with such agreeable objects, he found his +reason fail him: yet in respect to his wisdom, he thought of +compounding the matter and resolved at first, that love and +philosophy should dwell together in the same breast. He intended only +to let out his heart to the former, and that but for a little while; +never considering that love is a great ruiner of projects; and that +when it has once got a share in a heart, it is easy to possess itself +of the whole. +</P> +<P>He was now in the seven or eight and twentieth year of his age, +when he thought himself completely happy in all respects, excepting +that he wanted a mistress. He considered therefore of making a +choice, but such a one as might be most suitable to his notions, and +the design he had of passing agreeably those hours he did not employ +in his study. He had several ladies in his eye, to whom as he says in +one of his <I>Letters</I>, he could easily have recommended himself. +For you must understand, that besides his qualifications mentioned +before, he had a vein of poetry, and made abundance of little easy +songs, which he would sing with all the advantage of a gallant air +and pleasant voice. But tho' he was cut out for a lover, he was not +over-hasty in determining his choice. He was not of a humour to be +pleased with the wanton or forward; he scorned easy pleasures, and +sought to encounter with difficulties and impediments, that he might +conquer with the greater glory. In short, he had not yet seen the +woman he was to love. +</P> +<P>Not far from the place where <I>Abelard</I> read his lectures +lived one <I>Doctor Fulbert</I>, a canon of the church of Notre-Dame. +This canon had a niece named <I>Heloise</I> in his house whom he +educated with great care and affection. Some writers say*, that she +was the good man's natural daughter; but that, to prevent a public +scandal, he gave out that she was his niece by his sister, who upon +her death-bed had charged him with her education. But though it was +well known in those times, as well as since, that the niece of an +ecclesiastick is sometimes more nearly related to him, yet of this +damsel’s birth and parentage we have nothing very certain. +There is reason to think, from one of her <I>Letters to Abelard</I>, +that she came of a mean family; for she owns that great honour was +done to her side by this alliance, and that he married much below +himself. So that what Francis d'Amboise says, that she was of the +name and family of Montmorency has no manner of foundation. It is +very probable she was really and truly Fulbert's niece, as he +affirmed her to be. Whatever she was for birth, she was a very +engaging woman; and if she was not a perfect beauty, she appeared +such at least in <I>Abelard's</I> eyes. Her person was well +proportioned, her features regular, her eyes sparkling, her lips +vermillion and well formed, her complexion animated, her air fine, +and her aspect sweet and agreeable. She had a surprising quickness of +wit, an incredible memory, and a considerable share of learning, +joined with humility; and all these accomplishments were attended +with something so graceful and moving, that it was impossible for +those who kept her company not to be in love with her. +</P><BR> +<P>* Papyr. Maffo. Annal. 1. 3. <I>Joannes Canonicus Pariflus, +Heloysiam naturalem filiam habehat prastanti ingenio formaque.</I> +</P><BR> +<P>As soon as <I>Abelard</I> had seen her, and conversed with her, +the charms of her wit and beauty made such an impression upon his +heart, that he presently conceived a most violent passion for her, +and resolved to make it his whole endeavour to win her affections. +And now, he that formerly quitted his patrimony to pursue his +studies, laid aside all other engagements to attend his new passion. +</P> +<P>In vain did Philosophy and Reason importune him to return; he was +deaf to their call, and thought of nothing but how to enjoy the sight +and company of his dear <I>Heloise</I>. And he soon met with the +luckiest opportunity in the world. Fulbert who had the greatest +affection imaginable for his niece, finding her to have a good share +of natural wit, and a particular genius for learning, thought himself +obliged to improve the talents which Nature had so liberally bestowed +on her. He had already put her to learn several languages, which she +quickly came to understand so well, that her fame began to spread +itself abroad, and the wit and learning of <I>Heloise</I> was every +where discoursed of. And though her uncle for his own share was no +great scholar, he was very felicitous that his niece should have all +possible improvements. He was willing, therefore, she should have +masters to instruct her in what she had a mind to learn: but he loved +his money, and this kept him from providing for her education so well +as she desired. +</P> +<P><I>Abelard</I>, who knew <I>Heloise's</I> inclinations, and the +temper of her uncle, thought this an opportunity favourable to his +design. He was already well acquainted with Fulbert, as being his +brother canon in the same church; and he observed how fond the other +was of his friendship, and what an honour he esteemed it to be +intimate with a person of his reputation. He therefore told him one +day in familiarity, that he was at a loss for some house to board in; +and if you could find room for me, said he, in yours, I leave to you +name the terms. +</P> +<P>The good man immediately considering that by this means he should +provide an able master for his niece who, instead of taking money of +him, offered to provide him well for his board, embraced his proposal +with the joy imaginable, gave him a thousand caresses, and desired he +would consider him for the future as one ambitious of the strictest +friendship with him. +</P> +<P>What an unspeakable joy was this to the amorous <I>Abelard</I>! to +consider that he was going to live with her, who was the only object +of his desires! that he should have the opportunity of seeing and +conversing with her every day, and of acquainting her with his +passion! However, he concealed his joy at present lest he should make +his intention suspected. We told you before how liberal Nature had +been to our lover in making his person every way so agreeable; so +that he flattered himself that it was almost impossible * that any +woman should reject his addresses. Perhaps he was mistaken: the sex +has variety of humour. However, consider him as a philosopher who had +therto lived in a strict chastity †, he certainly reasoned +well in the business of love; when he concluded that <I>Heloise</I> +would be an easier conquest to him than others because her learning +gave him an opportunity of establishing a correspondence by letters, +in which he might discover his passion with greater freedom than he +dared presume to use in conversation. +</P><BR> +<P>* <I>Tanti quippe tune nominis eram & juventutis & forma +gratia praeminebam, ut quamcunque foeminartn nostre dignarer amore +nullam verer repulsam.</I> 1 Epist. Abel. p. 10. Abel. +</P><BR> +<P>† <I>Froena libidini +coepi laxare, qui antea viveram continantissime.</I> Ibid. +</P><BR> +<P>Some time after the Canon had taken <I>Abelard</I> into his own +house, as they were discoursing one day about things somewhat above +Fulbert's capacity, the latter turned the discourse insensibly to the +good qualities of his niece; he informed <I>Abelard</I> of the +excellency of her wit, and how strong a propensity she had to improve +in learning; and withal made it his earnest request, that he would +take the pains to instruct her. <I>Abelard</I> pretended to be +surprised at a proposal of this nature. He told him that learning was +not the proper business of women; that such inclinations in them had +more of humour or curiosity than a solid desire of knowledge; and +could hardly pass, among either the learned or ignorant, without +drawing upon them the imputation of conceit and affectation. Fulbert +answered, that this was very true of women of common capacities; but +he hoped, when he had discoursed with his niece, and found what +progress she had made already, and what a capacity she had for +learning, he would be of another opinion. <I>Abelard</I> assured him, +he was ready to do all he could for her improvement, and if she was +not like other women, who hate to learn any thing beyond their +needle, he would spare no pains to make <I>Heloise</I> answer the +hopes which her uncle had conceived of her. +</P> +<P>The canon was transported with the civility of the young doctor; +he returned him thanks, and protested he could not do him a more +acceptable service than to assist his niece in her endeavours to +learn; he therefore entreated him once more to set apart some of his +time, which he did not employ in public, for this purpose: and, (as +if he had known his designed intrigue, and was willing to promote it) +he committed her entirely to his care, and begged of him to treat her +with the authority of a master; not only to chide her, but even to +correct her whenever she was guilty of any neglect or disobedience to +his commands. +</P> +<P>Fulbert, in this, showed a simplicity without example but the +affection which he had for his niece was so blind, and <I>Abelard</I> +had so well established his reputation for wisdom, that the uncle +never scrupled in the least to trust them together, and thought he +had all the security in the world for their virtue. <I>Abelard</I> +you may be sure, made use of the freedom which was given him. He saw +his beautiful creature every hour, he set her lessons every day, and +was extremely pleased to see what proficiency she made. <I>Heloise</I>, +for her part, was so taken with her master, that she liked nothing so +well as what she learned from him; and the master was charmed with +that quickness of apprehension with which his scholar learned the +most difficult lessons. But he did not intend to stop here. He knew +so well how to insinuate into the affections of this young person, he +gave her such plain intimations of what was in his heart and spoke so +agreeably of the passion which he had conceived for her, that he had +the satisfaction of seeing himself well understood. It is no +difficult matter to make a girl of eighteen in love; and <I>Abelard</I> +having so much wit and agreeable humour, must needs make a greater +progress in her affections than she did in the lessons which he +taught her; so that in a short time she fell so much in love with +him, that she could deny him nothing. +</P> +<P>Fulbert had a country-house at Corbeil, to which the lovers often +resorted, under pretence of applying themselves more closely to their +studies: there they conversed freely and gave themselves up entirely +to the pleasure of a mutual passion. They took advantage of that +privacy which study and contemplation require without subjecting +themselves to the censure of those who observed it. +</P> +<P>In this retirement <I>Abelard</I> owns that more time was employ'd +in soft caresses than in lectures of philosophy. Sometimes he +pretended to use the severity of a master; the better to deceive such +as might be spies upon them, he exclaimed against <I>Heloise</I>, and +reproached her for her negligence. But how different were his menaces +from those which are inspired by anger! +</P> +<P>Never did two lovers give a greater loose to their delights than +did these two for five or six months; they lived in all the +endearments which could enter into the hearts of young beginners. +This is <I>Abelard's</I> own account of the matter. He compares +himself to such as have been long kept in a starving condition, and +at last are brought to a feast. A grave and studious man exceeds a +debauchee in his enjoyments of a woman whom he loves and of whom he +is passionately beloved. +</P> +<P><I>Abelard</I> being thus enchanted with the caresses of his +mistress, neglected all his serious and important affairs. His +performances in public were wretched. His scholars perceived it, and +soon guessed the reason. His head was turned to nothing but amorous +verses. His school was his aversion, and he spent as little time in +it as he could. As for his lectures they were commonly the old ones +served up again: the night was wholly lost from his studies; and his +leisure was employed in writing songs, which were dispersed and sung +in diverse provinces of France many years after. In short our lovers, +who were in their own opinion the happiest pair in the world, kept so +little guard, that their amours were every where talked of, and all +the world saw plainly that the sciences were not always the subject +of their conversation. Only honest Fulbert, under whose nose all this +was done, was the last man that heard any thing of it; he wanted eyes +to see that which was visible to all the world; and if any body went +about to tell him of it, he was prepossessed with so good an opinion +of his niece and her master, that he would believe nothing against +them. +</P> +<P>But at last so many discoveries were daily made to him, that he +could not help believing something; he therefore resolved to separate +them, and by that means prevent the ill consequences of their too +great familiarity. However, he thought it best to convict them +himself, before he proceeded further; and therefore watched them so +closely, that he had one day an opportunity of receiving ocular +satisfaction that the reports he had heard were true. In short he +surprised them together. And though he was naturally cholerick, yet +he appeared so moderate on this occasion as to leave them under +dismal apprehensions of something worse to come after. The result +was, that they must be parted. +</P> +<P>Who can express the torment our lovers felt upon this separation! +However, it served only to unite their hearts more firmly; they were +but the more eager to see one another. Difficulties increased their +desires, and put them upon any attempts without regarding what might +be the consequence. <I>Abelard</I> finding it impossible to live +without his dear <I>Heloise</I>, endeavoured to settle a +correspondence with her by her maid Agaton, who was a handsome brown +girl, well shaped, and likely enough to have pleased a man who was +not otherwise engaged. But what a surprise was it to our Doctor, to +find this girl refuse his money, and in recompence of the services +she was to do him with his mistress, demanded no less a reward than +his heart, and making him at once a plain declaration of love! +<I>Abelard</I> who could love none but <I>Heloise</I>, turned from +her abruptly, without answering a word. But a rejected woman is a +dangerous creature. Agaton knew well how to revenge the affront put +upon her, and failed not to acquaint Fulbert with <I>Abelard's</I> +offers to her, without saying a word how she had been disobliged. +Fulbert thought it was time to look about him. He thanked the maid +for her care, and entered into measures with her, how to keep <I>Abelard</I> +from visiting his niece. +</P> +<P>The Doctor was now more perplexed than ever: he had no ways left +but to apply himself to <I>Heloise's</I> singing-master; and the gold +which the maid refused prevailed with him. By this means <I>Abelard</I> +conveyed a letter to <I>Heloise</I>, in which he told her, that he +intended to come and see her at night, and that the way he had +contrived was over the garden-wall by a ladder of cords. This project +succeeded, and brought them together. After the first transports of +this short interview, <I>Heloise</I>, who had found some more than +ordinary symptoms within her, acquainted her lover with it. She had +informed him of it before by a letter; and now having this +opportunity to consult about it; they agreed that she should go to a +sister of his in Britany, at whose house she might be privately +brought to bed. But before they parted, he endeavored to comfort her, +and make her easy in this distress, by giving her assurances of +marriage. When <I>Heloise</I> heard this proposal she peremptorily +rejected it, and gave such reasons * for her refusal, as left <I>Abelard</I> +in the greatest astonishment. +</P><BR> +<P>* See <I>Abelard's</I> letter to <I>Philintus</I>, and <I>Heloise's</I> +first <I>Letter to Abelard</I>. +</P><BR> +<P>Indeed a refusal of this nature is so extraordinary a thing, that +perhaps another instance of it is not to be found in history. I +persuade myself, therefore, that I shall not offend my reader, if I +make some few remarks upon it. It often happens, that the passion of +love stifles or over-rules the rebukes of conscience; but it is +unusual for it to extinguish the sensibility of honour. I don't speak +of persons of mean birth and no education; but for others, all young +women, I suppose, who engage in love-intrigues, flatter themselves +with one of these views; either they hope they shall not prove with +child, or they shall conceal it from the world, or they shall get +themselves married. As for such as resolve to destroy the fruit of +their amours, there are but few so void of all natural affections as +to be capable of this greatest degree of barbarity. However, this +shows plainly, that if Love tyrannizes sometimes, it is such a tyrant +as leaves honour in possession of its rights. But <I>Heloise</I> had +a passion so strong, that she was not at all concerned for her honour +or reputation. She was overjoyed to find herself with child, and yet +she did her utmost not to be married. Never fore was so odd an +example as these two things made when put together. The first was +very extraordinary; and how many young women in the world would +rather be married to a disagreeable husband than live in a state of +reproach? They know the remedy is bad enough, and will cost them +dear; but what signifies that, so long as the name of husband hides +the flaws made in their honour? But as for <I>Heloise</I>, she was +not so nice in this point. An excess of passion, never heard of +before, made her chuse to be <I>Abelard's</I> mistress rather than +his wife. We shall see, in the course of this history, how firm she +was in this resolution, with what arguments she supported it, and how +earnestly she persuaded her gallant to be of the same mind. +</P> +<P><I>Abelard</I>, who was willing to lose no time, least his dear +<I>Heloise</I> should fall into her uncle's hands, disguised her in +the habit of a nun, and sent her away with the greatest dispatch, +hoping that after she was brought to bed, he should have more leisure +to persuade her to marriage, by which they might screen themselves +from the reproach which must otherwise come upon them, as soon as the +business should be publickly known. +</P> +<P>As soon as <I>Heloise</I> was set forward on her journey, <I>Abelard</I> +resolved to make Fulbert a visit in order to appease him, if +possible, and prevent the ill effects of his just indignation. +</P> +<P>The news that <I>Heloise</I> was privately withdrawn soon made a +great noise in the neighbourhood; and reaching Fulbert's ears, filled +him with grief and melancholy. Besides, that he had a very tender +affection for his niece, and could not live without her, he had the +utmost resentment of the affront which <I>Abelard</I> had put upon +him, by abusing the freedom he had allowed him. This fired him with +such implacable fury, as in the end fell heavy upon our poor lovers, +and had very dreadful consequences. +</P> +<P>When Fulbert saw <I>Abelard</I>, and heard from him the reason why +<I>Heloise</I> was withdrawn, never was man in such a passion. He +abandoned himself to the utmost distractions of rage, despair, and +thirst of revenge. All the affronts, reproaches, and menaces that +could be thought of, were heaped upon <I>Abelard</I>; who was, poor +man, very passive, and ready to make the Canon all the satisfaction +he was able. He gave him leave to say what he pleased; and when he +saw that he tired himself with exclaiming, he took up the discourse, +and ingenuously confess'd his crime. Then he had recourse to all the +prayers, submissions, and promises, he could invent; and begged of +him to consider the force of Love, and what foils this tyrant has +given to the greatest men: that the occasion of the present +misfortunes was the most violent passion that ever was; that this +passion continued still; and that he was ready to give both him and +his niece all the satisfaction which this sort of injury required. +Will you marry her then? said Fulbert, interrupting him. Yes, replied +<I>Abelard</I>, if you please, and she will consent. If I please! +said the Canon, pausing a little; if she will consent! And do you +question either? Upon this he was going to offer him his reasons, +after his hasty way, why they should be married: But <I>Abelard</I> +entreated him to suppress his passion a while, and hear what he had +to offer: which was, that their marriage might for some time be kept +secret. No, says the Canon, the dishonor you have done my niece is +public, and the reparation you make her shall be so too, But <I>Abelard</I> +told him, that since they were to be one family, he hoped he would +consider his interest as his own. At last after a great many +intreaties, Fulbert seemed content it should be as <I>Abelard</I> +desired; that he should marry <I>Heloise</I> after she was brought to +bed, and that in the mean time the business should be kept secret. +</P> +<P><I>Abelard</I>, having given his scholars a vacation, returned +into Britany to visit his designed spouse, and to acquaint her with +what had passed. She was not at all concerned at her uncle's +displeasure; but that which troubled her was, the resolution which +she saw her lover had taken to marry her, She endeavoured to dissuade +him from it with all the arguments she could think of. She begun with +representing to him the wrong he did himself in thinking of marriage: +that as she never loved him but for his own sake, she preferred his +glory, reputation, and interest, before her own. I know my uncle, +said she, will never be pacified with any thing we can do, and what +honour shall I get by being your wife, when at the same time I +certainly ruin your reputation? What curse may I not justly fear, +should I rob the world of so eminent a person as you are? What an +injury shall I do the Church? how much shall I disoblige the learned? +and what a shame and disparagement will it be to you, whom Nature has +fitted for the public good, to devote yourself entirely to a wife? +Remember what St. <I>Paul</I> says, <I>Art thou loosed from a wife? +seek not a wife.</I> If neither this great man, not the fathers of +the church, can make you change your resolution, consider at least +what your philosophers say of it. Socrates has proved, by many +arguments, that a wife man ought not to marry. Tully put away his +wife Terentia; and when Hircius offered him his sister in marriage he +told him, he desired to be excused, because he could never bring +himself to divide his thoughts between his books and his wife. In +short, said she, how can the study of divinity and philosophy comport +with the cries of children, the songs of nurses, and all the hurry of +a family? What an odd fight will it be to see maids and scholars, +desks and cradles, books and distaffs, pens and spindles, one among +another? Those who are rich are never disturbed with the care and +charges of housekeeping; but with you scholars it is far otherwise*. +</P><BR> +<P>* <I>Heloissa dehortabat me nuptiis. Nuptia non conveniunt cum +philosophia</I>, &c. Oper. Abel. p 14. +</P><BR> +<P>He that will get an estate must mind the affairs of the world, and +consequently is taken off from the study of divinity and philosophy. +Observe the conduct of the wife Pagans in this point, who preferred a +single life before marriage, and be ashamed that you cannot come up +to them. Be more careful to maintain the character and dignity of a +philosopher. Don't you know, that there is no action of life which +draws after it so sure and long a repentance, and to so little +purpose? You fancy to yourself the enjoyments you shall have in being +bound to me by a bond which nothing but death can break: but know +there is no such thing as sweet chains; and there is a thousand times +more glory, honour, and pleasure, in keeping firm to an union which +love alone has established, which is supported by mutual esteem and +merit, and which owes its continuance to nothing but the satisfaction +of seeing each other free. Shall the laws and customs which the gross +and carnal world has invented hold us together more surely than the +bonds of mutual affection? Take my word for it, you'll see me too +often when you see me ev'ry day: you'll have no value for my love nor +favours when they are due to you, and cost you no care. Perhaps you +don't think of all this at present; but you'll think of nothing else +when it will be too late. I don't take notice what the world will +say, to see a man in your circumstances get him a wife, and so throw +away your reputation, your fortune and your quiet. In short, +continued she, the quality of mistress is a hundred times more +pleasing to me than that of a wife. Custom indeed, has given a +dignity to this latter name, and we are imposed upon by it; but +Heaven is my witness, I had rather be <I>Abelard's</I> mistress than +lawful wife to the Emperor of the whole world. I am very sure I shall +always prefer your advantage and satisfaction before my own honour, +and all the reputation, wealth, and enjoyments, which the most +splendid marriage could bring me. Thus <I>Heloise</I> argued, and +added a great many more reasons, which I forbear to relate, lest I +should tire my reader. It is enough for him to know, that they are +chiefly grounded upon her preference of love to marriage, and liberty +to necessity. +</P> +<P>We might therefore suppose that <I>Heloise</I> was afraid lest +marriage should prove the tomb of love. The Count de Buffi, who +passes for the translator of some of her Letters, makes this to be +her meaning, though cloathed in delicate language. But if we examine +those which she writ to <I>Abelard</I> after their separation, and +the expressions she uses to put him in mind, that he was indebted for +the passion she had for him to nothing but love itself, we must allow +that she had more refined notions, and that never woman was so +disinterested. She loved <I>Abelard</I> 'tis true; but she declared +it was not his sex that she most valued in him. +</P> +<P>Some authors * are of opinion, that it was not an excess of love +which made <I>Abelard</I> press <I>Heloise</I> to marriage, but only +to quiet his conscience: but how can any one tell his reasons for +marriage better than he himself? Others say † that if <I>Heloise</I> +did really oppose <I>Abelard's</I> design of marrying her so +earnestly, it was not because she thought better of concubinage than +a married life, but because her affection and respect for her lover +leading her to seek his honour and advantage in all things, she was +afraid that by marrying him she should stand between him and a +bishoprick, which his wit and learning well deserved. But there is no +such thing in her Letters, nor in the long account which <I>Abelard</I> +has left us of the arguments which his mistress used to dissuade him +from marriage. These are the faults of many authors, who put such +words in the mouths of persons as are most conformable to their own +ideas. It is often more advantageous, that a woman should leave her +lover free for church dignities, than render him incapable of them by +marriage: but is it just therefore to suppose that <I>Heloise</I> had +any such motives? There is indeed a known story of a man that was +possessed of a prebend, and quitted it for a wife. The day after the +wedding, he said to his bride, My dear, consider how passionately I +loved you, since I lost my preferment to marry you. You have done a +very foolish thing, said she; you might have kept that, and have had +me notwithstanding.</P><BR> +<P>* <I>D'ctionnaire de Moreri </I> +</P><BR> +<P>† +<I>Fran. d'Amboise. </I> +</P><BR> +<P>But to return to our lovers. A modern author, who well understood +human nature, has affirmed, "That women by the favours they +grant to men, grow she fonder of them; but, on the contrary, the men +grow more indifferent*." This is not always true, <I>Abelard</I> +was not the less enamoured with <I>Heloise</I> after she had given +him the utmost proofs of her love; and their familiarity was so far +from having abated his flame, that it seems all the eloquence of +<I>Heloise</I> could not persuade <I>Abelard</I> that he wronged +himself in thinking to marry her. He admired the wit, the passion, +and the ingenuity of his mistress, but in these things he did not +come short of her. He knew so well how to represent to her the +necessity of marriage, the discourse which he had about it with +Fulbert, his rage if they declined it, and how dangerous it might be +to both of them, that at last she consented to do whatever he +pleased: but still with an inconceivable reluctance, which showed +that she yielded for no other reason but the fear of disobliging him. +</P><BR> +<P>* <I>M. de la Bruyere. </I> +</P><BR> +<P><I>Abelard</I> was willing to be near his mistress till she was +brought to bed, which in a short time she was of a boy. As soon as +<I>Heloise</I> was fit to go abroad, <I>Abelard</I> carried her to +Paris, where they were married in the most private manner that could +be, having no other company but Fulbert, and two or three particular +friends. However, the wedding quickly came to be known. The news of +it was already whispered about; people soon began to talk of it more +openly, till at last they mentioned it to the married pair. +</P> +<P>Fulbert who was less concerned to keep his word than to cover the +reproach of his family, took care to spread it abroad. But <I>Heloise</I>, +who loved <I>Abelard</I> a thousand times better than she did +herself, and always valued her dear Doctor's honour above her own, +denied it with the most solemn protestations, and did all she could +to make the world believe her. She constantly affirmed, that the +reports of it were mere slanders; that <I>Abelard</I> never proposed +any such thing; and if he had, she would never have consented to it. +In short, she denied it so constantly, and with such earnestness, +that she was generally believed. Many people thought, and boldly +affirmed, that the Doctor's enemies had spread this story on purpose +to lessen his character. This report came to Fulbert's ears, who, +knowing that <I>Heloise</I> was the sole author of it, fell into so +outrageous a passion at her, that after a thousand reproaches and +menaces, he proceeded to use her barbarously. But <I>Abelard</I>, who +loved her never the worse for being his wife, could not see this many +days with patience. He resolved therefore to order matters so as to +deliver her from this state of persecution. To this purpose they +consulted together what course was to be taken; and agreed, that for +setting them both free, her from the power and ill-humour of her +uncle, and him from the persecuting reports which went about of him, +<I>Heloise</I> should retire into a convent, where she should take +the habit of a nun, all but the veil, that so she might easily come +out again, when they should have a more favourable opportunity. This +design was proposed, approved, and executed, almost at the same time. +By this means they effectually put a stop to all reports about a +marriage. But the Canon was too dangerous a person to be admitted to +this consultation; he would never have agreed to their proposal; nor +could he hear of it without the utmost rage. 'Twas then that he +conceived a new desire of revenge, which he pursued till he had +executed it in the most cruel manner imaginable. This retreat of +<I>Heloise</I> gave him the more sensible affliction, because she was +so far from covering her own reputation, that she completed his +shame. He considered it as <I>Abelard</I>’s contrivance, and a +fresh instance of his perfidious dealing towards him. And this +reflection put him upon studying how to be revenged on them both at +one stroke; which, aiming at the root of the mischief, should forever +disable them from offending again. +</P> +<P>While this plot was in agitation, the lovers, who were not apt to +trouble their heads about what might happen, spent their time in the +most agreeable manner that could be. <I>Abelard</I> could not live +long without a sight of his dear wife. He made her frequent visits in +the convent of Argenteuil, to which she was retired. The nuns of this +abbey enjoyed a very free kind of life: the grates and parlours were +open enough. As for <I>Heloise</I>, she had such excellent +qualifications as made the good sisters very fond of her, and +extremely pleased that they had such an amiable companion. And as +they were not ignorant what reports there were abroad, that she was +married to the famous <I>Abelard</I>, (though she denied it to the +last,) the most discerning among them, observing the frequent visits +of the Doctor, easily imagined that she had reasons for keeping +herself private, and so they took her case into consideration, and +expressed a wonderful compassion for her misfortunes. +</P> +<P>Some of them, whom <I>Heloise</I> loved above the rest, and in +whom she put great confidence, were not a little aiding and assisting +in the private interviews which she had with <I>Abelard</I>, and in +giving him opportunities to enter the convent. The amorous Doctor +made the best use of every thing. The habit which <I>Heloise</I> wore +the place where he was to see her, the time and seasons proper for +his visit, the stratagems which must be used to facilitate his +entrance, and carry him undiscovered to <I>Heloise's</I> chamber, the +difficulties they met with, the reasons they had for not letting it +be known who they were, and the fear they were in of being taken +together; all this gave their amours an air of novelty, and added to +their lawful embraces all the taste of stolen delights. +</P> +<P>These excesses had then their charms, but in the end had fatal +consequences. The furious Canon persisting in his design of being +revenged on <I>Abelard</I>, notwithstanding his marriage with his +niece, found means to corrupt a domestic of the unfortunate Doctor, +who gave admittance into his master's chamber to some assassins hired +by Fulbert, who seized him in his sleep, and cruelly deprived him of +his manhood, but not his life. The servant and his accomplices fled +for it. The wretched <I>Abelard</I> raised such terrible outcries, +that the people in the house and the neighbours being alarmed, +hastened to him, and gave such speedy assistance, that he was soon +out of a condition of fearing death. +</P> +<P>The news of this accident made great noise, and its singularity +raised the curiosity of abundance of persons, who came the next day +as in procession, to see, to lament and comfort him. His scholars +loudly bewailed his misfortune, and the women distinguished +themselves upon this occasion by extraordinary marks of tenderness. +And 'tis probable among the great number of ladies who pitied +<I>Abelard</I>, there were some with whom he had been very intimate: +for his philosophy did not make him scrupulous enough to esteem every +small infidelity a crime, when it did not lessen his constant love of +<I>Heloise</I>. +</P> +<P>This action of Fulbert was too tragical to pass unpunished: the +traiterous servant and one of the assassins were seized and condemned +to lose their eyes, and to suffer what they had done to <I>Abelard</I>. +But Fulbert denying he had any share in the action saved himself from +the punishment with the loss only of his benefices. This sentence did +not satisfy <I>Abelard</I>; he made his complaint to no purpose to +the bishop and canons; and if he had made a remonstrance at Rome, +where he once had a design of carrying the matter, 'tis probable he +would have had no better success. It requires too much money to gain +a cause there. One <I>Foulques</I>, prior of Deuil, and intimate +friend of <I>Abelard</I>, wrote thus to him upon the occasion of his +misfortune: "If you appeal to the Pope without bringing an +immense sum of money, it will be useless: nothing can satisfy the +infinite avarice and luxury of the Romans. I question if you have +enough for such an undertaking; and if you attempt it, nothing will +perhaps remain but the vexation of having flung away so much money. +They who go to Rome without large sums to squander away, will return +just as they went, the expence of their journey only excepted*." +But since I am upon Foulques's letters which is too extraordinary to +be passed over in silence, I shall give the reader some reflections +which may make him amends for the trouble of a new digression. +</P><BR> +<P>* <I>This Letter is extant in</I> Latin <I>in </I>Abelard's +<I>Works</I>. +</P><BR> +<P>This friend of <I>Abelard</I> lays before him many advantages +which might be drawn from his misfortune. He tells him his +extraordinary talents, subtilty, eloquence and learning had drawn +from all parts an incredible number of auditors, and so filled him +with excessive vanity: he hints gently at another thing, which +contributed not a little towards making him proud, namely, that the +women continually followed him, and gloried in drawing him into their +snares. This misfortune, therefore, would cure him of his pride, and +free him from those snares of women which had reduced him even to +indigence, tho' his profession got him a large revenue; and now he +would never impoverish himself by his gallantries. +</P> +<P><I>Heloise</I> herself, in some passages of her <I>Letters</I>, +says, that there was neither maid nor wife †, who in <I>Abelard's</I> +absence did not form designs for him, and in his presence was not +inflamed with love: the queens themselves, and ladies of the first +quality, envied the pleasures she enjoyed with him. But we are not to +take these words of <I>Heloise</I> in a strict sense; because as she +loved <I>Abelard</I> to madness, so she imagined every one else did. +Besides, that report, to be sure, hath added to the truth. It is not +at all probable that a man of <I>Abelard's</I> sense, and who +according to all appearance passionately loved his wife, should not +be able to contain himself within some bounds, but should squander +away all his money upon mistresses, even to his not reserving what +was sufficient to provide for his necessities. Foulques owns, that he +speaks only upon hearsay, and in that, no doubt, envy, and jealousy +had their part. +</P><BR> +<P>† <I>Qua +conjugata, que virgo non concupiscebat absentem, & non +exardescebat in presentem? Qua regina, vel prapotens foemina gaudiis +meis non invidebat, vel thalamis?</I></P><BR> +<P>Foulques tells him besides, that the amputation of a part of his +body, of which he made such ill use, would suppress at the same time +a great many troublesome passions, and procure him liberty of +reflecting on himself, instead of being hurried to and fro by his +passions: his meditations would be no more interrupted by the +emotions of the flesh, and therefore he would be more successful in +discovering the secrets of Nature. He reckons it as a great advantage +to him, that he would no more be the terror of husbands, and might +now lodge any where without being suspected. And forgets not to +acquaint him, that he might converse with the finest women without +any fear of those temptations which sometimes overpower even age +itself upon the sight of such objects. And, lastly, he would have the +happiness of being exempt from the illusions of sleep; which +exemption, according to him is a peculiar blessing. +</P> +<P>It was with reason that Foulques reckons all these as advantages +very extraordinary in the life of an ecclesiastick. It is easy to +observe, that, to a person who devotes himself to continence, nothing +can be more happy than to be insensible to beauty and love, for they +who cannot maintain their chastity but by continual combats are very +unhappy. The life of such persons is uneasy, their state always +doubtful. They but too much feel the trouble of their warfare; and if +they come off victorious in an engagement, it is often with a great +many wounds. Even such of them as in a retired life are at the +greatest distance from temptations, by continually struggling with +their inclinations, setting barriers against the irruptions of the +flesh, are in a miserable condition. Their entrenchments are often +forced, and their conscience filled with sorrow and anxiety. What +progress might one make in the ways of virtue, who is not obliged to +fight an enemy for every foot of ground? Had <I>Abelard's</I> +misfortune made him indeed such as Foulques supposed, we should see +him in his <I>Letters</I> express his motives of comfort with a +better grace. But though he now was in a condition not able to +satisfy a passion by which he had suffered so much, yet was he not +insensible at the sight of those objects which once gave him so much +pleasure. This discourse therefore of Foulques, far from comforting +<I>Abelard</I> in his affliction, seems capable of producing the +contrary effect; and it is astonishing if <I>Abelard</I> did not take +it so, and think he rather insulted him, and consequently resent it. +</P> +<P>As to dreams, St. Austin informs us of the advantage Foulques +tells his friend he had gained. St. Austin implores the grace of God +to deliver him from this sort of weakness, and says, he gave consent +to those things in his sleep which he should abominate awake, and +laments exceedingly so great a regaining weakness. +</P> +<P>But let us go on with this charitable friend's letter; it hath too +near a relation to this to leave any part of it untouched. +Matrimonial functions (continues Foulques) and the cares of a family, +will not now hinder your application to please God. And what a +happiness is it, not to be in a capacity of sinning? And then he +brings the examples of Origen, and other martyrs, who rejoice now in +heaven for their being upon earth in the condition <I>Abelard</I> +laments; as if the impossibility of committing a sin could secure any +one from desiring to do it. But one of the greatest motives of +comfort, and one upon which he insists the most is, because his +misfortune is irreparable. This is indeed true in fact, but the +consequence of his reasoning is not so certain; <I>Afflict not +yourself</I> (says he) <I>because your misfortune is of such a nature +as is never to be repaired.</I></P> +<P>It must be owned, that the general topics of consolation have two +faces, and may therefore be considered very differently, even so as +to seem arguments for sorrow. As for instance, one might argue very +justly, that a mother should not yield too much to grief upon the +loss of a son, because her tears are unavailable; and tho' she should +kill herself with sorrow, she can never, by these means, bring her +son to life. Yet this very thing, that all she can do is useless, is +the main occasion of her grief; she could bear it patiently, could +she any ways retrieve her loss. When Solon lamented the death of his +son, and some friend, by way of comfort, told him his tears were +insignificant. <I>That</I>, said he, <I>is the very reason why I +weep</I>. +</P> +<P>But Foulques argues much better afterwards; he says, <I>Abelard</I> +did not suffer this in the commission of an ill act, but sleeping +peaceably in his bed; that is he was not caught in any open fact, +such has cost others the like loss. This is indeed a much better +topic than the former, though it must be allowed that <I>Abelard</I> +had drawn this misfortune on himself by a crime as bad as adultery; +yet the fault was over, and he had made all the reparation in his +power, and when they maimed him he thought no harm to any body. +</P> +<P><I>Abelard's</I> friend makes use likewise of other consolatory +reasons in his Letter, and represents to him, after a very moving +manner, the part which the Bishop and Canons, and all the +Ecclesiasticks of Paris, took in his disgrace, and the mourning there +was among the inhabitants and especially the women, upon this +occasion. But, in this article of consolation, how comes it to pass +that he makes no mention of <I>Heloise</I>? This ought not to appear +strange: she was the most injured, and therefore questionless, her +sorrows were sufficiently known to him; and it would be no news to +tell the husband that his wife was in the utmost affliction for him. +For as we observed before, though she was in a convent, she had not +renounced her husband, and those frequent visits he made her were not +spent in reading homilies. But let us make an end of our reflections +on Foulques's curious Letter, Foulques, after advising <I>Abelard</I> +not to think of carrying the matter before the Pope, by assuring him +that it required too great expence to obtain any satisfaction at that +court, concludes all with this last motive of consolation, that the +imagined happiness he had lost was always accompanied with abundance +of vexation; but if he persevered in his spirit of resignation, he +would, without doubt, at the last day obtain that justice he had now +failed of. 'Tis great pity we have not <I>Abelard's</I> answer to +this delicate Letter, the matter then would look like one of Job's +Dialogues with his friends. <I>Abelard</I> would generally have +enough to reply, and Foulques would often be but a sorry comforter. +However, it is certain this Letter was of some weight with <I>Abelard</I>; +for we find afterwards he never thought of making a voyage to Rome. +Resolved to hear his calamity patiently, he left to God the avenging +of the cruel and shameful abuse he had suffered. +</P> +<P>But let us return to <I>Heloise</I>. 'Tis probable her friends of +the convent of Argenteuil concealed so heavy a misfortune from her +for some time; but at last she heard the fatal news. Though the rage +and fury of her uncle threatened her long since with some punishment, +yet could she never suspect any thing of this nature. It will be +saying too little to tell the reader she felt all the shame and +sorrow that is possible. She only can express those violent emotions +of her soul upon so severe an occasion. +</P> +<P>In all probability this misfortune of <I>Abelard</I> would have +been a thorough cure of her passion, if we might argue from like +cases: but there is no rule so general as not to admit of some +exceptions; and <I>Heloise's</I> love upon this severe trial proved +like Queen Stratonice's, who was not less passionate for her +favourite Combabus, when she discovered his impotence, than she had +been before. +</P> +<P>Shame and sorrow had not less seized <I>Abelard</I> than <I>Heloise</I>, +nor dared he ever appear in the world; so that he resolved, +immediately upon his cure, to banish himself from the sight of men, +and hide himself in the darkness of a monastick life avoiding all +conversation with any kind of persons excepting his dear <I>Heloise</I>, +by whose company he endeavoured to comfort himself. But she at last +resolved to follow his example, and continue forever in the convent +of Argenteuil where she was. <I>Abelard</I> himself confesses, that +shame rather than devotion had made him take the habit of a monk; and +that it was jealousy more than love which engaged him to persuade +<I>Heloise</I> to be professed before he had made his vow. The +Letters which follow this history will inform us after what manner +and with what resolution they separated. <I>Heloise</I> in the +twenty-second year of her age generously quitted the world, and +renounced all those pleasures she might reasonably have promised +herself, to sacrifice herself entirely to the fidelity and obedience +she owed her husband, and to procure him that ease of mind which he +said he could no otherwise hope for. +</P> +<P>Time making <I>Abelard's</I> misfortune familiar to him, he now +entertained thoughts of ambition, and of supporting the reputation he +had gained of the most learned man of the age. He began with +explaining the <I>Acts of the Apostles</I> to the monks of the +monastery of St. <I>Dennis</I> to which he had retired; but the +disorders of the abbey, and debauchees of the Abbot, which equally +with his dignity, were superior to those of the simple monks, quickly +drove him hence. He had made himself uneasy to them by censuring +their irregularity. They were glad to part with him, and he to leave +them. +</P> +<P>As soon as he had obtained leave of the Abbot, he retired to +Thinbaud in Champaign, where he set up a school, persuading himself +that his reputation would bring him a great number of scholars. And +indeed they flocked to him, not only from the most distant provinces +of Prance, but also from Rome, Spain, England, and Germany, in such +number, that the towns could not provide accommodation, nor the +country provisions, enough for them*, But <I>Abelard</I> did not +foresee, that this success and reputation would at the same time +occasion him new troubles. He had made himself two considerable +enemies at Laon, Alberic of Rheims, and Lotulf of Lombardy, who, as +soon as they perceived how prejudicial his reputation was to their +schools, sought all occasions to ruin him; and thought they had a +lucky handle to do so from a book of his, intituled, <I>The Mystery +of the Trinity</I>. This they pretended was heretical, and through +the Archbishop’s means they procured a council at Soissons in +the year 1121; and without suffering <I>Abelard</I> to make any +defence, ordered his book to be burnt by his own hands, and himself +to be confined to the convent of St. Medard. This sentence gave him +such grief, that he says himself, the unhappy fate of his writing +touched him more sensibly than the misfortune he had suffered through +Fulbert's means. Nor was it only his fatherly concern for his own +productions, but the indelible mark of heresy which by this means was +fixed on him, which so exceedingly troubled him. +</P><BR> +<P>* <I>Ad quas scholas tanta scholarium multitudo confluxit ut nec +locus hospitiis, nec terra sufficeret alimentis.</I> Abel. +Oper. p. 19 +</P><BR> +<P>That the curious reader may have a complete knowledge of this +matter, I shall here give an account of that pretended heresy which +was imputed to <I>Abelard</I>. The occasion of his writing this book +was, that his scholars demanded * philosophical arguments on that +subject; often urging that it was impossible to believe what was not +understood; that it was to abuse the world, to preach a doctrine +equally unintelligible to the speaker and auditor; and that it was +for the blind to lead the blind. These young men were certainly +inclined to Sabellinism. <I>Abelard's</I> enemies however did not +accuse him of falling into this, but another heresy as bad, +Tritheism; though indeed he was equally free from both: he explained +the unity of the Godhead by comparisons drawn from human things but +according to a passage of St. Bernard†, one of his greatest +enemies, he seemed to hold, that no one ought to believe what he +could not give a reason for. However <I>Abelard's</I> treatise upon +this subject pleased every one except those of his own profession, +who, stung with envy that he should find out explanations which they +could not have thought of, raised such a cry of heresy upon him, that +he and some of his scholars had like to have been stoned by the mob‡. +By their powerful cabals they prevailed with Conan bishop of Preneste, +the Pope's legate, who was president of the council, to condemn his +book, pretending that he asserted three Gods, which they might easily +suggest, when he was suffered to make no defence. 'Tis certain he was +very orthodox in the doctrine of the Trinity; and all this process +against him was only occasioned by the malice of his enemies. His +logical comparison (and logic was his masterpiece) proved rather the +three Divine Persons One, than multiplied the Divine Nature into +Three. His comparison is, that as the three proportions * in a +syllogism are but one truth, so the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, are +but one Essence; and it is certain the inconveniences which may be +drawn from this parallel are not more than what may be drawn from the +comparison of the three dimensions of solids, so much insisted on by +the famous orthodox mathematician Dr. Wallis of England. But great +numbers of pious and learned divines, who have not been over-subtile +in politics, have been persecuted and condemned as well as <I>Abelard</I> +by the ignorance and malice of their brethren. +</P><BR> +<P>* <I>Humanas & philosophicas rationes requirebant. & plus +quae inteligi, quam quae dici poffenter, efflagitabant.</I> Abel +Op.</P><BR> +<P>† +<I>Benardi Epist.</I> 190.</P><BR> +<P>‡ <I>Ita +me in clero & populo diffamaverunt, ut pene me populos paucosque +qui advenerant ex discipulis nostris prima die nostri anventus +lapidarent; dicentes me tres Deos praedicare & scripsisse, sicut +ipsis persuasum fuerat. </I> Abel +Oper. p. 20. </P><BR> +<P>* <I>Sicut eadem oratio est, propositio, assumptio & +conuclusio, ita eadem Essentia est Pater, Filius, and Spiritus +Sanctis. </I> Ibid. +</P><BR> +<P>A little after his condemnation, <I>Abelard</I> was ordered to +return to St. Dennis. The liberty he had taken to censure the vicious +lives of the monks had raised him a great many enemies. Amongst these +was St. Bernard, not upon the same motives as those monks, but +because <I>Abelard's</I> great wit, joined with so loose and sensual +a life, gave him jealousy, who thought it impossible the heart should +be defiled without the head being likewise tainted. +</P> +<P>Scarce had he returned to St. Dennis, when one day he dropped some +words, intimating he did not believe that the St. Dennis their patron +was the Areopagite mentioned in the Scripture, there being no +probability that he ever was in France. This was immediately carried +to the Abbot, who was full of joy, that he had now a handle to +heighten the accusations of heresy against him with some crime +against the state; a method frequently used by this sort of gentlemen +to make sure their revenge. In those times, too, the contradicting +the notions of the monks was enough to prove a man an atheist, +heretic, rebel, or any thing; learning signified nothing. If any one +of a clearer head and larger capacity had the misfortune to be +suspected of novelty, there was no way to avoid the general +persecution of the monks but voluntarily banishing himself. The Abbot +immediately assembled all the house, and declared he would deliver up +to the secular power a person who had dared to reflect upon the +honour of the kingdom and of the crown. <I>Abelard</I> very rightly +judging that such threatenings were not to be despised, fled by night +to Champaign, to a cloister of the monks of Troies, and there +patiently waited till the storm should be over. After the death of +this Abbot, which, very luckily for him happened soon after his +flight, he obtained leave to live where he pleased, though it was not +without using some cunning. He knew the monks of so rich a house had +fallen into great excesses, and were very obnoxious to the court, who +would not fail to make their profit of it: he therefore procured it +should be represented to his council as very disadvantageous to his +Majesty’s interest, that a person who was continually censuring +the lives of his brethren should continue any longer with them. This +was immediately understood, and orders given to some great men at +court to demand of the Abbot and monks why they kept a person in +their house whose conduct was so disagreeable to them; and, far from +being an ornament to the society, was a continual vexation, by +publishing their faults? This being very opportunely moved to the new +Abbot, he gave <I>Abelard</I> leave to retire to what cloister he +pleased. +</P> +<P><I>Abelard</I>, who indeed had all the qualities which make a +great man, could not however bear, without repining, the numerous +misfortunes with which he saw himself embarrassed, and had frequent +thoughts of publishing a manifesto to justify himself from the +scandalous imputations his enemies had laid upon him and to undeceive +those whom their malice had prejudiced against him. But upon cooler +thought he determined, that it was better to say nothing and to shew +them by his silence how unworthy he thought them of his anger. Thus +being rather enraged than troubled at the injuries he had suffered, +he resolved to found a new society, consisting chiefly of monks. To +this purpose he chose a solitude in the diocese of Troies, and upon +some ground which was given by permission of the Bishop, he built a +little house and a chapel, which he dedicated to the most Holy +Trinity. +</P> +<P>Men of learning were then scarce, and the desire of science was +beginning to spread itself. Our exile was inquired after and found; +scholars crowded to him from all parts: they built little huts, and +were very liberal to their master for his lectures; content to live +on herbs, and roots, and water, that they might have the advantage of +learning from so extraordinary a man; and with great zeal they +enlarged the chapel building that and their professor's house with +wood and stone. +</P> +<P>Upon this occasion <I>Abelard</I>, to continue the memory of the +comfort he had received in this desart, dedicated his new built +chapel to the Holy Ghost, by the name of the Paraclete, or Comforter. +The envy of Alberic and Lotulf, which had long since persecuted him, +was strangely revived, upon seeing so many scholars flock to him from +all parts, notwithstanding the inconvenience of the place, and in +contempt of the masters who might so commodiously be found in the +towns and cities. +</P> +<P>They now more than ever sought occasion to trouble him; the name +of Paraclete furnished them with one. They gave out that this novelty +was a consequence of his former heresy, and that it was no more +lawful to dedicate churches to the Holy Ghost than to God the Father: +that this title was a subtile art of instilling that poison which he +durst not spread openly, and a consequence of his heretical doctrine +which had been condemned already by a council. This report raised a +great clamour among numbers of people, whom his enemies employed on +all sides. But the persecution grew more terrible when St. Bernard +and St. Norbet declared against him; two great zealots, fired with +the spirit of Reformation, and who declared themselves restorers of +the primitive discipline, and had wonderfully gained upon the +affections of the populace. They spread such scandal against him that +they prejudiced his principal friends, and forced those who still +loved him not to shew it any ways; and upon these accounts made his +life so bitter to him that he was upon the point of leaving +Christendom*. But his unhappiness would not let him do a thing which +might have procur'd his ease; but made him still continue with +Christians, and with monks (as himself expresses it) worse than +Heathens†. +</P><BR> +<P>* <I>Saepe autem (Deus scit) in tantam lapsus sum desperationem ut +Christianorum finibus excessis, ad Gentes transire disponerem, atque +ibi quiete sub quacunque tributi pactione inter inimicos Christi +christiane vivere.</I> Abel Op. p. 32. +</P><BR> +<P>† <I>Incedi in +Christianos atque monachos Gentibus longe saeviores atque pejores.</I> + Abel Op. p. 20. +</P><BR> +<P>The Duke of Britany, informed of his misfortunes, and of the +barbarity of his enemies, named him to the abbey of St. Gildas, in +the diocese of Vannes, at the desire of the monks who had already +elected him for their superior. Here he thought he had found a refuge +from the rage of his enemies, but in reality he had only changed one +trouble for another. The profligate lives of the monks, and the +arbitrariness of a lord, who had deprived them of the greater part of +their revenues, so that they were obliged to maintain their +mistresses and children at their own private expence, occasioned him +a thousand vexations and dangers. They several times endeavoured to +poison him in his ordinary diet, but proving unsuccessful that way, +they cried to do it in the holy sacrament. Excommunications, with +which he threatened the most mutinous, did not abate the disorder. He +now feared the poniard more than poison, and compared his case to his +whom the tyrant of Saracuse caused to be seated at his table, with a +sword hanging over him, fastened only by a thread. +</P> +<P>Whilst <I>Abelard</I> thus suffered in his abbey by his monks, the +nuns of Argenteuil, of whom <I>Heloise</I> was prioress, grew so +licentious, that Sugger, abbot of Dennis, taking advantage of their +irregularities, got possession of their monastery. He sent the +original writings to Rome; and having obtained the answer he desired, +he expelled the nuns, and established in their place monks of his +order. +</P> +<P>Some censorious people upon reading this passage, will be apt to +entertain strong suspicions of <I>Heloise</I>, and judge it probable +that a governor does not behave well when dissoluteness is known to +reign in the society. I have never read that she was included by name +in the general scandal of the society, and therefore am cautious not +to bring any accusations against her. Our Saviour says, <I>No one +hath condemned thee, neither do I condemn thee.</I></P> +<P><I>Heloise</I>, at her departure from the convent of Argenteuil, +applied to her husband; who by permission of the Bishop Troies, gave +her the house and chapel of the <I>Paraclete</I>, with its +appendages; and placing there some nuns, founded a nunnery. Pope +Innocent II. confirmed this donation in the year 1131. This is the +origin of the abbey of the <I>Paraclete</I>, of which <I>Heloise</I> +was the first abbess. Whatever her conduct was among the licentious +nuns of Argenteuil, it is certain she lived so regular in this her +new and last retreat, and behaved herself with that prudence, zeal, +and piety, that she won the hearts of all the world, and in a small +time had abundance of donations. <I>Abelard</I> himself says she had +more in one year than he could have expected all his life, had he +lived there. The bishops loved her as their child, the abbesses as +their sister, and the world as their mother. It must be owned some +women have had wonderful talents for exciting Christian charity. The +abbesses which succeeded <I>Heloise</I> have often been of the +greatest families in the kingdom. There is a list of them in the +<I>Notes</I> of <I>Andrew du Chene</I> upon <I>Abelard's</I> works, +from the time of the foundation in 1130, to 1615; but he has not +thought fit to take notice of Jane Cabot, who died the 25th of June +1593, and professed the Protestant religion, yet without marrying, or +quitting her habit, though she was driven from her abbey. +</P> +<P>After <I>Abelard</I> had settled <I>Heloise</I> here, he made +frequent journies from Britany to Champaign, to take care of the +interest of this rising house, and to ease himself from the vexations +of his own abbey. But slander so perpetually followed this unhappy +man, that though his present condition was universally known, he was +reproached with a remaining voluptuous passion for his former +mistress. He complains of his hard usage in one of his Letters; but +comforts himself by the example of St. Jerom, whose friendship with +Paula occasioned scandal too; and therefore he entirely confuted this +calumny, by remarking that even the most jealous commit their wives +to the custody of eunuchs. +</P> +<P>The thing which gives the greatest handle to suspect <I>Heloise's</I> +prudence, and that <I>Abelard</I> did not think himself safe with +her, is his making a resolution to separate himself forever from her. +During his being employed in establishing this new nunnery, and in +ordering their affairs, as well temporal as spiritual, he was +diligent in persuading her, by frequent and pious admonitions, to +such a separation; and insisted, that in order to make their +retirement and penitence more profitable, it was absolutely necessary +they should seriously endeavour to forget each other, and for the +future think on nothing but God. When he had given her directions for +her own conduct, and rules for the management of the nuns, he took +his last leave of her and returned to his abbey in Britany where he +continued a long time without her hearing any mention of him. +</P> +<P>By chance, a letter he wrote to one of his friends, to comfort him +under some disgrace, wherein he had given him a long account of all +the persecutions he himself had suffered, fell into Heloise’s +hands. She knew by the superscription from whom it came, and her +curiosity made her open it. The reading the particulars of a story +she was so much concerned in renewed all her passion, and she hence +took an occasion to write to him, complaining of his long silence. +<I>Abelard</I> could not forbear answering her. This occasioned the +several Letters between them which follow this History; and in these +we may observe how high a woman is capable of railing the sentiments +of her heart when possessed of a great deal of wit and learning, at +well as a most violent love. +</P> +<P>I shall not tire the reader with any farther reflections on the +Letters of those two lovers, but leave them entirely to his own +judgment; only remarking, that he ought not to be surprised to find +<I>Heloise's</I> more tender, passionate, and expressive, than those +of <I>Abelard</I>. She was younger and consequently more ardent than +he. The sad condition he was in had not altered her love. Besides, +she retired only in complaisance to a man she blindly yielded to; and +resolving to preserve her fidelity inviolable, she strove to conquer +her desires, and make a virtue of necessity. But the weakness of her +sex continually returned, and she felt the force of love in spite of +all resistance. It was not the same with <I>Abelard</I>; for though +it was a mistake to think, that by not being in a condition of +satisfying his passion, he was as <I>Heloise</I> imagined, wholly +delivered from the thorn of sensuality; yet he was truly sorry for +the disorders of his past life, he was sincerely penitent, and +therefore his Letters are less violent and passionate than those of +<I>Heloise</I>. +</P> +<P>About ten years after <I>Abelard</I> had retired to his abbey, +where study was his chief business, his enemies, who had resolved to +persecute him to the last, were careful not to let him enjoy the ease +of retirement. They thought he was not sufficiently plagued with his +monks, and therefore brought a new process of heresy against him +before the Archbishop of Sens. He desired he might have the liberty +of defending his doctrine before a public assembly, and it was +granted him. Upon this account the Council of Sens was assembled, in +which Louis the VII, assisted in person, in the year 1140. St. +Bernard was the accuser, and delivered to the assembly some +propositions drawn from <I>Abelard's</I> book, which were read in the +Council. This accusation gave <I>Abelard</I> such fears, and was +managed with such inveterate malice by his enemies, and with such +great unfairness, in drawing consequences he never thought of, that, +imagining he had friends at Rome who would protect his innocence, he +made an appeal to the Pope. The Council notwithstanding his appeal, +condemned his book, but did not meddle with his person; and gave an +account of the whole proceeding to Pope Innocent II. praying him to +confirm their sentence. St. Bernard had been so early in +prepossessing the Pontiff, that he got the sentence confirmed before +<I>Abelard</I> heard any thing of it, or had any time to present +himself before the tribunal to which he had appealed. His Holiness +ordered besides, that <I>Abelard's</I> books should be burnt, himself +confined, and for ever prohibited from teaching. +</P> +<P>This passage of St. Bernard's life is not much for the honour of +his memory: and whether he took the trouble himself to extract the +condemned propositions from <I>Abelard's</I> works, or intrusted it +to another hand, it is certain the paper he gave in contained many +things which <I>Abelard</I> never wrote, and others which he did not +mean in the same sense imputed to him. +</P> +<P>When a few particular expressions are urged too rigidly, and +unthought of consequences drawn from some assertions, and no regard +is had to the general intent and scope of an author, it is no +difficult matter to find errors in any book. For this reason, +Beranger of Poitiers, <I>Abelard's</I> scholar defended his master +against St. Bernard, telling him he ought not to persecute others, +whose own writings were not exempt from errors; demonstrating, that +he himself had advanced a position which he would not have failed to +have inserted in this extract as a monstrous doctrine, if he had +found them in the writings of <I>Abelard</I>. +</P> +<P>Some time after <I>Abelard's</I> condemnation, the Pope was +appeased at the solicitation of the Abbot of Clugni, who received +this unfortunate gentleman into his monastery with great humanity, +reconciled him with St. Bernard, and admitted him to be a Religious +of his society. +</P> +<P>This was <I>Abelard's</I> last retirement, in which he found all +manner of kindness; he read lectures to the monks, and was equally +humble and laborious. At last growing weak, and afflicted with a +complication of diseases, he was sent to the priory of St. Marcel +upon the Saone, near Chalons, a very agreeable place, where he died +the 21st of April 1142, in the 63d year of his age. His corpse was +sent to the chapel of <I>Paraclete</I>, to <I>Heloise</I>, to be +interred, according to her former request of him, and to his own +desire. The Abbot of Clugni, when he sent the body to <I>Heloise</I> +according to the custom of those times, sent with it an absolution, +to be fixed, together with his epitaph, on his grave-stone, which +absolution was at follows: +</P> +<P>"I Peter, Abbot of Clugni, having received Father <I>Abelard</I> +into the number of my Religions, and given leave that his body be +privately conveyed to the abbey of the Paraclete, to be disposed of +by <I>Heloise</I> Abbess of the same abbey; do, by the authority of +God and all the saints, absolve the said <I>Abelard</I> from all his +sins*." +</P><BR> +<P>* <I>Ego Petrus Cluniacensis Abbas, qui Pet. Abselardum in monacum +Cluniacensem recepi, & corpus ejus surtim delatum Heloissa +abbatissae & monialibus Paracleti concessi, authoritate +omnipotentis Dei & omnium sanctorum, absolvo eum pro officio ab +omnibus peccatis suis.</I></P><BR> +<P><I>Heloise</I>, who survived him twenty years, had all the leisure +that could be to effect the cure of her unhappy passion. Alas! she +was very long about it! she passed the rest of her days like a +religions and devout Abbess, frequent in prayers, and entirely +employed in the regulation of her society. She loved study; and being +a mistress of the learned languages, the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, +she was esteemed a miracle of learning. +</P> +<P><I>Abelard</I>, in a letter he wrote to the Religious of his new +house, says expressly, that <I>Heloise</I> understood these three +languages. The Abbot of Clugni, likewise, in a letter he wrote to +her, tells her, she excelled in learning not only all her sex, but +the greatest part of men†. And in the calendar of the house of +the Paraclete she is recorded in these words: <I>Heloise, mother and +first abbess of this place, famous for her learning and religion.</I> +I must not here pass by a custom the Religious of the <I>Paraclete</I> +now have to commemorate how learned their first Abbess was in the +Greek, which is, that every year, on the day of Pentecost, they +perform divine service in the Greek tongue. What a ridiculous vanity! +</P><BR> +<P>† <I>Studio tuo & +mulieres omnes eviciti, & pene viros universos suparasti. </I> Abel +Op.</P><BR> +<P>Francis d’Amboise tells us how subtilely one day she +satisfied St. Bernard, upon asking her, why in her abbey, when they +recited the Lord's Prayer, they did not say, <I>Give us this day our</I> +Daily <I>bread</I>, but <I>Give us this day our</I> +Supersubstantial <I>bread</I>, by an argument drawn from the +originals, affirming we ought to follow the Greek version of the +gospel of St. <I>Matthew</I> wrote in <I>Hebrew</I>. Without doubt, +it was not a little surprising to St. Bernard, to hear a woman oppose +him in a controversy, by citing a <I>Greek</I> text. 'Tis true, some +authors say, <I>Abelard</I> made this answer to St. Bernard, after +hearing from <I>Heloise</I> that objections were made to that form of +prayer. However the case was, a woman with a small competency of +learning might in those time pass for a miracle; and though she might +not equal those descriptions which have been given of her, yet she +may deservedly be placed in the rank of women of the greatest +learning. Nor was she less remarkable for her piety, patience, and +resignation, during her sicknesses in the latter part of her life. +She died the 17th of May 1163. 'Tis said she desired to be buried in +the same tomb with her <I>Abelard</I>, though that probably was not +executed. Francis d’Amboise says, he saw at the convent the +tombs of the founder and foundress near together. However a +manuscript of Tours gives us an account of an extraordinary miracle +which happened when <I>Abelard</I>’s grave was opened for +<I>Heloise</I>’s body, namely that <I>Abelard</I> stretched out +his arms to receive her, and embraced her closely, though there were +twenty good years passed since he died. But that is a small matter to +a writer of miracles. +</P> +<P>I shall conclude this history with an epitaph on <I>Abelard</I>, +which the Abbot of Clugni sent <I>Heloise</I>, and which is now to be +read on his tomb; it hath nothing in it delicate either for thought +or language, and will scarcely bear a translation. It is only added +here for the sake of the curious, and as an instance of the respect +paid to the memory of so great a man, and one whom envy had loaded +with the greatest defamations. +</P><BR> +<P>"Petrus in hac petra latitat, quem mundus Homerum<BR> Clamabat, +fed jam sidera sidus habent.<BR>Sol erat hic Gallis, sed eum jam fata +tulerunt:<BR> Ergo caret Regio Gallica sole suo.<BR>Ille +sciens quid quid fuit ulli scibile, vicit<BR> Artifices, +artes absque docente docens.<BR>Undecimae Maij petrum rapuere +Calendae,<BR> Privantes Logices atria Rege fuo.<BR>Est +fatis, in tumulo Petrus hic jacit Abaelardus,<BR> Cui soli +patuit scibile quid quid erat. +</P><BR> +<P>Gallorum Socrates, Plato maximus Hesperianum<BR>Noster +Aristoteles, Logicis (quicumque fuerunt)<BR>Aut par aut melior; +studioium cognitus orbi<BR>Princeps, ingeuio varius, subtilius & +acer,<BR>Omnia vi superans rationis & arte loquendi,<BR>Abaelardus +erat. Sed nunc magis omnia vincit.<BR>Cum Cluniacensem monacum, +moremque professus,<BR>Ad Christi veram transivit philosophiam,<BR>In +qua longaevae bene complens ultima vitae,<BR>Philosophis quandoque +bonis se connumerandum<BR>Spem dedit, undenas Maio renovante +Calendas." +</P> +<P><BR><BR> +</P> +<P ALIGN=CENTER>—————— +</P><BR><BR> +<H3 ALIGN=CENTER><A NAME="a_LET"></A>LETTERS of ABELARD and HELOISE.</H3> +<P><BR><BR> +</P> +<P ALIGN=CENTER>——— +</P> +<P ALIGN=CENTER><BR><BR> +</P> +<H2 ALIGN=CENTER><A NAME="a_CHI"></A>LETTER I.</H2><BR> +<P ALIGN=CENTER><I>ABELARD to PHILINTUS.</I> +</P><BR> +<BLOCKQUOTE>It may be proper to acquaint the reader, that the +following Letter was written by <I>Abelard</I> to a friend, to +comfort him under some afflictions which had befallen him, by a +recital of his own sufferings, which had been much heavier. It +contains a particular account of his amour with <I>Heloise</I>, and +the unhappy consequences of it. This Letter was written several years +after <I>Abelard's</I> separation from <I>Heloise</I>. +</BLOCKQUOTE><BR><BR> +<P>The last time we were together, <I>Philintus</I>, you gave me a +melancholy account of your misfortunes. I was sensibly touched with +the relation, and, like a true friend, bore a share in your griefs. +What did I not say to stop your tears? I laid before you all the +reasons Philosophy could furnish, which I thought might any ways +soften the strokes of Fortune: but all endeavours have proved +useless: grief I perceive, has wholly seized your spirits: and your +prudence, far from assisting, seems quite to have forsaken you. But +my skilful friendship has found out an expedient to relieve you. +Attend to me a moment; hear but the story of my misfortunes, and +yours, <I>Philintus</I>, will be nothing, if you compare them with +those of the loving and unhappy <I>Abelard</I>. Observe, I beseech +you, at what expence I endeavour to serve you: and think this no +small mark of my affection; for I am going to present you with the +relation of such particulars, as it is impossible for me to recollect +without piercing my heart with the most sensible affliction. +</P> +<P>You know the place where I was born; but not perhaps that I was +born with those complexional faults which strangers charge upon our +nation, an extreme lightness of temper, and great inconstancy. I +frankly own it, and shall be as free to acquaint you with those good +qualities which were observed in me. I had a natural vivacity and +aptness for all the polite arts. My father was a gentleman, and a man +of good parts; he loved the wars, but differed in his sentiments from +many who followed that profession. He thought it no praise to be +illiterate, but in the camp he knew how to converse at the same time +with the Muses and Bellona. He was the same in the management of his +family, and took equal care to form his children to the study of +polite learning as to their military exercises. As I was his eldest, +and consequently his favourite son, he took more than ordinary care +of my education. I had a natural genius to study, and made an +extraordinary progress in it. Smitten with the love of books, and the +praises which on all sides were bestowed upon me, I aspired to no +reputation but what proceeded from learning. To my brothers I left +the glory of battles, and the pomp of triumphs; nay more, I yielded +them up my birthright and patrimony. I knew necessity was the great +spur to study, and was afraid I should not merit the title of +Learned, if I distinguished myself from others by nothing but a more +plentiful fortune. Of all the sciences, Logic was the most to my +taste. Such were the arms I chose to profess. Furnished with the +weapons of reasoning, I took pleasure in going to public disputations +to win trophies; and wherever I heard that this art flourished, I +ranged like another Alexander, from province to province, to seek new +adversaries, with whom I might try my strength. +</P> +<P>The ambition I had to become formidable in logic led me at last to +Paris, the centre of politeness, and where the science I was so +smitten with had usually been in the greatest perfection. I put +myself under the direction of one <I>Champeaux</I> a professor, who +had acquired the character of the most skilful philosopher of his +age, by negative excellencies only, by being the least ignorant. He +received me with great demonstrations of kindness, but I was not so +happy as to please him long: I was too knowing in the subjects he +discoursed upon. I often confuted his notions: often in our +disputations I pushed a good argument so home, that all his subtilty +was not able to elude its force. It was impossible he should see +himself surpassed by his scholar without resentment. It is sometimes +dangerous to have too much merit. +</P> +<P>Envy increased against me proportionably to my reputation. My +enemies endeavoured to interrupt my progress, but their malice only +provoked my courage; and measuring my abilities by the jealousy I had +raised, I thought I had no farther occasion for Champeaux's lectures, +but rather that I was sufficiently qualified to read to others. I +stood for a place which was vacant at Melun. My master used all his +artifice to defeat my hopes, but in vain; and on this occasion I +triumphed over his cunning, as before I had done over his learning. +My lectures were always crouded, and beginnings so fortunate, that I +entirely obscured the renown of my famous master. Flushed with these +happy conquests, I removed to Corbeil to attack the masters there, +and so establish my character of the ablest Logician, the violence of +travelling threw me into a dangerous distemper, and not being able to +recover my strength, my physician, who perhaps were in a league with +Champeaux, advised me to retire to my native air. Thus I voluntarily +banished myself for some years. I leave you to imagine whether my +absence was not regretted by the better sort. At length I recovered +my health, when I received news that my greatest adversary had taken +the habit of a monk. You may think was an act of penitence for having +persecuted me; quite contrary, it was ambition; he resolved to raise +himself to some church-dignity therefore he fell into the beaten +track, and took on him the garb of feigned austerity; for this is the +easiest and and shortest way to the highest ecclesiastical dignities. +His wishes were successful, and he obtained a bishoprick: yet did he +not quit Paris, and the care of the schools. He went to his diocese +to gather in his revenues, but returned and passed the rest of his +time in reading lectures to those few pupils which followed him. +After this I often-engaged with him, and may reply to you as Ajax did +to the Greeks; +</P><BR> +<BLOCKQUOTE>"If you demand the fortune of that day,<BR>When +stak'd on this right hand your honours lay<BR>If I did not oblige the +foe to yield,<BR>Yet did I never basely quit the field." +</BLOCKQUOTE><BR> +<P>About this time my father Beranger, who to the age of sixty had +lived very agreeably, retired from the world and shut himself up in a +cloister, where he offered up to Heaven the languid remains of a life +he could make no farther use of. My mother, who was yet young, took +the same resolution. She turned a Religious, but did not entirely +abandon the satisfactions of life. Her friends were continually at +the grate; and the monastery, when one has an inclination to make it +so, is exceeding charming and pleasant. I was present when my mother +was professed. At my return I resolved to study divinity, and +inquired for a director in that study. I was recommended to one +<I>Anselm</I>, the very oracle of his time; but to give you my own +opinion, one more venerable for his age and wrinkles than for his +genius or learning. If you consulted him upon any difficulty, the +sure consequence was to be much more uncertain in the point. Those +who only saw him admired him, but those who reasoned with him were +extremely dissatisfied. He was a great master of words, and talked +much, but meant nothing. His discourse was a fire, which, instead of +enlightening, obscured every thing with its smoke; a tree beautified +with variety of leaves and branches, but barren. I came to him with a +desire to learn, but found him like the fig-tree in the Gospel, or +the old oak to which Lucan compares Pompey. I continued not long +underneath his shadow. I took for my guides the primitive Fathers, +and boldly launched into the ocean of the Holy Scriptures. In a short +time I made such a progress, that others chose me for their director. +The number of my scholars were incredible, and the gratuities I +received from them were answerable to the great reputation I had +acquired. Now I found myself safe in the harbour; the storms were +passed, and the rage of my enemies had spent itself without effect. +Happy, had I known to make a right use of this calm! But when the +mind is most easy, it is most exposed to love, and even security here +is the most dangerous state. +</P> +<P>And now, my friend, I am going to expose to you all my weaknesses. +All men, I believe, are under a necessity of paying tribute, at some +time or other, to Love, and it is vain to strive to avoid it. I was a +philosopher, yet this tyrant of the mind triumphed over all my +wisdom; his darts were of greater force than all my reasoning, and +with a sweet constraint he led me whither he pleased. Heaven, amidst +an abundance of blessings with which I was intoxicated, threw in a +heavy affliction. I became a most signal example of its vengeance; +and the more unhappy, because having deprived me of the means of +accomplishing my satisfaction, it left me to the fury of my criminal +desires. I will tell you, my dear friend, the particulars of my +story, and leave you to judge whether I deserved so severe a +correction. I had always an aversion for those light women whom it is +a reproach to pursue; I was ambitious in my choice, and wished to +find some obstacles, that I might surmount them with the greater +glory and pleasure. +</P> +<P>There was in Paris a young creature, (ah! <I>Philintus</I>!) +formed in a prodigality of Nature, to show mankind a finished +composition; dear <I>Heloise</I>! the reputed niece of one <I>Fulbert</I> +a canon. Her wit and her beauty would have fired the dullest and most +insensible heart; and her education was equally admirable. <I>Heloise</I> +was a mistress of the most polite arts. You may easily imagine that +this did not a little help to captivate me. I saw her; I loved her; I +resolved to endeavour to gain her affections. The thirst of glory +cooled immediately in my heart, and all my passions were lost in this +new one. I thought of nothing but <I>Heloise</I>; every thing brought +her image to my mind. I was pensive, restless; and my passion was so +violent as to admit of no restraint. I was always vain and +presumptive; I flattered myself already with the most bewitching +hopes. My reputation had spread itself every where; and could a +virtuous lady resist a man that had confounded all the learned of the +age? I was young;—could she show an infallibility to those vows +which my heart never formed for any but herself? My person was +advantageous enough and by my dress no one would have suspected me +for a Doctor; and dress you know, is not a little engaging with +women. Besides, I had wit enough to write a <I>billet doux</I>, and +hoped, if ever she permitted my absent self to entertain her, she +would read with pleasure those breathings of my heart. +</P> +<P>Filled with these notions, I thought of nothing but the means to +speak to her. Lovers either find or make all things easy. By the +offices of common friends I gained the acquaintance of Fulbert. And, +can you believe it, <I>Philintus</I>? he allowed me the privilege of +his table, and an apartment in his house. I paid him, indeed, a +considerable sum; for persons of his character do nothing without +money. But what would I not have given! You my dear friend, know what +love is; imagine then what a pleasure it must have been to a heart so +inflamed as mine to be always so near the dear object of desire! I +would not have exchanged my happy condition for that of the greatest +monarch upon earth. I saw <I>Heloise</I>, I spoke to her: each +action, each confused look, told her the trouble of my soul. And she, +on the other side, gave me ground to hope for every thing from her +generosity. Fulbert desired me to instruct her in philosophy; by this +means I found opportunities of being in private with her and yet I +was sure of all men the most timorous in declaring my passion. +</P> +<P>As I was with her one day, alone, Charming <I>Heloise</I>, said I, +blushing, if you know yourself, you will not be surprised with what +passion you have inspired me with. Uncommon as it is, I can express +it but with the common terms;—I love you, adorable <I>Heloise</I>! +Till now I thought philosophy made us masters, of all our passions, +and that it was a refuge from the storms in which weak mortals are +tossed and shipwrecked; but you have destroyed my security, and +broken this philosophic courage. I have despised riches; honour and +its pageantries could never raise a weak thought in me; beauty alone +hath fired my soul. Happy, if she who raised this passion kindly +receives the declaration; but if it is an offence—No, replied +<I>Heloise</I>; she must be very ignorant of your merit who can be +offended at your passion. But, for my own repose, I wish either that +you had not made this declaration, or that I were at liberty not to +suspect your sincerity. Ah, divine <I>Heloise</I>, said I, flinging +myself at her feet, I swear by yourself—I was going on to +convince her of the truth of my passion, but heard a noise, and it +was Fulbert. There was no avoiding it, but I must do a violence to my +desire, and change the discourse to some other subject. After this I +found frequent opportunities to free <I>Heloise</I> from those +suspicions which the general insincerity of men had raised in her; +and she too much desired what I said were truth, not to believe it. +Thus there was a most happy understanding between us. The same house, +the same love, united our persons and our desires. How many soft +moments did we pass together! We took all opportunities to express to +each other our mutual affections, and were ingenious in contriving +incidents which might give us a plausible occasion for meeting. +Pyramus and Thisbe's discovery of the crack in the wall was but a +slight representation of our love and its sagacity. In the dead of +night, when Fulbert and his domestics were in a sound sleep, we +improved the time proper to the sweets of love. Not contenting +ourselves, like those unfortunate loves, with giving insipid kisses +to a wall, we made use of all the moments of our charming interviews. +In the place where we met we had no lions to fear, and the study of +philosophy served us for a blind. But I was so far from making any +advances in the sciences that I lost all my taste of them; and when I +was obliged to go from the sight of my dear mistress to my +philosophical exercises, it was with the utmost regret and +melancholy. Love is incapable of being concealed; a word, a look, nay +silence, speaks it. My scholars discovered it first: they saw I had +no longer that vivacity thought to which all things were easy: I +could now do nothing but write verses to sooth my passion. I quitted +Aristotle and his dry maxims, to practise the precepts of the more +ingenious Ovid. No day passed in which I did not compose amorous +verses. Love was my inspiring Apollo. My songs were spread abroad, +and gained me frequent applauses. Those whom were in love as I was +took a pride in learning them; and, by luckily applying my thoughts +and verses, have obtained favours which, perhaps, they could not +otherwise have gained. This gave our amours such an <I>eclat</I>, +that the loves of <I>Heloise</I> and <I>Abelard</I> were the subject +of all conversations. +</P> +<P>The town-talk at last reached Fulbert's ears. It was with great +difficulty he gave credit to what he heard, for he loved his niece, +and was prejudiced in my favour; but, upon closer examination, he +began to be less incredulous. He surprised us in one of our more soft +conversations. How fatal, sometimes, are the consequences of +curiosity! The anger of Fulbert seemed to moderate on this occasion, +and I feared in the end some more heavy revenge. It is impossible to +express the grief and regret which filled my soul when I was obliged +to leave the canon's house and my dear <I>Heloise</I>. But this +separation of our persons the more firmly united our minds; and the +desperate condition we were reduced to, made us capable of attempting +any thing. +</P> +<P>My intrigues gave me but little shame, so lovingly did I esteem +the occasion. Think what the gay young divinities said, when Vulcan +caught Mars and the goddess of Beauty in his net, and impute it all +to me. Fulbert surprised me with <I>Heloise</I>, and what man that +had a soul in him would not have borne any ignominy on the same +conditions? The next day I provided myself of a private lodging near +the loved house, being resolved not to abandon my prey. I continued +some time without appearing publickly. Ah, how long did those few +moments seem to me! When we fall from a state of happiness, with what +impatience do we bear our misfortunes! +</P> +<P>It being impossible that I could live without seeing <I>Heloise</I>, +I endeavoured to engage her servant, whose name was <I>Agaton</I>, in +my interest. She was brown, well shaped, a person superior to the +ordinary rank; her features regular, and her eyes sparkling; fit to +raise love in any man whose heart was not prepossessed by another +passion. I met her alone, and intreated her to have pity on a +distressed lover. She answered, she would undertake any thing to +serve me, but there was a reward.—At these words I opened my +purse and showed the shining metal, which lays asleep guards, forces +away through rocks, and softens the hearts of the most obdurate fair. +You are mistaken, said she, smiling, and shaking her head—you +do not know me. Could gold tempt me, a rich abbot takes his nightly +station, and sings under my window: he offers to send me to his +abbey, which, he says, is situate in the most pleasant country in the +world. A courtier offers me a considerable sum of money, and assures +me I need have no apprehensions; for if our amours have consequences, +he will marry me to his gentleman, and give him a handsome +employment. To say nothing of a young officer, who patroles about +here every night, and makes his attacks after all imaginable forms. +It must be Love only which could oblige him to follow me; for I have +not like your great ladies, any rings or jewels to tempt him: yet, +during all his siege of love, his feather and his embroidered coat +have not made any breach in my heart. I shall not quickly be brought +to capitulate, I am too faithful to my first conqueror—and then +she looked earnestly on me. I answered, I did not understand her +discourse. She replied, For a man of sense and gallantry you have a +very slow apprehension; I am in love with you <I>Abelard</I>. I know +you adore <I>Heloise</I>, I do not blame you; I desire only to enjoy +the second place in your affections. I have a tender heart as well as +my mistress; you may without difficulty make returns to my passion. +Do not perplex yourself with unfashionable scruples; a prudent man +ought to love several at the same time; if one should fail, he is not +then left unprovided. +</P> +<P>You cannot imagine, <I>Philintus</I>, how much I was surprised at +these words. So entirely did I love <I>Heloise</I> that without +reflecting whether Agaton spoke any thing reasonable or not, I +immediately left her. When I had gone a little way from her I looked +back, and saw her biting her nails in the rage of disappointment, +which made me fear some fatal consequences. She hastened to Fulbert, +and told him the offer I had made her, but I suppose concealed the +other part of the story. The Canon never forgave this affront. I +afterwards perceived he was more deeply concerned for his niece than +I at first imagined. Let no lover hereafter follow my example, A +woman rejected is an outrageous creature. Agaton was day and night at +her window on purpose to keep me at a distance from her mistress, and +so gave her own gallants opportunity enough to display their several +abilities. +</P> +<P>I was infinitely perplexed what course to take; at last I applied +to <I>Heloise</I> singing-master. The shining metal, which had no +effect on Agaton, charmed him; he was excellently qualified for +conveying a billet with the greatest dexterity and secrecy. He +delivered one of mine to <I>Heloise</I>, who, according to my +appointment was ready at the end of a garden, the wall of which I +scaled by a ladder of ropes. I confess to you all my failings, +<I>Philintus</I>. How would my enemies, Champeaux and Anselm, have +triumphed, had they seen the redoubted philosopher in such a wretched +condition? Well—I met my soul's joy, my <I>Heloise</I>. I shall +not describe our transports, they were not long; for the first news +<I>Heloise</I> acquainted me with plunged me in a thousand +distractions. A floating <I>delos</I> 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. +</P> +<P>This carrying off <I>Heloise</I> 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 <I>Heloise</I>. +</P> +<P>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 <I>Heloise</I> 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. +</P> +<P>I took a journey into Britany, in order to bring back my dear +<I>Heloise</I>, 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. +</P> +<P>I was unmoved by all this reasoning. <I>Heloise</I> 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 +<I>Abelard</I> should in earnest think of marrying <I>Heloise</I>? +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 <I>Heloise</I> 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. <I>Heloise</I> +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. +</P> +<P>But you say, you are sure of the affections of <I>Heloise</I> 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 <I>Heloise</I> 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 <I>Heloise</I>. +</P> +<P>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 <I>Heloise</I> retired among the +nuns of Argenteuil. +</P> +<P>I now thought Fulbert's anger disarmed; I lived in peace: but, +alas! our marriage proved but a weak defence against his revenge. +Observe, <I>Philintus</I>, 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 <I>Heloise</I>. 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;</P><BR> +<BLOCKQUOTE>"—O conjux, ego te scelereta peremi,<BR>—Te +fata extrema petente<BR>Vita digna fui? Moriar——&c. +</BLOCKQUOTE><BR> +<BLOCKQUOTE>O my lov'd lord! our fatal marriage draws<BR>On thee this +doom, and I the guilty cause!<BR>Then whilst thou go'st th' extremes +of Fate to prove,<BR>I'll share that fate, and expiate thus my love." +</BLOCKQUOTE><BR> +<P>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, +<I>Philintus</I>, the former calamity suffered by the cruelty of +Fulbert was nothing in comparison to this. +</P> +<P>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 <I>Heloise</I>. When I had settled her here, +can you believe it, <I>Philintus</I>? 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 +<I>Guildas</I>, where I now am, and where I now suffer every day +fresh persecutions. +</P> +<P>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 <I>Philintus</I>, 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 <I>Paraclete</I>, and wish to see it again. Ah, +<I>Philintus</I>! does not the love of <I>Heloise</I> still burn in +my heart<I>?</I> 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 <I>Heloise</I>, 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, <I>If +they have persecuted me, they will also persecute you; if the world +hate you, ye know that it hated me also</I>? Come <I>Philintus</I>, +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. +</P> +<P><BR><BR> +</P> +<H2 ALIGN=CENTER><A NAME="a_CHII"></A>LETTER II.</H2><BR> +<P ALIGN=CENTER><I>HELOISE to ABELARD.</I></P><BR> +<BLOCKQUOTE>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 <I>Heloise's</I> 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. +</BLOCKQUOTE><BR> +<BLOCKQUOTE>* 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 <I>Abelard</I>, <I>Heloise</I> +writes this.</BLOCKQUOTE><BR> +<BLOCKQUOTE>* <I>Domino suo, imo Patri; Conjugi suo, imo Fratri; +Ancilla sua, imo Filia; ipsius Uxor, imo Soror; Abaelardo Heloisa, +&c. Abel. Op. </I> +</BLOCKQUOTE><BR> +<P>A consolatory letter of yours to a friend happened some days since +to fall into my hands. My knowledge of the character, and my love of +the hand, soon gave me the curiosity to open it. In justification of +the liberty I took, I flattered myself I might claim a sovereign +privilege over every thing which came from you nor was I scrupulous +to break thro' the rules of good breeding, when it was to hear news +of <I>Abelard</I>. But how much did my curiosity cost me? what +disturbance did it occasion? and how was I surprised to find the +whole letter filled with a particular and melancholy account of our +misfortunes? I met with my name a hundred times; I never saw it +without fear: some heavy calamity always, followed it, I saw yours +too, equally unhappy. These mournful but dear remembrances, puts my +spirits into such a violent motion, that I thought it was too much to +offer comfort to a friend for a few slight disgraces by such +extraordinary means, as the representation of our sufferings and +revolutions. What reflections did I not make, I began to consider the +whole afresh, and perceived myself pressed with the same weight of +grief as when we first began to be miserable. Tho' length of time +ought to have closed up my wounds, yet the seeing them described by +your hand was sufficient to make them all open and bleed afresh. +Nothing can ever blot from my memory what you have suffered in +defence of your writings. I cannot help thinking of the rancorous +malice of Alberic and Lotulf. A cruel uncle and an injured lover, +will be always present to my aking sight. I shall never forget what +enemies your learning, and what envy your glory, raised against you. +I shall never forget your reputation, so justly acquired, torn to +pieces, and blasted by the inexorable cruelty of half-learned +pretenders to science. Was not your Treatise of Divinity condemned to +be burnt? Were you not threatened with perpetual imprisonment? In +vain you urged in your defence, that your enemies imposed on you +opinions quite different from your meaning; in vain you condemned +those opinions; all was of no effect towards your justification; it +was resolved you should be a heretic. What did not those two false +prophets† accuse you of, who declaimed so severely against you +before the Council of Sens? What scandals were vented on occasion of +the name Paraclete given to your chapel? What a storm was raised +against you by the treacherous monks, when you did them the honour to +be called their Brother? This history of our numerous misfortunes, +related in so true and moving a manner, made my heart bleed within +me. My tears, which I could not restrain, have blotted half your +letter: I wish they had effaced the whole and that I had returned it +to you in that condition. I should then have been satisfied with the +little time; kept it, but it was demanded of me too soon. +</P><BR> +<P>† St. +Bernard and St. Norbet. +</P><BR> +<P>I must confess I was much easier in my mind before I read your +letter. Sure all the misfortunes of lovers are conveyed to them thro' +their eyes. Upon reading your letter I felt all mine renewed, I +reproached myself for having been so long without venting my sorrows, +when the rage of our unrelenting enemies still burns with the same +fury. Since length of time, which disarms the strongest hatred, seems +but to aggravate theirs; since it is decreed that your virtue shall +be persecuted till it takes refuge in the grave, and even beyond +that, your ashes perhaps, will not be suffered to rest in peace,—let +me always meditate on your calamities, let me publish them thro' all +the world, if possible, to shame an age that has not known how to +value you. I will spare no one, since no one would interest himself +to protect you, and your enemies are never weary of oppressing your +innocence, Alas! my memory is perpetually filled with bitter +remembrances of past evils, and are there more to be feared still? +shall my <I>Abelard</I> be never mentioned without tears? shall thy +dear name be never spoken but with sighs? Observe, I beseech you, to +what a wretched condition you have reduced me: sad, afflicted, +without any possible comfort, unless it proceed from you. Be not then +unkind, nor deny, I beg you that little relief which you can only +give. Let me have a faithful account of all that concerns you. I +would know every thing, be it ever so unfortunate. Perhaps, by +mingling my sighs with yours, I may make your sufferings less, if +that observation be true, that all sorrows divided are made lighter. +</P> +<P>Tell me not, by way of excuse, you will spare our tears; the tears +of women, shut up in a melancholy place, and devoted to penitence, +are not to be spared. And if you wait for an opportunity to write +pleasant and agreeable things to us, you will delay writing too long. +Prosperity seldom chuses the side of the virtuous; and Fortune is so +blind, that in a crowd in which there is perhaps but one wife and +brave man, it is not to be expected she should single him out. Write +to me then immediately, and wait not for miracles; they are too +scarce, and we too much accustomed to misfortunes to expect any happy +turn. I shall always have this, if you please, and this will be +always agreeable to me, that when I receive any letters from you, I +shall know you still remember me. Seneca, (with whose writings you +made me acquainted,) as much a Stoic as he was, seemed to be so very +sensible of this kind of pleasure, that upon opening any letters from +Lucilius, he imagined he felt the same delight as when they conversed +together. +</P> +<P>I have made it an observation, since our absence, that we are much +fonder of the pictures of those we love, when they are at a great +distance, than when they are near to us. It seems to me, as if the +farther they are removed their pictures grow the more finished, and +acquire a greater resemblance; at least, our imagination, which +perpetually figures them to us by the desire we have of seeing them +again, makes us think so. By a peculiar power, Love can make that +seem life itself, which, as soon as the loved object returns, is +nothing but a little canvas and dead colours. I have your picture in +my room; I never pass by it without stopping to look at it; and yet +when you were present with me, I scarce ever cast my eyes upon it. If +a picture, which is but a mute representation of an object, can give +such pleasure, what cannot letters inspire? They have souls; they can +speak; they have in them all that force which expresses the +transports of the heart; they have all the fire of our passions; they +can raise them as much as if the persons themselves were present; +they have all the softness and delicacy of speech, and sometimes a +boldness of expression even beyond it. +</P> +<P>We may write to each other; so innocent a pleasure is not +forbidden us. Let us not lose, through negligence, the only happiness +which is left us, and the only one, perhaps, which the malice of our +enemies can never ravish from us. I shall read that you are my +husband, and you shall see me address you as a wife. In spite of all +your misfortunes, you may be what you please in your letter. Letters +were first invented for comforting such solitary wretches as myself. +Having lost the substantial pleasures of seeing and possessing you, I +shall in some measure compensate this loss by the satisfaction I +shall find in your writing. There I shall read your most secret +thoughts; I shall carry them always about me; I shall kiss them every +moment: if you can be capable of any jealousy, let it be for the fond +caresses I shall bestow on your letters, and envy only the happiness +of those rivals. That writing may be no trouble to you, write always +to me carelessly, and without study: I had rather read the dictates +of the heart than of the brain. I cannot live if you do not tell me +you always love me; but that language ought to be so natural to you, +that I believe you cannot speak otherwise to me without great +violence to yourself. And since, by that melancholy relation to your +friend, you have awakened all my sorrows, it is but reasonable you +should allay them by some marks of an inviolable love. +</P> +<P>I do not, however, reproach you for the innocent artifice you made +use of to comfort a person in affliction, by comparing his misfortune +to another much greater. Charity is ingenious in finding out such +pious artifices, and to be commended for using them. But do you owe +nothing more to us than to that friend, be the friendship between you +ever so intimate? We are called your sisters; we call ourselves your +Children; and if it were possible to think of any expression which +could signify a dearer relation, or a more affectionate regard and +mutual obligation between us, we would use them: if we could be so +ungrateful as not to speak our just acknowledgments to you, this +church, these altars, these Walls, would reproach our silence, and +speak for us, But without leaving it to that, it will be always a +pleasure to me to say, that you only are the founder of this house; +it is wholly your work. You, by inhabiting here, have given fame and +function to a place known before only for robberies and murders. You +have, in the literal sense, made the den of thieves a house of +prayer. These cloisters owe nothing to public charities; our walls +were not raised by the usury of publicans, nor their foundations laid +in base extortion. The God whom we serve sees nothing but innocent +riches and harmless votaries, whom you have placed here. Whatever +this young vineyard is, is owing all to you; and it is your part to +employ your whole care to cultivate and improve it; this ought to be +one of the principal affairs of your life. Though our holy +renunciation, our vows, and our manner of life, seem to secure us +from all temptations; though our walls and grates prohibit all +approaches, yet it is the outside only, the bark of the tree is +covered from injuries; while the sap of original corruption may +imperceptibly spread within, even to the heart, and prove fatal to +the most promising plantation, unless continual care be taken to +cultivate and secure it. Virtue in us is grafted upon Nature and the +Woman; the one is weak, and the other is always changeable. To plant +the Lord's vine is a work of no little labour; and after it is +planted it will require great application and diligence to manure it. +The Apostle of the Gentiles; as great a labourer as he was, says, <I>He +hath planted, and Apollo hath watered; but it is God that giveth the +increase.</I> Paul had planted the Gospel among the Corinthians, by +his holy and earnest preaching; <I>Apollos</I>, a zealous disciple of +that great master, continued to cultivate it by frequent +exhortations; and the grace of God, which their constant prayers, +implored for that church, made the endeavours of both successful. +</P> +<P>This ought to be an example for your conduct towards us. I know +you are not slothful; yet your labours are not directed to us; your +cares are wasted upon a set of men whose thoughts are only earthly, +and you refuse to reach out your hand to support those who are weak +and staggering in their way to heaven, and who, with all their +endeavours, can scarcely preserve themselves from falling. You fling +the pearls of the gospel before swine, when you speak to those who +are filled with the good things of this world, and nourished with the +fatness of the earth; and you neglect the innocent sheep, who, tender +as they are, would yet follow you thro' deserts and mountains. Why +are such pains thrown away upon the ungrateful, while not a thought +is bestowed upon your children, whose souls would be filled with a +sense of your goodness? But why should I intreat you in the name of +your children? Is it possible I should fear obtaining any thing of +you, when I ask it in my own name? And must I use any other prayers +than my own to prevail upon you? The St. Austins, Tertullians, and +Jeromes, have wrote to the Eudoxas, Paulas, and Melanias; and can you +read those names, though of saints, and not remember mine? Can it be +criminal for you to imitate St. Jerome, and discourse with me +concerning the Scripture? or Tertullian, and preach mortification? or +St. Austin, and explain to me the nature of grace? Why should I only +reap no advantage from your learning? When you write to me, you will +write to your wife. Marriage has made such a correspondence lawful; +and since you can, without giving the least scandal, satisfy me, why +will you not? I have a barbarous uncle, whose inhumanity is a +security against any criminal desire which tenderness and the +remembrance of our past enjoyments might inspire. There is nothing +that can cause you any fear; you need not fly to conquer. You may see +me, hear my sighs, and be a witness of all my sorrows, without +incurring any danger, since you can only relieve me with tears and +words. If I have put myself into a cloister with reason, persuade me +to continue in it with devotion: you have been the occasion of all my +misfortunes, you therefore must be the instrument of all my comforts. +</P> +<P>You cannot but remember, (for what do not lovers remember?) with +what pleasure I have past whole days in hearing your discourse. How, +when you were absent, I shut myself from everyone to write to you; +how uneasy I was till my letter had come to your hands; what artful +management it required to engage confidents. This detail, perhaps, +surprises you, and you are in pain for what will fellow. But I am no +longer ashamed that my passion has had no bounds for you; for I have +done more than all this: I have hated myself that I might love you; I +came hither to ruin myself in a perpetual imprisonment, that I might +make you live quiet and easy. Nothing but virtue, joined to a love +perfectly disengaged from the commerce of the senses, could have +produced such effect. Vice never inspires any thing like this; it is +too much enslaved to the body. When we love pleasures, we love the +living, and not the dead; we leave off burning with desire for those +who can no longer burn for us. This was my cruel uncle's notions; he +measured my virtue by the frailty of my sex, and thought it was the +man, and not the person, I loved. But he has been guilty to no +purpose. I love you more than ever; and to revenge myself of him, I +will still love you with all the tenderness of my soul till the last +moment of my life. If formerly my affection for you was not so pure, +if in those days the mind and the body shared in the pleasure of +loving you, I often told you, even then, that I was more pleased with +possessing your heart than with any other happiness, and the man was +the thing I least valued in you. +</P> +<P>You cannot but be entirely persuaded of this by the extreme +unwillingness I showed to marry you: tho' I knew that the name of +Wife was honourable in the world, and holy in religion, yet the name +of your mistress had greater charms, because it was more free. The +bonds of matrimony, however honourable, still bear with them a +necessary engagement; and I was very unwilling to be necessitated to +love always a man who, perhaps, would not always love me. I despised +the name of Wife, that I might live happy with that of Mistress; and +I find, by your letter to your friend, you have not forgot that +delicacy of passion in a woman who loved you always with the utmost +tenderness, and yet wished to love you more, you have very justly +observed in your letter, that I esteemed those public engagements +insipid which form alliances only to be dissolved by death, and which +put life and love under the same unhappy necessity. But you have not +added how often I have made protestations that it was infinitely +preferable to me to live with <I>Abelard</I> as his mistress than +with any other as empress of the world, and that I was more happy in +obeying you, than I should have been in lawfully captivating the lord +of the universe. Riches and pomp are not the charms of love. True +tenderness make us to separate the lover from all that is external to +him, and setting aside his quality, fortune, and employments, +consider him singly by himself. +</P> +<P>'Tis not love, but the desire of riches and honour, which makes +women run into the embraces of an indolent husband. Ambition, not +affection, forms such marriages. I believe indeed they may be +followed with some honours and advantages, but I can never think that +this is the way to enjoy the pleasures of an affectionate union, nor +to feel those secret and charming emotions of hearts that have long +strove to be united. These martyrs of marriage pine always for large +fortunes, which they think they have lost. The wife sees husbands +richer that her own, and the husband wives better portioned than his. +Their interested vows occasion regret, and regret produces hatred. +They soon part, or always desire it. This restless and tormenting +passion punishes them for aiming at other advantages of love than +love itself. +</P> +<P>If there is any thing which may properly be called happiness here +below, I am persuaded it is in the union of two persons who love each +other with perfect liberty, who are united by a secret inclination, +and satisfied with each other's merit; their hearts are full and +leave no vacancy for any other passion; they enjoy perpetual +tranquillity, because they enjoy content. +</P> +<P>If I could believe you as truly persuaded of my merit as I am of +yours, I might say there has been such a time when we were such a +pair. Alas! how was it possible I should not be certain of your +merit? If I could ever have doubted it, the universal esteem would +have made me determine in your favour. What country, what city, has +not desired your presence? Could you ever retire but you drew the +eyes and hearts of all after you? Did not every one rejoice in having +seen you? Even women, breaking through the laws of decorum, which +custom had imposed upon them, showed manifestly they felt something +more for you than esteem. I have known some who have been profuse in +their husband's praises, who have yet envied my happiness, and given +strong intimations they could have refused you nothing. But what +could resist you? Your reputation, which so much soothed the vanity +of our sex; your air, your manner; that life in your eyes, which so +admirably expressed the vivacity of your mind; your conversation with +that ease and elegance which gave every thing you spoke such an +agreeable and insinuating turn; in short, every thing spoke for you; +very different from some mere scholars, who, with all their learning, +have not the capacity to keep up an ordinary conversation, and with +all their wit cannot win the affection of women who have a much less +share than themselves. +</P> +<P>With what ease did you compose verses? and yet those ingenious +trifles, which were but a recreation after your more serious studies, +are still the entertainment and delight of persons of the best taste. +The smallest song, nay, the least sketch of any thing you made for +me, had a thousand beauties capable of making it last as long as +there are love or lovers in the world. Thus those songs will be sung +in honour of other women which you designed only for me? and those +tender and natural expressions which spoke your love will help others +to explain their passion, with much more advantage than what they +themselves are capable of. +</P> +<P>What rivals did your gallantries of this kind occasion me? How +many ladies laid claim to them? 'Twas a tribute their self-love paid +to their beauty. How many have I seen with sighs declare their +passion for you, when, after some common visit you had made them, +they chanced to be complimented for the Sylvia of your poems? others, +in despair and envy, have reproached me, that I had no charms but +what your wit bestowed on me, nor in any thing the advantage over +them but in being beloved by you. Can you believe if I tell you, +that, notwithstanding the vanity of my sex, I thought myself +peculiarly happy in having a lover to whom I was obliged for my +charms, and took a secret pleasure in being admired by a man who, +when he pleased, could raise his mistress to the character of a +goddess? Pleased with your glory only, I read with delight all those +praises you offered me, and without reflecting how little I deserved, +I believed myself such as you described me, that I might be more +certain I pleased you. +</P> +<P>But oh! where is that happy time fled? I now lament my lover, and +of all my joys there remains nothing but the painful remembrance that +<I>they are past</I>. Now learn, all you my rivals who once viewed my +happiness with such jealous eyes, that he you once envied me can +never more be yours or mine. I loved him, my love was his crime, and +the cause of his punishment. My beauty once charmed him: pleased with +each other, we passed our brightest days in tranquillity and +happiness. If that was a crime, 'tis a crime I am yet fond of, and I +have no other regret, than that against my will I must necessarily be +innocent. But what do I say? My misfortune was to have cruel +relations, whose malice disturbed the calm we enjoyed. Had they been +capable of the returns of reason, I had now been happy in the +enjoyment of my dear husband. Oh! how cruel were they when their +blind fury urged a villain to surprise you in your sleep! Where was +I? Where was your <I>Heloise</I> then? What joy should I have had in +defending my lover! I would have guarded you from violence, though at +the expence of my life; my cries and the shrieks alone would have +stopped the hand.—! Oh! whither does the excess of passion +hurry me? Here love is shocked, and modesty, joined with despair, +deprive me of words. 'Tis eloquence to be silent, where no expression +can reach the greatness of the misfortune. +</P> +<P>But, tell me, whence proceeds your neglect of me since my being +professed? You know nothing moved me to it but your disgrace, nor did +I give any consent but yours. Let me hear what is the occasion of +your coldness, or give me leave to tell you now my opinion. Was it +not the sole view of pleasure which engaged you to me? and has not my +tenderness, by leaving you nothing to wish for, extinguished your +desires? Wretched <I>Heloise</I>! You could please when you wished to +avoid it; you merited incense, when you could remove to a distance +the hand that offered it; but since your heart has been softened, and +has yielded; since you have devoted and sacrificed yourself, you are +deserted and forgotten. I am convinced, by sad experience, that it is +natural to avoid those to whom we have been too much obliged; and +that uncommon generosity produces neglect rather than +acknowledgement. My heart surrendered too soon to gain the esteem of +the conqueror; you took it without difficulty, and give it up easily. +But, ungrateful as you are, I will never content to it. And though in +this place I ought not to retain a wish of my own, yet I have ever +secretly preserved the desire of being beloved by you. When I +pronounced my sad vow, I then had about me your last letter, in which +you protested you would be wholly mine, and would never live but to +love me. 'Tis to you, therefore, I have offered myself; you had my +heart, and I had yours; do not demand any thing back; you must bear +with my passion as a thing which of right belongs to you, and from +which you can no ways be disengaged. +</P> +<P>Alas! what folly is it to talk at this rate? I see nothing here +but marks of the Deity, and I speak of nothing but man! You have been +the cruel occasion of this by your conduct. Unfaithful man! ought you +at once to break off loving me. Why did you not deceive me for a +while, rather than immediately abandon me? If you had given me at +least but some faint signs even of a dying passion, I myself had +favoured the deception. But in vain would I flatter myself that you +could be constant; you have left me no colour of making your excuse. +I am earnestly desirous to see you; but if that be impossible, I will +content myself with a few lines from your hand. Is it so hard for one +who loves to write? I ask for none of your letters filled with +learning, and writ for reputation; all I desire is such letters as +the heart dictates, and which the hand can scarce write fast enough. +How did I deceive myself with the hopes that you would be wholly mine +when I took the veil, and engaged myself to live for ever under your +laws? For in being professed, I vowed no more than to be yours only, +and I obliged myself voluntarily to a confinement in which you +desired to place me. Death only then can make me leave the place +where you have fixed me; and then too, my ashes shall rest, here and +wait for your, in order to shew my obedience and devotedness to you +to the latest moment possible. +</P> +<P>Why should I conceal from you the secret of my call? You know it +was neither zeal nor devotion which led me to the cloister. Your +conscience is too faithful a witness to permit you to disown it. Yet +here I am, and here I will remain; to this place an unfortunate love, +and my cruel relations, have condemned me. But if you do not continue +your concern for me, If I lose your affection, what have I gained by +my imprisonment? What recompense can I hope for? The unhappy +consequence of a criminal conduit, and your disgraces, have put on me +this habit of chastity, and not the sincere desire of being truly +penitent. Thus I strive and labour in vain. Among those whose are +wedded to God I serve a man: among the heroic supporters of the +Cross, I am a poor slave to a human passion: at the head of a +religious community I am devoted to <I>Abelard</I> only. What a +prodigy am I? Enlighten me, O Lord! Does thy grace or my own despair +draw these words from me? I am sensible I am in the Temple of +Chastity, covered only with the ashes of that fire which hath +consumed us. I am here, I confess, a sinner, but one who, far from +weeping for her sins, weeps only for her lover; far from abhorring +her crimes, endeavours only to add to them; and who, with a weakness +unbecoming the state I am in, please myself continually with the +remembrance of past actions, when it is impossible to renew them. +</P> +<P>Good God! what is all this! I reproach myself for my own faults, I +accuse you for yours, and to what purpose? Veiled as I am, behold in +what a disorder you have plunged me! How difficult is it to fight +always for duty against inclination? I know what obligations this +veil lays on me, but I feel more strongly what power a long habitual +passion has over my heart. I am conquered by my inclination. My love +troubles my mind, and disorders my will. Sometimes I am swayed by the +sentiments of piety which arise in me, and the next moment I yield up +my imagination to all that is amorous and tender. I tell you to-day +what I would not have said to you yesterday. I had resolved to love +you no more; I considered I had made a vow, taken the veil, and am as +it were dead and buried; yet there rises unexpectedly from the bottom +of my heart a passion which triumphs over all these notions, and +darkens all my reason and devotion. You reign in such inward retreats +of my soul, that I know not where to attack you. When I endeavour to +break those chains by which I am bound to you, I only deceive myself, +and all the efforts I am able to make serve but to bind them the +faster. Oh, for Pity's sake help a wretch to renounce her desires +herself, and if it be possible, even to renounce you! If you are a +lover, a father, help a mistress, comfort a child! These tender +names, cannot they move you? Yield either to pity or love. If you +gratify my request I shall continue a Religious without longer +profaning my calling. I am ready to humble myself with you to the +wonderful providence of God, who does all things for our +sanctification; who, by his grace, pacifies all that is vicious and +corrupt in the principle, and; by the inconceivable riches of his +mercy, draws us to himself against our wishes, and by degrees opens +our eyes to discern the greatness of his bounty, which at first we +would not understand. +</P> +<P>I thought to end my letter here. But now I am complaining against +you, I must unload my heart, and tell you all its jealousies, and +reproaches. Indeed I thought it something hard, that when we had both +engaged to consecrate ourselves to Heaven, you should insist upon +doing it first. Does <I>Abelard</I> then, said I, suspect he shall +see renewed in me the example of Lot's wife, who could not forbear +looking back when she left Sodom? If my youth and sex might give +occasion of fear that I should return to the world, could not my +behaviour, my fidelity, and this heart which you ought to know, could +not banish such ungenerous apprehensions? This distrustful foresight +touched me sensibly. I said to myself, there was a time when he could +rely upon my bare word, and does he now want vows to secure himself +of me? What occasion have I given him in the whole course of my life +to admit the least suspicion? I could meet him at all his +assignations, and would I decline following him to the feats of +holiness? I who have not refused to be a victim of pleasure to +gratify him, can he think I would refuse to be a sacrifice of honour +to obey him? Has Vice such charms to well-born souls? and, when we +have once drank of the cup of sinners, is it with such difficulty +that we take the chalice of saints? Or did you believe yourself a +greater master to teach vice than virtue, or did you think it was +more easy to persuade me to the first than the latter? No, this +suspicion would be injurious to both. Virtue is too amiable not to be +embraced, when you reveal her charms; and Vice too hideous not to be +avoided, when you show her deformities. Nay, when you please, any +thing seems lovely to me, and nothing is frightful or difficult when +you are by. I am only weak when I am alone and unsupported by you, +and therefore it depends on you alone that I may be such as you +desire. I wish to Heav'n you had not such a power over me. If you had +any occasion to fear, you would be less negligent. But what is there +for you to fear? I have done too much, and now have nothing more to +do but to triumph over your ingratitude. When we lived happy +together, you might have made it doubt whether pleasure or affection +united me more to you; but the place from whence I write to you must +now have entirely taken away that doubt. Even here I love you as much +as ever I did in the world. If I had loved pleasures, could I not yet +have found means to have gratified myself? I was not above twenty-two +years old; and there were other men left though I was deprived of +<I>Abelard</I> and yet did I not bury myself alive in a nunnery, and +triumph over love, at an age capable of enjoying it in its full +latitude? 'Tis to you I sacrifice these remains of a transitory +beauty, these widowed nights and tedious days which I pass without +seeing you; and since you cannot possess them, I take them from you +to offer them to Heaven, and to make, alas! but a secondary oblation +of my heart, my days, and my life! +</P> +<P>I am sensible I have dwelt too long on this head; I ought to speak +less to you of your misfortunes, and of my own sufferings, for love +of you. We tarnish the lustre of our most beautiful actions when we +applaud them ourselves. This is true, and yet there is a time when we +may with decency commend ourselves; when we have to do with those +whom base ingratitude has stupefied, we cannot too much praise our +own good actions. Now, if you were of this sort of men, this would be +a home-reflection on you. Irresolute as I am, I still love you, and +yet I must hope for nothing, I have renounced life, and stripped +myself of every thing, but I find I neither have nor can renounce my +<I>Abelard</I>. Though I have lost my lover, I still preserve my +love. O vows! O convent! I have not lost my humanity under your +inexorable discipline! You have not made me marble by changing my +habit. My heart is not totally hardened by my perpetual imprisonment; +I am still sensible to what has touched me, though, alas I ought +not to be so. Without offending your commands, permit a lover to +exhort me to live in obedience to your rigorous rules. Your yoke will +be lighter, if that hand support me under it; your exercises will be +amiable, if he shows me their advantage. Retirement, solitude! you +will not appear terrible, if I may but still know I have any place in +his memory. A heart which has been so sensibly affected as mine +cannot soon be indifferent. We fluctuate long between love and hatred +before we can arrive at a happy tranquillity, and we always flatter +ourselves with some distant hope that we shall not be quite +forgotten. +</P> +<P>Yes, <I>Abelard</I>, I conjure you by the chains I bear here to +ease the weight of them, and make them as agreeable as I wish they +were to me. Teach me the maxims of divine love. Since you have +forsaken me, I glory in being wedded to Heaven. My heart adores that +title, and disdains any other. Tell me how this divine love is +nourished, how it operates, and purifies itself. When we were tossed +in the ocean of the world, we could hear of nothing but your verses, +which published every where our joys and our pleasures: now we are in +the haven of grace, is it not fit that you should discourse to me of +this happiness, and teach me every thing which might improve and +heighten it? Shew me the same complaisance in my present condition as +you did when we were in the world. Without changing the ardour of our +affections, let us change their object; let us leave our songs, and +sing hymns; let us lift up our hearts to God, and have no transports +but for his glory. +</P> +<P>I expect this from you as a thing you cannot refuse me. God has a +peculiar right over the hearts of great men which he has created. +When he pleases to touch them, he ravishes them, and lets them not +speak nor breathe but for his glory. Till that moment of grace +arrives, O think of me——do not forget me;—remember +my love, my fidelity, my constancy; love me as your mistress, cherish +me as your child, your sister, your wife. Consider that I still love +you, and yet strive to avoid loving you. What a word, what a design +is this! I shake with horror, and my heart revolts against what I +say. I shall blot all my paper with tears—I end my long letter, +wishing you, if you can desire it, (would to Heaven I could,) for +ever adieu. +</P> +<P ALIGN=CENTER><BR><BR> +</P> +<P ALIGN=CENTER>ADVERTISEMENT. +</P><BR> +<P>That the reader may make a right judgment on the following Letter, +it is proper he should be informed of the condition <I>Abelard</I> +was in when he wrote it. The Duke of Britany whose subject he was +born, jealous of the glory of France, which then engrossed all the +most famous scholars of Europe, and being, besides, acquainted with +the persecution <I>Abelard</I> had suffered from his enemies, had +nominated him to the Abbey of St. Gildas, and, by this benefaction +and mark of his esteem, engaged him to past the rest of his days in +his dominions. He received this favour with great joy, imagining, +that by leaving France he should lose his passion, and gain a new +turn of mind upon entering into his new dignity. The Abbey of St. +Gildas is seated upon a rock, which the sea beats with its waves. +<I>Abelard</I>, who had lain on himself the necessity of vanquishing +a passion which absence had in a great measure weakened, endeavoured +in this solitude to extinguish the remains of it by his tears. But +upon his receiving the foregoing letter he could not resist so +powerful an attack, but proves as weak and as much to be pitied as +<I>Heloise</I>. 'Tis not then a master or director that speaks to +her, but a man who had loved her, and loves her still: and under this +character we are to consider <I>Abelard</I> when he wrote the +following Letter. If he seems, by some passages in it, to have begun +to feel the motions of divine grace they appear as yet to be only by +starts, and without any uniformity. +</P> +<P><BR><BR> +</P> +<H2 ALIGN=CENTER><A NAME="a_CHIII"></A>LETTER III.</H2><BR> +<P ALIGN=CENTER><I>Abelard</I> to <I>Heloise.</I> +</P><BR> +<P>Could I have imagined that a letter not written to yourself could +have fallen into your hands, I had been more cautious not to have +inserted any thing in it which might awaken the memory of our past +misfortunes. I described with boldness the series of my disgraces to +a friend, in order to make him less sensible of the loss he had +sustained. If by this well meaning artifice I have disturbed you, I +purpose here to dry up those tears which the sad description +occasioned you to shed: I intend to mix my grief with yours, and pour +out my heart before you; in short, to lay open before your eyes all +my trouble, and the secrets of my soul, which my vanity has hitherto +made me conceal from the rest of the world, and which you now force +from me, in spite of my resolutions to the contrary. +</P> +<P>It is true, that in a sense of the afflictions which had befallen +us, and observing that no change of our condition was to be expected; +that those prosperous days which had seduced us were now past, and +there remained nothing but to eraze out of our minds, by painful +endeavours, all marks and remembrance of them, I had wished to find +in philosophy and religion a remedy for my disgrace; I searched out +an asylum to secure me from love. I was come to the sad experiment of +making vows to harden my heart. But what have I gained by this? If my +passion has been put under a restraint, my ideas yet remain. I +promise myself that I will forget you, and yet cannot think of it +without loving you; and am pleased with that thought. My love is not +at all weakened by those reflections I make in order to free myself. +The silence I am surrounded with makes me more sensible to its +impressions; and while I am unemployed with any other things, this +makes itself the business of my whole vacation; till, after a +multitude of useless endeavours, I begin to persuade myself that it +is a superfluous trouble to drive to free myself; and that it is +wisdom sufficient if I can conceal from every one but you my +confusion and weakness. +</P> +<P>I removed to a distance from your person, with an intention of +avoiding you as an enemy; and yet I incessantly seek for you in my +mind; I recall your image in my memory; and in such different +disquietudes I betray and contradict myself. I hate you: I love you. +Shame presses me on all sides: I am at this moment afraid lest I +should seem more indifferent than you, and yet I am ashamed to +discover my trouble. +</P> +<P>How weak are we in ourselves, if we do not support ourselves on +the cross of Christ? Shall we have so little courage, and shall that +uncertainty your heart labours with, of serving two masters, affect +mine too? You see the confusion I am in, what I blame myself for, and +what I suffer. Religion commands me to pursue virtue, since I have +nothing to hope for from love. But love still preserves its dominion +in my fancy, and entertains itself with past pleasures. Memory +supplies the place of a mistress. Piety and duty are not always the +fruits of retirement; even in deserts, when the dew of heaven falls +not on us, we love what we ought no longer to love. The passions, +stirred up by solitude, fill those regions of death and silence; and +it is very seldom that what ought to be is truly followed there, and +that God only is loved and served. Had I always had such notions as +these, I had instructed you better. You call me your Master 'tis +true, you were intrusted to my care. I saw you, I was earnest to +teach you vain sciences; it cost you your innocence, and me my +liberty. Your uncle, who was fond of you, became therefore me enemy, +and revenge himself on me. If now, having lost the power of +satisfying my passion, I had lost too that of loving you, I should +have some consolation. My enemies would have given me that +tranquillity which Origen purchased by a crime. How miserable am I! +My misfortune does not loose my chains, my passion grows furious by +impotence; and that desire I still have for you amidst all my +disgraces makes me more unhappy than the misfortune itself. I find +myself much more guilty in my thoughts of you, even amidst my tears, +than in possessing yourself when I was in full liberty. I continually +think of you, I continually call to mind that day when you bestowed +on me the first marks of your tenderness. In this condition, O Lord! +if I run to prostrate myself before thy altars, if I beseech thee to +pity me, why does not the pure flame of thy Spirit consume the +sacrifice that is offered to thee? Cannot this habit of penitence +which I wear interest Heaven to treat me more favourably? But that is +still inexorable; because my passion still lives in me, the fire is +only covered over with deceitful ashes, and cannot be extinguished +but by extraordinary graces. We deceive men, but nothing is hid from +God. +</P> +<P>You tell me, that it is for me you live under that veil which +covers you; why do you profane your vocation with such words? Why +provoke a jealous God by a blasphemy? I hoped, after our separation, +you would have changed your sentiments; I hoped too, that God would +have delivered me from the tumult of my senses, and that contrariety +which reigns in my heart. We commonly die to the affections of those +whom we see no more, and they to ours: absence is the tomb of love. +But to me absence is an unquiet remembrance of what I once loved, +which continually torments me. I flattered myself, that when I should +see you no more, you would only rest in my memory, without giving any +trouble to my mind; that Britany and the sea would inspire other +thoughts; that my fasts and studies would by degrees eraze you out of +my heart; but in spite of severe fasts and redoubled studies, in +spite of the distance of three hundred miles which separates us, your +image, such as you describe yourself in your veil, appears to me, and +confounds all my resolutions. +</P> +<P>What means have I not used? I have armed my own hands against +myself? I have exhausted my strength in constant exercises; I comment +upon St. Paul; I dispute with Aristotle; in short, I do all I used to +do before I loved you, but all in vain; nothing can be successful +that opposes you. Oh! do not add to my miseries by your constancy; +forget, if you can, your favours, and that right which they claim +over me; permit me to be indifferent. I envy their happiness who have +never loved; how quiet and easy are they! But the tide of pleasures +has always a reflux of bitterness. I am but too much convinced now of +this; but though I am no longer deceived by love, I am not cured: +while my reason condemns it, my heart declares for it. I am +deplorable that I have not the ability to free myself from a passion +which so many circumstances, this place, my person, and my disgraces, +tend to destroy. I yield, without considering that a resistance would +wipe out my past offences, and would procure me in their stead merit +and repose. Why should you use eloquence to reproach me for my +flight, and for my silence? Spare the recital of our assignations, +and your constant exactness to them; without calling up such +disturbing thoughts, I have enough to suffer. What great advantages +would philosophy give us over other men, if by studying it we could +learn to govern our passions? but how humbled ought we to be when we +cannot master them? What efforts, what relapses, what agitations, do +we undergo? and how long are we tossed in this confusion, unable to +exert our reason, to possess our souls, or to rule our affections?</P> +<P>What a troublesome employment is love! and how valuable is virtue +even upon consideration of our own ease! Recoiled your extravagances +of passion, guess at my distractions: number up our cares, if +possible, our griefs, and our inquietudes; throw these things out of +the account, and let love have all its remaining softness and +pleasure. How little is that? and, yet for such shadows of +enjoyments, which at first appeared to us, are we so weak our whole +lives that we cannot now help writing to each other, covered as we +are with sackcloth and ashes! How much happier should we be, if, by +our humiliation and tears, we could make our repentance sure! The +love of pleasure is not eradicated out of the soul but by +extraordinary efforts; it has so powerful a party in our breasts, +that we find it difficult to condemn it ourselves. What abhorrence +can I be said to have of my sins, if the objects of them are always +amiable to me? How can I separate from the person I love the passion +I must detest? Will the tears I shed be sufficient to render it +odious to me? I know not how it happens, there is always a pleasure +in weeping for a beloved object. 'Tis difficult in our sorrow to +distinguish penitence from love. The memory of the crime, and the +memory of the object which has charmed us, are too nearly related to +be immediately separated: and the love of God in its beginning does +not wholly annihilate the love of the creature. But what excuses +could I not find in you, if the crime were excusable? Unprofitable +honour, troublesome riches, could never tempt me; but those charms, +that beauty, that air, which I yet behold at this instant, have +occasioned my fall. Your looks were the beginning of my guilt; your +eyes, your discourse, pierced my heart; and in spite of that ambition +and glory which filled it, and offered to make defence, love soon +made itself master. God, in order to punish me, forsook me. His +providence permitted those consequences which have since happened. +You are no longer of the world; you have renounced it; I am a +Religious, devoted to solitude; shall we make no advantage of our +condition? Would you destroy my piety in its infant-state? Would you +have me forsake the convent into which I am but newly entered? Must I +renounce my vows? I have made them in the presence of God; whither +shall I fly from his wrath if I violate them? Suffer me to seek for +ease in my duty; how difficult it is to procure that! I pass whole +days and nights alone in this cloister, without closing my eyes. My +love burns fiercer, amidst the happy indifference of those who +surround me, and my heart is at once pierced with your sorrows and +its own. Oh what a loss have I sustained, when I consider your +constancy! What pleasures have I missed enjoying! I ought not to +confess this weakness to you: I am sensible I commit a fault: if I +could have showed more firmness of mind, I should, perhaps, have +provoked your resentment against me, and your anger might work that +effect in you which your virtue could not. If in the world I +published my weakness by verses and love-songs, ought not the dark +cells of this house to conceal that weakness, at least, under an +appearance of piety? Alas! I am still the same! or if I avoid the +evil, I cannot do the good; and yet I ought to join both, in order to +make this manner of living profitable. But how difficult is this in +the trouble which surrounds me? Duty, reason, and decency, which, +upon other occasions have such power over me, are here entirely +useless. The gospel is a language I do not understand, when it +opposes my passion. Those oaths which I have taken before the holy +altar, are feeble helps when opposed to you. Amidst so many voices +which call me to my duty, I hear and obey nothing but the secret +dictates of a desperate passion. Void of all relish for virtue, any +concern for my condition, or any application to my studies, I am +continually present by my imagination where I ought not to be, and I +find I have no power, when I would at any time correct it. I feel a +perpetual strife between my inclination and my duty. I find myself +entirely a distracted lover; unquiet in the midst of silence, and +restless in this abode of peace and repose. How shameful is such a +condition! +</P> +<P>Consider me no more, I intreat you, as a founder, or any great +personage; your encomiums do but ill agree with such multiplied +weaknesses. I am a miserable sinner, prostrate before my Judge, and, +with my face pressed to the earth, I mix my tears and my sighs in the +dust, when the beams of grace and reason enlighten me. Come, see me +in this posture, and solicit me to love you! Come, if you think fit, +and in your holy habit thrust yourself between God and me and be a +wall of separation! Come, and force from me those sighs, thoughts, +and vows, which I owe to him only. Assist the evil spirits, and be +the instrument of their malice. What cannot you induce a heart to, +whose weakness you so perfectly know? But rather withdraw yourself, +and contribute to my salvation. Suffer me to avoid destruction, I +intreat you, by our former tenderest affection, and by our common +misfortune. It will always be the highest love to show none. I here +release you of all your oaths and engagements. Be God's wholly, to +whom you are appropriated; I will never oppose so pious a design. How +happy shall I be if I thus lose you! then shall I be indeed a +Religious, and you a perfect example of an Abbess. +</P> +<P>Make yourself amends by so glorious a choice; make your virtue a +spectacle worthy men and angels: be humble among your children, +assiduous in your choir, exact in your discipline, diligent in your +reading; make even your recreations useful. Have you purchased your +vocation at so slight a rate, as that you should not turn it to the +best advantage? Since you have permitted yourself to be abused by +false doctrine, and criminal instructions, resist not those +good-counsels which grace and religion inspire me with. I will +confess to you, I have thought myself hitherto an abler master to +instill vice than to excite virtue, My false eloquence has only set +off false good. My heart drunk with voluptuousness, could only +suggest terms proper and moving to recommend that. The cup of sinners +overflows with so inchanting a sweetness and we are naturally so much +inclined to taste it, that it needs only be offered to us. On the +other hand, the chalice of saints is filled with a bitter draught, +and nature starts from it. And yet you reproach me with cowardice for +giving it you first; I willingly submit to these accusations. I +cannot enough admire the readiness you showed to take the religious +habit: bear, therefore, with courage the Cross, which you have taken +up so resolutely. Drink of the chalice of saints, even to the bottom, +without turning your eyes with uncertainty upon me, Let me remove far +from you, and obey the apostle, who hath said, <I>Fly.</I> +</P> +<P>You intreat me to return, under a pretence of devotion, Your +earnestness in this point creates a suspicion in me, and makes me +doubtful how to answer you. Should I commit an error here, my words +would blush, if I may say so, after the history of my misfortunes. +The Church is jealous of its glory, and commands that her children +should be induced to the practice of virtue by virtuous means. When +we have approached God after an unblameable manner, we may then with +boldness invite others to him. But to forget <I>Heloise</I>, to see +her no more, is what Heaven demands of <I>Abelard</I>; and to expect +nothing from <I>Abelard</I>, to lose him even in idea, is what Heaven +enjoins <I>Heloise</I>. To forget in the case of love is the most +necessary penitence, and the most difficult. It is easy to recount +our faults. How many through indiscretion have made themselves a +second pleasure of this, instead of confessing them with humility. +The only way to return to God is, by neglecting the creature which we +have adored, and adoring God whom we have neglected. This may appear +harsh, but it must be done if we would be saved. +</P> +<P>To make it more easy, observe why I pressed you to your vow before +I took mine; and pardon my sincerity, and the design I have of +meriting your neglect and hatred, if I conceal nothing from you of +the particular you inquire after. When I saw myself so oppressed with +my misfortune, my impotency made me jealous, and I considered all +men as my rivals. Love has more of distrust than assurance. I was +apprehensive of abundance of things, because I saw I had abundance of +defects; and being tormented with fear from my own example, I +imagined your heart, which had been so much accustomed to love, would +not be long without entering into a new engagement. Jealousy can +easily believe to most dreadful consequences, I was desirous to put +myself out of a possibility of doubting you. I was very urgent to +persuade you, that decency required you should withdraw from the +envious eyes of the world; that modesty, and our friendship, demanded +it; nay, that your own safety obliged you to it; and, that after such +a revenge taken upon me, you could expect to be secure no where but +in a convent. +</P> +<P>I will do you justice; you were very easily persuaded to it. My +jealousy secretly triumphed over your innocent compliance; and yet, +triumphant as I was, I yielded you up to God with an unwilling heart. +I still kept my gift as much as was possible, and only parted with it +that I might effectually put it out of the power of men. I did not +persuade you to religion out of any regard to your happiness, but +condemned you to it, like an enemy who destroys what he cannot carry +off. And yet you heard my discourses with kindness; you sometimes +interrupted me with tears, and pressed me to acquaint you which of +the convents was most in my esteem. What a comfort did I feel in +seeing you shut up! I was now at ease, and took a satisfaction in +considering that you did not continue long in the world after my +disgrace, and that you would return into it no more. +</P> +<P>But still this was doubtful. I imagined women were incapable of +maintaining any constant resolutions, unless they were forced by the +necessity of fixed vows. I wanted those vows, and Heaven itself, for +your security, that I might no longer distrust you. Ye holy mansions, +ye impenetrable retreats, from what numberless apprehensions have you +freed me? Religion and Piety keep a strict guard round your grates +and high walls. What a haven of rest is this to a jealous mind? and +with what impatience did I endeavour it! I went every day trembling +to exhort you to this sacrifice; I admired, without daring to mention +it then, a brightness in your beauty which I had never observed +before. Whether it was the bloom of a rising virtue, or an +anticipation of that great loss I was going to suffer, I was not +curious in examining the cause, but only hastened your being +professed. I engaged your Prioress in my guilt by a criminal bribe, +with which I purchased the right of burying you. The professed of the +house were also bribed, and concealed from you, by my directions, all +their scruples and disgusts. I omitted nothing, either little or +great: and if you had escaped all my snares, I myself would not have +retired: I was resolved to follow you every where. This shadow of +myself would always have pursued your steps, and continually +occasioned either your confusion or fear, which would have been a +sensible gratification to me. +</P> +<P>But, thanks to Heaven, you resolved to make a vow; I accompanied +you with terror to the foot of the altar: and while you stretched out +your hand to touch the sacred cloth, I heard you pronounce distinctly +those fatal words which for ever separated you from all men. 'Till +then your beauty and youth seemed to oppose my design, and to +threaten your return into the world. Might not a small temptation +have changed you? Is it possible to renounce one's self entirely at +the age of two and twenty? at an age which claims the most absolute +liberty, could you think the world no longer worthy of your regard? +How much did I wrong you, and what weakness did I impute to you? You +were in my imagination nothing but lightness and inconstancy. Might +not a young woman, at the noise of the flames, and the fall of Sodom, +look back, and pity some one person? I took notice of your eyes, your +motion, your air; I trembled at every thing. You may call such a +self-interested conduct treachery, perfidiousness, murder. A love +which was so like to hatred ought to provoke the utmost contempt and +anger. +</P> +<P>It is fit you should know, that the very moment when I was +convinced of your being entirely devoted to me, when I saw you were +infinitely worthy of all my love and acknowledgement, I imagined I +could love you no more; I thought it time to leave off giving you any +marks of affection; and I considered, that by your holy espousals you +were now the peculiar care of Heaven, even in the quality of a wife. +My jealousy seemed to be extinguished. When God only is our rival, we +have nothing to fear: and being in greater tranquillity than ever +before, I dared even to offer up prayers, and beseech him to take you +away from my eyes: but it was not a time to make rash prayers; and my +faith was too imperfect to let them be heard. He who sees the depth +and secrets of all men's hearts, saw mine did not agree with my +words. Necessity and despair were the springs of this proceeding. +Thus I inadvertently offered an insult to Heaven rather than a +sacrifice. God rejected my offering and my prayers, and continued my +punishment, by suffering me to continue my love. Thus, under the +guilt of your vows, and of the passion which preceded them, I must be +tormented all the days of my life. +</P> +<P>If God spoke to your heart, as to that of a Religious, whose +innocence had first engaged him to heap on it a thousand favours, I +should have matter of comfort; but to see both of us victims of a +criminal love; to see this love insult us, and invest itself with our +very habits, as with spoils it has taken from our devotion, fills me +with horror and trembling. Is this a state of reprobation? or are +these the consequences of a long drunkenness in profane love? We +cannot say love is a drunkenness and a poison till we are illuminated +by grace; in the mean time, it is an evil which we dote on. When we +are under such a mistake the knowledge of our misery is the first +step towards amendment. Who does not know that it is for the glory of +God to find no other foundation in man for his mercy than man's very +weakness? When he has shewed us this weakness, and we bewail it, he +is ready to put forth his omnipotence to assist us. Let us say for +our comfort that what we suffer is one of those long and terrible +temptations which have sometimes disturbed the vocations of the most +Holy. +</P> +<P>God can afford his presence to men, in order to soften their +calamities, whenever he shall think fit. It was his pleasure when you +took the veil, to draw you to him by his grace. I saw your eyes, when +you spoke your last farewell, fixed upon the cross. It was above six +months before you wrote me a letter, nor during all that time did I +receive any message from you. I admired this silence, which I durst +not blame, and could not imitate. I wrote to you; you returned me no +answer. Your heart was then shut; but this guardian of the spouse is +now opened, he is withdrawn from it, and has left you alone. By +removing from you, he has made trial of you; call him back and strive +to regain him. We must have the assistance of God that we may break +our chains; we have engaged too deeply in love to free ourselves. Our +follies have penetrated even into the most sacred places. Our amours +have been matter of scandal to a whole kingdom. They are read and +admired; love which produced them has caused them to be described. We +shall be a consolation for the failings of youth hereafter. Those who +offend after us will think themselves less guilty. We are criminals +whose repentance is late. O may it be sincere! Let us repair, as far +is possible, the evils we have done; and let France, which has been +the witness of our crimes, be astonished at our penitence. Let us +confound all who would imitate our guilt, let us take the part of God +against ourselves, and by so doing prevent his judgment. Our former +irregularities require tears, shame, and sorrow to expiate them. Let +us offer up these sacrifices from our hearts; let us blush, let us +weep. If in these weak beginnings, Lord, our heart is not entirely +thine, let it at least be made sensible that it ought to be so! +</P> +<P>Deliver yourself, <I>Heloise</I>, from the shameful remains of a +passion which has taken too deep root. Remember that the least +thought for any other than God is adultery. If you could see me here, +with my meagre face and melancholy air, surrounded with numbers of +persecuting monks, who are alarmed at my reputation for learning, and +offended at my lean visage, as if I threatened them with a +reformation; what would you say of my base sighs, and of those +unprofitable tears which deceive these credulous men? Alas! I am +humbled under love, and not under the Cross. Pity me, and free +yourself. If your vocation be, as you say, my work, deprive me not of +the merit of it by your continual inquietudes. Tell me that you, will +honour the habit which covers you, by an inward retirement. Fear God, +that you may be delivered from your frailties. Love him, if you would +advance in virtue. Be not uneasy in the cloister, for it is the +dwelling of saints. Embrace your bands, they are the chains of Christ +Jesus: he will lighten them, and bear them with you, if you bear them +with humility. +</P> +<P>Without growing severe to a passion which yet possesses you, learn +from your own misery to succour your weak sisters; pity them upon +consideration of your own faults. And if any thoughts too natural +shall importune you, fly to the foot of the Cross, and beg for mercy; +there are wounds open; lament before the dying Deity. At the head of +a religious society be not a slave, and having rule over queens, +begin to govern yourself. Blush at the least revolt of your senses. +Remember, that even at the foot of the altar we often sacrifice to +lying spirits, and that no incense can be more agreeable to them than +that which in those places burns in the heart of a Religious still +sensible of passion and love. If, during your abode in the world, +your soul has acquired a habit of loving, feel it now no more but for +Jesus Christ, Repent of all the moments of your life which you have +wasted upon the world, and upon pleasure; demand them of me, it is a +robbery which I am guilty of; take courage and boldly reproach me +with it. +</P> +<P>I have been indeed your master, but it was only to teach you sin. +You call me your Father; before I had any claim to this title I +deserved that of Parricide. I am your brother, but it is the +affinity of our crimes that has purchased me that distinction. I am +called your Husband, but it is after a public scandal. If you have +abused the sanctity of so many venerable names in the superscription +of your letters, to do me honour, and flatter your own passion, blot +them out, and place in their stead those of a Murtherer, a Villain, +an Enemy, who has conspired against your honour, troubled your quiet, +and betrayed your innocence. You would have perished thro' my means, +but by an extraordinary act of grace, which that you might be saved, +has thrown me down in the middle of my course. +</P> +<P>This is the idea that you ought to have of a fugitive, who +endeavours to deprive you of the hope of seeing him any more. But +when love has once been sincere, how difficult it is to determine to +love no more? 'Tis a thousand times more easy to renounce the world +than love. I hate this deceitful faithless world; I think no more of +it; but my heart, still wandering, will eternally make me feel the +anguish of having lost you, in spite of all the convictions of my +understanding. In the mean time tho' I so be so cowardly as to +retract what you have read, do not suffer me to offer myself to your +thoughts but under this last notion. Remember my last endeavours were +to seduce your heart. You perished by my means, and I with you. The +same waves swallowed us both up. We waited for death with +indifference, and the same death had carried us headlong to the same +punishments. But Providence has turned off this blow, and our +shipwreck has thrown us into an haven. There are some whom the mercy +of God saves by afflictions. Let my salvation be the fruit of your +prayers! let me owe it to your tears, or exemplary holiness! Tho' my +heart, Lord! be filled with the love of one of thy creatures, thy +hand can, when it pleases, draw out of it those ideas which fill its +whole capacity. To love <I>Heloise</I> truly is to leave her entirely +to that quiet which retirement and virtue afford. I have resolved it: +this letter shall be my last fault. Adieu. +</P> +<P>If I die here, I will give orders that my body be carried to the +house of the Paraclete. You shall see me in that condition; not to +demand tears from you, it will then be too late; weep rather for me +now, to extinguish that fire which burns me. You shall see me, to +strengthen your piety by the horror of this carcase; and my death, +then more eloquent than I can be, will tell you what you love when +you love a man. I hope you will be contented, when you have finished +this mortal life, to be buried near me. Your cold ashes need then +fear nothing, and my tomb will, by that means, be more rich and more +renowned. +</P> +<P><BR><BR> +</P> +<H2 ALIGN=CENTER><A NAME="a_CHIV"></A>LETTER IV.</H2><BR> +<P ALIGN=CENTER><I>HELOISE to ABELARD.</I> +</P><BR> +<BLOCKQUOTE>In the following Letter the passion of <I>Heloise</I> +breaks, out with more violence than ever. That which she had received +from <I>Abelard</I>, instead of fortifying her resolutions, served +only to revive in her memory all their past endearments and +misfortunes. With this impression she writes again to her husband; +and appears now, not so much in the charter of a Religious, striving +with the remains of her former weakness, as in that of an unhappy +woman abandoned to all the transport of love and despair. +</BLOCKQUOTE><BR> +<BLOCKQUOTE>To <I>Abelard</I>, her well beloved in Christ Jesus, from +<I>Heloise</I>, his well-beloved, in the same Christ Jesus. +</BLOCKQUOTE><BR> +<P>I read the letter I received from you with abundance of +impatience. In spite of all my misfortunes, I hoped to find nothing +in it besides arguments of comfort; but how ingenious are lovers in +tormenting themselves! Judge of the exquisite sensibility and force +of my love by that which causes the grief of my soul; I was disturbed +at the superscription of your letter! why did you place the name of +<I>Heloise</I> before that of <I>Abelard</I>? what means this most +cruel and unjust distinction? 'Twas your name only, the name of +Father, and of a Husband, which my eager eyes sought after. I did not +look for my own, which I much rather, if possible, forget, as being +the cause of your misfortune. The rules of decorum, and the character +of Master and Director which you have over me, opposed that +ceremonious manner of addressing me; and Love commanded you to banish +it. Alas! you know all this but too well. +</P> +<P>Did you write thus to me before Fortune had ruined my happiness? I +see your heart has deserted me, and you have made greater advances in +the way of devotion than I could wish. Alas! I am too weak to follow +you; condescend at least to stay for me, and animate me with your +advice. Will you have the cruelty to abandon me? The fear of this +stabs my heart: but the fearful presages you make at the latter end +of your Letter, those terrible images you draw of your death, quite +distracts me. Cruel <I>Abelard</I>! you ought to have stopped my +tears, and you make them flow; you ought to have quieted the disorder +of my heart, and you throw me into despair. +</P> +<P>You desire that after your death I should take care of your ashes, +and pay them the last duties. Alas! in what temper did you conceive +these mournful ideas? and how could you describe them to me? Did not +the apprehension of causing my present death make the pen drop from +your hand? You did not reflect, I suppose, upon all those' torments +to which you were going to deliver me. Heaven, as severe as it has +been against me, is not in so great a degree so, as to permit me to +live one moment after you. Life without my <I>Abelard</I> is an +unsupportable punishment, and death a most exquisite happiness, if by +that means I can be united with him. If Heaven hears the prayers I +continually make for you, your days will be prolonged, and you will +bury me. +</P> +<P>Is it not your part to prepare me, by your powerful exhortations +against that great crisis, which shakes the most resolute and +confirmed minds? Is it not your part to receive my last sighs; take +care of my funeral, and give an account of my manners and faith? Who +but you can recommend us worthily to God; and by the fervour and +merit of your prayers, conduct those souls to him which you have +joined to his worship by solemn contracts? We expect these pious +offices from your paternal charity. After this you will be free from +those disquietudes which now molest you, and you will quit life with +more ease, whenever it shall please God to call you away. You may +follow us, content with what you have done, and in a full assurance +of our happiness: but till then, write not to me any such terrible +things. Are we not already sufficiently miserable? must we aggravate +our sorrows? Our life here is but a languishing death? will you +hasten it? Our present disgraces are sufficient to employ our +thoughts continually, and shall we seek new arguments of grief in +futurities? How void of reason are men, said Seneca, to make distant +evils present by reflection, and to take pains before death to lose +all the comforts of life? +</P> +<P>When you have finished your course here below, you say it is your +desire that your body be carried to the house of the Paraclete, to +the intent that, being always exposed to my eyes, you may be for ever +present to my mind; and that your dear body may strengthen our piety, +and animate our prayers. Can you think that the traces you have drawn +in my heart can ever be worn out? or that any length of time can +obliterate the memory we have here of your benefits? And what time +shall I find for those prayers you speak of? Alas! I shall then be +filled with other cares. Can so heavy a misfortune leave me a +moment's quiet? can my feeble reason resist such powerful assaults? +When I am distracted and raving, (if I dare to say it,) even against +Heaven itself, I shall not soften it by my prayers, but rather +provoke it by my cries and reproaches! But how should I pray! or how +bear up against my grief? I should be more urgent to follow you than +to pay you the sad ceremonies of burial. It is for you for <I>Abelard</I>, +that I have resolved to live; if you are ravished from me, what use +can I make of my miserable days? Alas! what lamentations should I +make, if Heaven, by a cruel pity, should preserve me till that +moment? When I but think of this last separation; I feel all the +pangs of death; what shall I be then, if I should see this dreadful +hour? Forbear, therefore, to infuse into my mind such mournful +thoughts, if not for love, at least for pity. +</P> +<P>You desire me to give myself up to my duty, and to be wholly +God's, to whom I am consecrated. How can I do that when you frighten +me with apprehensions that continually possess my mind day and night? +When an evil threatens us, and it is impossible to ward it off, why +do we give up ourselves to the unprofitable fear of it, which is yet +even more tormenting than the evil itself? +</P> +<P>What have I to hope for after this loss of you? what can confine +me to earth when Death shall have taken away from me all that was +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. +</P> +<P>Dear <I>Abelard</I>, 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.</P> +<P>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. <I>Hearken, my Son</I>, (said formerly the wisest of Men) +<I>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>. 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, <I>Sampson</I>, if thy heart had been +as firm against the charms of <I>Dalilah</I>, as against the weapons +of the <I>Philistines</I>! 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. <I>Solomon</I>, 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. <I>Job</I> 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 <I>Heloise</I> an +instrument to ruin <I>Abelard</I>! 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 <I>Abelard</I> +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. +</P> +<P>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. +</P> +<P>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 +<I>Abelard</I>. 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. +</P> +<P>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, <I>Abelard</I>; +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? +</P> +<P>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 +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. +</P> +<P>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. +</P> +<P>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. +</P> +<P>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.</P><BR><BR> +<H2 ALIGN=CENTER><A NAME="a_CHV"></A>LETTER V.</H2><BR> +<P ALIGN=CENTER><I>HELOISE to ABELARD.</I> +</P><BR> +<BLOCKQUOTE><I>Heloise</I> had been dangerously ill at the Convent of +the Paraclete: immediately upon her recovery she wrote this Letter to +<I>Abelard</I>, 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. +</BLOCKQUOTE><BR> +<P>Dear <I>Abelard</I>, 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 <I>Abelard</I>, you have lost <I>Heloise</I> 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 +<I>Abelard</I>! 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 +<I>Heloise</I> entirely resigned herself, you, you have been my +tormentors! I confess <I>Abelard</I>, 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, <I>Abelard</I>; this news, without doubt, surprises you; you +could never imagine <I>Heloise</I>, 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 <I>Heloise</I> from you. Yes, +my dear <I>Abelard</I>, 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 <I>Abelard</I> +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 <I>Heloise</I>, +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, <I>Abelard</I>, imagine all the remorse of mind I +suffered, and you will not be astonished at my change. +</P> +<P>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 <I>Abelard</I>, 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 +<I>Abelard</I>, 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 <I>Abelard</I>. +You were alarmed at my transport, and if you will confess the truth, +you, perhaps, despaired of my salvation. You could not foresee that +<I>Heloise</I> would conquer so reigning a passion; but you have been +deceived, <I>Abelard</I>; 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. +</P> +<P>But what secret trouble rises in my soul, what unthought-of motion +opposes the resolution I formed of sighing no more for <I>Abelard</I>? +Just Heaven! have I not yet triumphed over my love? Unhappy <I>Heloise</I>! +as long as thou drawest a breath it is decreed thou must love +<I>Abelard</I>: 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 <I>Abelard</I>. 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 <I>Abelard</I>; 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 <I>Abelard</I> 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 <I>Abelard</I>; 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 +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! +</P> +<P>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, +<I>Abelard</I>, 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. +</P> +<P>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. <I>You desire us not to forget you in your prayers.</I> +Ah! dear <I>Abelard</I>, 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 <I>Abelard's</I> +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 <I>Abelard</I> 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 +<I>Abelard</I> 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. +</P> +<P>Let me see no more in your letters, dear <I>Abelard</I>, 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 <I>Abelard</I>? 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, +<I>Abelard</I>, 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. +</P> +<P>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 +<I>Heloise</I>? 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 +<I>Abelard</I> 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 <I>Abelard</I> cannot be viewed by +any woman without danger. Desire therefore no more to see <I>Abelard</I>. +If the memory of him has caused thee so much trouble, <I>Heloise</I>, +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 <I>Heloise</I>, 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, <I>Abelard</I>, +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 +<I>Abelard</I>; 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, <I>Abelard</I>, +never see <I>Heloise</I> 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; <I>Abelard</I>, 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 <I>Abelard</I>, will happily finish your +course; your desires and ambition will be no obstacles to your +salvation. <I>Heloise</I> only must lament, she only must weep, +without being certain whether all her tears will be available or not +to her salvation. +</P> +<P>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, <I>Abelard</I>! 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; <I>Abelard</I>, 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, <I>Abelard</I>, 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. +</P> +<P><BR><BR> +</P> +<H2 ALIGN=CENTER><A NAME="a_CHVI"></A>LETTER VI.</H2><BR> +<P ALIGN=CENTER><I>ABELARD to HELOISE. </I> +</P><BR> +<BLOCKQUOTE><I>Abelard</I>, having at last conquered the remains of +his unhappy passion, had determined to put an end to so dangerous a +correspondence as that between <I>Heloise</I> 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. +</BLOCKQUOTE><BR> +<P>Write no more to me, <I>Heloise</I>; 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. +</P> +<P>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, <I>Heloise</I>, +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. +</P> +<P>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. +</P> +<P>But whither does my vain imagination carry me? +</P> +<P>Ah? <I>Heloise</I>! 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, <I>Heloise</I>, +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 <I>Heloise</I>! is the +miserable condition of <I>Abelard</I>. 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. +</P> +<P>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. +</P> +<P>I should be happy if I had none to fear but my enemies, and no +other hinderance to my salvation but their calumny: but, <I>Heloise</I>, +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. +</P> +<P>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. +</P> +<P>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 <I>the +whole life of man was a temptation.</I> 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. +</P> +<P>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. +</P> +<P>Be constant, <I>Heloise</I>; 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. +</P> +<P>Do you now, <I>Heloise</I>, 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. <I>Lord,</I> said the Royal Prophet, <I>deliver +me from my necessities</I>! 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 <I>Heloise</I>; 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. +</P> +<P>Attend, <I>Heloise</I>, 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. +</P> +<P>God, who heartily desires our salvation, hath made all the means +of it easy to us; In the <I>Old Testament</I> 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 <I>New Testament</I> 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. +</P> +<P><I>The death of his saints</I>, says the Prophet, <I>is precious +in the sight of the Lord.</I> 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. +</P> +<P>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. +</P> +<P>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. +</P> +<P>I hope, <I>Heloise</I>, 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, <I>Heloise</I>, 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, +<I>Heloise</I>! 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, <I>Heloise</I>, 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. +</P> +<P>Oh, <I>Heloise</I>, 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 <I>Heloise</I> 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? +</P> +<P>I question not, <I>Heloise</I>, 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. +</P> +<P>Farewell <I>Heloise</I>. This is the last advice of your dear +<I>Abelard</I>; 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 <I>Abelard</I>, always present to your mind, be +now changed into the image of <I>Abelard</I> truly penitent! and may +you shed as many tears for your salvation as you have done during the +course of our misfortunes! +</P> +<P><BR><BR> +</P> +<P ALIGN=CENTER>————————</P><BR><BR> +<H2 ALIGN=CENTER><A NAME="a_CHVII"></A>ELOISA to ABELARD</H2><BR> +<P ALIGN=CENTER>BY MR POPE. +</P> +<P ALIGN=CENTER><BR><BR> +</P> +<BLOCKQUOTE>In these deep solitudes and awful cells.<BR>Where +heav'nly-pensive Contemplation dwells,<BR>And ever-musing Melancholy +reigns;<BR>What means this tumult in a Vestal’s veins?<BR>Why +rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat?<BR>Why feels my heart its +long-forgotten beat?<BR>Yet, yet I love!——From <I>Abelard</I> +it came,<BR>And <I>Eloisa</I> yet must kiss the name.<BR> Dear +fatal name! rest ever onreveal'd,<BR>Nor pass those lips in holy +silence seas'd:<BR>Hide it, my heart, within that close +disguise,<BR>Where mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lyes;<BR>Oh write +it not, my hand—the name appears<BR>Already written—wash +it out, my tears!<BR>In vain lost <I>Eloisa</I> weeps and prays,<BR>Her +heart still dictates, and her hand obeys.<BR> Relentless +walls! whose darksome round contains<BR>Repentant sighs, and +voluntary pains:<BR>Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn;<BR>Ye +grotes and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn!<BR>Shrines! where their +vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep,<BR>And pitying saints, whose statues +learn to weep!<BR>Tho' cold like you unmov'd and silent grown,<BR>I +have not yet forgot myself to stone.<BR>Heav'n claims me all in vain, +while he has part,<BR>Still rebel Nature holds out half my heart;<BR>Nor +pray'rs nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain,<BR>Nor tears, for ages +taught to flow in vain.<BR> Soon as thy Letters, +trembling, I unclose,<BR>That well-known name awakens all my woes.<BR>Oh +name for ever sad! for ever dear!<BR>Still breath'd in sighs, still +utter'd with a tear.<BR>I tremble too where'er my own I find,<BR>Some +dire misfortune follows close behind.<BR>Line after line my gushing +eyes o'erflow,<BR>Led through a sad variety of woe:<BR>Now warm in +love, now with'ring in thy bloom,<BR>Lost in a convent's solitary +gloom!<BR>There stern religion quench'd th' unwilling flame.<BR>There +died the best of passions, love and same.<BR> Yet write, +oh write me all, that I may join<BR>Griefs to thy griefs, and echo +sighs to thine.<BR>Nor foes nor fortune take this pow'r away;<BR>And +is my <I>Abelard</I> less kind than they?<BR>Tears still are mine, +and those I need not spare,<BR>Love but demands what else were shed +in pray'r;<BR>No happier talk these faded eyes pursue;<BR>To read and +weep is all they now can do.<BR> Then share thy pain, +allow that sad relief;<BR>Ah, more than share it! give me all thy +grief.<BR>Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid,<BR>Some +banish'd lover, or some captive maid;<BR>They live they speak, they +breathe what love inspires,<BR>Warm from the soul, and faithful to +its fires,<BR>The virgin's wish without her fears impart,<BR>Excuse +the blush, and pour out all the heart,<BR>Speed the soft intercourse +from soul to soul,<BR>And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.<BR> Thou +know'st how guiltless first I met thy flame,<BR>When Love approach'd +me under Friendship’s name;<BR>My fancy form'd thee of angelic +kind,<BR>Some emanations of th' all-beauteous Mind.<BR>Those smiling +eyes, attemp'ring every ray,<BR>Shone sweetly lambent with celestial +day.<BR>Guiltless I gaz'd; Heav'n listen'd while you sung;<BR>And +truths divine came mended from that tongue,<BR>From lip like those +what precepts fail'd to move?<BR>Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin +to love:<BR>Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran,<BR>Nor +wish'd an angel whom I lov'd a man.<BR>Dim and remote the joys of +saints I see,<BR>Nor envy them that heav'n I lose for thee. +</BLOCKQUOTE> +<BLOCKQUOTE>How oft', when prest to marriage, have I said,<BR>Curse +on all laws but those which Love has made!<BR>Love, free as air, at +sight of human ties,<BR>Spreads his light wings, and in a moment +flies.<BR>Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame,<BR>August her +deed, and sacred be her fame;<BR>Before true passion all those views +remove,<BR>Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to love?<BR>The +jealous God, when we profane his fires,<BR>Those restless passions in +revenge inspires,<BR>And bids them make mistaken mortals groan,<BR>Who +seek in love for ought but love alone.<BR>Should at my feet the +world's great master fall,<BR>Himself, his throne, his world, I'd +scorn 'em all;<BR>Not <I>Ceasar's</I> empress would I deign to +prove;<BR>No, make me mistress to the man I love;<BR>If there be yet +another name more free,<BR>More fond, than Mistress, make me that to +thee!<BR>Oh happy state! when souls each other draw.<BR>When love is +liberty, and nature law,<BR>All then is full possessing and +possess'd,<BR>No craving void left akeing in the breast?<BR>Ev'n +thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part,<BR>And each warm +wish springs mutual from the heart.<BR>This sure is bliss, (if bliss +on earth there be,)<BR>And once the lot of <I>Abelard</I> and me. +</BLOCKQUOTE> +<BLOCKQUOTE>Alas, how chang'd! what sudden horrors rise!<BR>A naked +lover bound and bleeding lyes!<BR>Where, where was <I>Eloisa</I>? her +voice, her hand,<BR>Her poinard, had oppos'd the dire +command.<BR>Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain;<BR>The +crime was common, common be the pain.<BR>I can no more; by shame, by +rage, suppress'd,<BR>Let tears and burning blushes speak the rest. +</BLOCKQUOTE> +<BLOCKQUOTE>Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day,<BR>When +victims at yon altar's foot we lay?<BR>Canst thou forget what tears +that moment fell,<BR>When, warm in youth, I bade the world +farewell?<BR>As, with cold lips I kiss'd the sacred veil,<BR>The +shrines all trembled, and the lamps grew pale:<BR>Heav'n scarces +believ'd the conquest it survey'd,<BR>And saints with wonder heard +the vows I made.<BR>Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew,<BR>Not +on the Cross my eyes were fix'd, but you:<BR>Not grace, or zeal, love +only was my call,<BR>And if I lose thy love, I lose my all.<BR>Come! +with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe;<BR>Those still at least +are left thee to bestow.<BR>Still on that breast enamour'd let me +lye,<BR>Still drink delicious poison from thy eye,<BR>Pant on thy +lip, and to thy heart be press'd;<BR>Give all thou canst——and +let me dream the rest,<BR>Ah, no! instruct me other joys to +prize,<BR>With other beauties charm my partial eyes.<BR>Full in my +view set all the bright abode,<BR>And make my soul quit <I>Abelard</I> +for God. +</BLOCKQUOTE> +<BLOCKQUOTE>Ah! think at least thy flock deserves thy care,<BR>Plants +of thy hand, and children of thy pray'r.<BR>From the false world in +early youth they fled,<BR>By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts +led.<BR>You rais'd these hallow'd walls; the desart smil'd,<BR>And +Paradise was open'd in the wild.<BR>No weeping orphan saw his +father's stores<BR>Our shines irradiate, or emblaze the floors:<BR>No +silver saints, by dying misers given,<BR>Here brib'd the rage of +ill-requited Heav'n:<BR>But such plain roofs as piety could +raise,<BR>And only vocal with the maker's praise.<BR>In these lone +walls (their days eternal bound)<BR>These moss-grown domes with spiry +turrets crown'd,<BR>Where awful arches make a noon-day night,<BR>And +the dim windows shed a solemn light;<BR>Thy eyes diffus'd a +reconciling ray,<BR>And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day,<BR>But +now no face divine contentment wears,<BR>'Tis all blank sadness, or +continual tears.<BR>See how the force of others' pray'rs I try,<BR>(Oh +pious fraud of am'rous charity!)<BR>But why should I on others' +prayers depend?<BR>Come thou, my Father, Brother, Husband, +Friend!<BR>Ah, let thy Handmaid, Sister, Daughter, move,<BR>And all +those tender Names in one, thy Love!<BR>The darksome pines, that o'er +yon rocks reclin'd<BR>Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind,<BR>The +wand'ring streams that shine between the hills,<BR>The grotes that +echo to the tinkling rills,<BR>The dying gales that pant upon the +trees,<BR>The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze;<BR>No more +these scenes my meditation aid,<BR>Or lull to rest the visionary +maid.<BR>But o'er the twilight groves, and dusky caves,<BR>Long +founding aisles, and intermingled graves,<BR>Black Melancholy sits, +and round her throws<BR>A death like silence, and a dread repose:<BR>Her +gloomy presence saddens all the scene.<BR>Shades ev'ry flow'r, and +darkens ev'ry green,<BR>Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,<BR>And +breathes a browner horror on the woods,</BLOCKQUOTE> +<BLOCKQUOTE>Yet here for ever, ever must I stay;<BR>Sad proof how +well a lover can obey!<BR>Death, only death, can break the lasting +chain;<BR>And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain; +</BLOCKQUOTE> +<BLOCKQUOTE>Here all its frailties, all its flames resign,<BR>And +wait, till 'tis no sin to mix with thine. +</BLOCKQUOTE> +<BLOCKQUOTE>Ah, wretch! believ'd the spouse of God in vain,<BR>Confess'd +within the slave of love and man.<BR>Assist me, Heav'n! But whence, +arose that pray'r?<BR>Sprung it from piety, or from despair?<BR>Ev'n +here, where frozen Chastity retires,<BR>Love finds an altar for +forbidden fires.<BR>I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought;<BR>I +mourn the lover, not lament the fault;<BR>I view my crime, but kindle +at the view,<BR>Repent old pleasures, and solicit new;<BR>Now turn'd +to Heav'n, I weep my past offence,<BR>Now think of thee, and curse my +innocence.<BR>Of all Affliction taught a lover yet,<BR>'Tis sure the +hardest science to forget!<BR>How shall I lose the sin, yet, keep the +sense.<BR>And love th' offender, yet detest th' offence?<BR>How the +dear object from the crime remove,<BR>Or how distinguish penitence +from love?<BR>Unequal talk! a passion to resign,<BR>For hearts so +touched, so pierc'd, so lost as mine.<BR>Ere such a soul regains its +peaceful slate.<BR>How often must it love, how often hate!<BR>How +often hope, despair, resent, regret.<BR>Conceal, disdain—do all +things but forget!<BR>But let Heav'n seize it, all at once 'tis +fir'd,<BR>Not touched but rapt; not waken'd but inspir'd!<BR>Oh come! +oh teach me nature to subdue.<BR>Renounce my love, my life, +myself—and you.<BR>Fill my fond heart with God alone, +for he<BR>Alone can rival, can succeed to thee. +</BLOCKQUOTE> +<BLOCKQUOTE>How happy is the blameless Vestal's lot?<BR>The world +forgetting, by the world forgot:<BR>Eternal sunshine of the spotless +mind!<BR>Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;<BR>Labour and +rest, that equal periods keep,<BR>'Obedient slumbers that can wake +and weep;<BR>Desires compos'd, affections ever even;<BR>Tears that +delight, and sighs that waft to heav'n.<BR>Grace shines around her +with serenest beams,<BR>And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden +dreams,<BR>For her the house prepares the bridal ring,<BR>For her +white virgins <I>hymeneals</I> sing,<BR>For her th' unfading rose of +Eden blooms,<BR>And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes;<BR>To +sounds of heavenly harps she dies away,<BR>And melts in visions of +eternal day.<BR> Far other dreams my erring soul +employ,<BR>Far other raptures of unholy joy:<BR>When at the close of +each sad sorrowing day<BR>Fancy restores what Vengeance snatch'd +away,<BR>Then Conscience sleeps, and leaving Nature free,<BR>All my +loose soul unbounded springs to thee.<BR>O curs'd dear horrors of +all-conscious Night!<BR>How glowing guilt exalts the keen +delight!<BR>Provoking daemons all restraint remove,<BR>And stir +within me ev'ry source of love,<BR>I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er +all thy charms,<BR>And round thy phantoms glue my clasping arms.<BR>I +wake——no more I hear, no more I view,<BR>The phantom +flies me as unkind as you.<BR>I call aloud; it hears not what I +say;<BR>I stretch my empty arms; it glides away.<BR>To dream once +more I close my willing eyes;<BR>Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, +arise!<BR>Alas no more!——Methinks we wand'ring go,<BR>Thro' +dreary waftes, and weep each other's woe<BR>Where round some moulding +tow'r pale ivy creeps,<BR>And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the +deeps.<BR>Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies:<BR>Clouds +interpose, waves roar, and winds arise.<BR>I shriek, start up, the +same sad prospect find<BR>And wake to all the griefs I left behind. +</BLOCKQUOTE> +<BLOCKQUOTE>For thee the fates, severely kind, ordain<BR>A cool +suspence from pleasure and from pain;<BR>Thy life a long dead calm of +fix'd repose;<BR>No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows;<BR>Still +as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow,<BR>Or moving Spirit bade +the waters flow;<BR>Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiv'n,<BR>And +mild as opening gleams of promis'd heav'n.<BR> Come, +<I>Abelard</I>! for what hast thou to dread?<BR>The torch of Venus +burns not for the dead.<BR>Nature stands check'd; Religion +disapproves;<BR>Ev'n thou art cold——yet <I>Eloisa</I> +loves.<BR>Ah hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn.<BR>To +light the dead, and warm th' unfruitful urn.<BR>What scenes appear! +where e'er I turn my view.<BR>The dear ideas where I fly pursue,<BR>Rise +in the grove, before the altar rise,<BR>Stain all my soul, and wanton +in my eyes.<BR>I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee,<BR>Thy image +steals between my God and me;<BR>Thy voice I seem in ev'ry hymn to +hear,<BR>With ev'ry bead I drop too soft a tear.<BR>When from the +censer clouds of fragrance roll,<BR>And swelling organs lift the +rising soul,<BR>One thought of thee puts all the pomp to +flight,<BR>Priests, tapers, temples; swim before my sight:<BR>In seas +of flame my plunging soul is drown'd,<BR>While altars blaze, and +angels tremble round.<BR>While prostrate here in humble grief I +lye<BR>Kind, virtuous drops, just gathering in my eye,<BR>While +praying, trembling, in the dust I roll,<BR>And dawning grace is +opening on my soul:<BR>Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou +art!<BR>Oppose thyself to Heav'n; dispute my heart;<BR>Come, with one +glance of those deluding eyes<BR>Blot out each bright idea of the +skies; <BR>Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears;<BR>Take +back my fruitless penitence and prayers;<BR>Snatch me, just mounting, +from the blest abode;<BR>Assist the fiend, and tear me from my God! +</BLOCKQUOTE> +<BLOCKQUOTE>No, fly me! fly me! far as pole from pole;<BR>Rise Alps +between us, and whose oceans roll!<BR>Ah, come not, write not, think +not once of me,<BR>Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee,<BR>Thy +oaths I quit, thy memory resign;<BR>Forget, renounce me, hate +whate'er was mine.<BR>Fair eyes, and tempting looks, which yet I +view!<BR>Long-liv'd ador'd ideas, all adieu!<BR>O grace serene! oh +virtue heav'nly fair!<BR>Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care!<BR>Fresh +blooming Hope, gay daughter of the sky!<BR>And faith, our early +immortality!<BR>Enter, each mild, each amicable guest;<BR>Receive and +wrap me in eternal rest!<BR> See in her cell sad <I>Eloisa</I> +spread,<BR>Propt on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead!<BR>In each +low wind methinks a spirit calls,<BR>And more than echoes talk along +the walls,<BR>Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps around,<BR>From +yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound:<BR>'Come, sister, come I (it +said, or seem'd to say,)<BR>'Thy place is here, sad sister come +away!<BR>'Once like thyself I trembled, wept, and pray'd,<BR>'Love's +victim then, though now a sainted maid:<BR>'But all is calm in this +eternal sleep;<BR>'Here Grief forgets to groan, and Love to +weep;<BR>'Ev'n Superstition loses ev'ry fear:<BR>'For God, not man, +absolves our frailties here.'</BLOCKQUOTE> +<BLOCKQUOTE>I come, I come! prepare your roseat bow'rs,<BR>Celestial +palm, and ever-blooming flow'rs.<BR>Thither, were sinners may have +rest, I go,<BR>Where flames refin'd in breasts seraphic glow:<BR>Thou, +<I>Abelard</I>! the last sad office pay,<BR>And smooth my passage to +the realms of day;<BR>See my lips tremble, and my eye-balk roll,<BR>Suck +my last breath, and catch the flying soul!<BR>Ah no——in +sacred vestments may'st thou stand,<BR>The hallow'd taper trembling +in thy hand,<BR>Present the Cross before my lifted eye,<BR>Teach me +at once, and learn of me to die.<BR>Ah then, the once lov'd <I>Eloisa</I> +see!<BR>It will be then no crime to gaze on me.<BR>See from my cheek +the transient roses fly!<BR>See the last sparkle languish in my +eye!<BR>'Till ev'ry motion, pulse, and breath be o'er;<BR>And ev'n my +<I>Abelard</I>. be lov'd no more.<BR>O death, all eloquent! you only +prove<BR>What dust we dote on, when 'tis man we love.<BR> Then +too, when Fate shall thy fair frame destroy?<BR>(That cause of all my +guilt, and all my joy)<BR>In trance ecstatic may the pangs be +drown'd,<BR>Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round,<BR>From +opening skies may streaming glories shine,<BR>And saints embrace thee +with a love like mine. +</BLOCKQUOTE> +<BLOCKQUOTE>May one kind grave unite each hapless name,<BR>And graft +my love immortal on thy fame!<BR>Then, ages hence, when all my woes +are o'er,<BR>When this rebellious heart shall beat no more.<BR>If +ever Chance two wand'ring lovers brings<BR>To <I>Paraclete's</I> +white walls and silver springs,<BR>O'er the pale marble shall they +join their heads.<BR>And drink the falling tears each other +sheds;<BR>Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov'd,<BR>"Oh may we +never love as these have lov'd!"<BR>From the full choir, when +loud Hosannas rise,<BR>And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice,<BR>Amid +that scene, if some relenting eye<BR>Glance on the stone where our +cold relics lye,<BR>Devotion's self shall steal a thought from +heav'n,<BR>One human tear shall drop, and be forgiven.<BR>And sure, +if Fate some future bard shall join<BR>In sad similitude of griefs +like mine,<BR>Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore,<BR>And +image charms he must behold no more;<BR>Such if there be, who loves +so long, so well;<BR>Let him our sad, our tender, story tell;<BR>The +well-sung woes will smooth my pensive ghost:<BR>He best can paint +e'm, who shall feel 'em most. +</BLOCKQUOTE> +<BLOCKQUOTE><BR><BR> +</BLOCKQUOTE> +<BLOCKQUOTE STYLE="text-align: center">————————————</BLOCKQUOTE> +<BLOCKQUOTE STYLE="text-align: center"><BR><BR> +</BLOCKQUOTE> +<H2 ALIGN=CENTER><A NAME="a_CHVIII"></A>ABELARD to ELOISA</H2><BR> +<P ALIGN=CENTER>BY MRS MADAN. +</P> +<P ALIGN=CENTER><BR><BR> +</P> +<BLOCKQUOTE>In my dark cell, low prostrate on the ground,<BR>Mourning +my crimes, thy Letter entrance found;<BR>Too soon my soul the +well-known name confest,<BR>My beating heart sprang fiercely in my +breast,<BR>Thro' my whole frame a guilty transport glow'd,<BR>And +streaming torrents from my eyes fast flow'd: <BR> O +<I>Eloisa</I>! art thou still the same?<BR>Dost thou still nourish +this destructive flame?<BR>Have not the gentle rules of Peace and +Heav'n,<BR>From thy soft soul this fatal passion driv'n?<BR>Alas! I +thought you disengaged and free;<BR>And can you still, still sigh and +weep for me?<BR>What powerful Deity, what hallow'd Shrine,<BR>Can +save me from a love, a faith like thine?<BR>Where shall I fly, when +not this awful Cave,<BR>Whose rugged feet the surging billows +lave;<BR>When not these gloomy cloister's solemn walls,<BR>O'er whose +rough sides the languid ivy crawls,<BR>When my dread vews, in vain, +their force oppose?<BR>Oppos'd to live—alas!—how vain are +vows!<BR>In fruitless penitence I wear away<BR>Each tedious night, +and sad revolving day;<BR>I fast, I pray, and, with deceitful +art,<BR>Veil thy dear image in my tortur'd heart;<BR>My tortur'd +heart conflicting passions move.<BR>I hope despair, repent——yet +still I love:<BR>A thousand jarring thoughts my bosom tear;<BR>For, +thou, not God, O <I>Eloise!</I> art there.<BR>To the false world's +deluding pleasures dead,<BR>Nor longer by its wand'ring fires +misled,<BR>In learn'd disputes harsh precepts I infuse,<BR>And give +the counsel I want pow'r to use.<BR>The rigid maxims of the grave and +wife<BR>Have quench'd each milder sparkle of my eyes:<BR>Each lovley +feature of this once lov'd face,<BR>By grief revers'd, assumes a +sterner grace;<BR>O <I>Eloisa</I>! should the fates once +more,<BR>Indulgent to my view, thy charms restore,<BR>How from my +arms would'st thou with horror start<BR>To miss the form familiar to +thy heart;<BR>Nought could thy quick, thy piercing judgment see,<BR>To +speak me <I>Abelard</I>—but love to thee.<BR>Lean Abstinence, +pale Grief, and haggard Care.<BR>The dire attendants of forlorn +Despair,<BR>Have <I>Abelard</I>, the young, the gay, remov'd,<BR>And +in the Hermit funk the man you lov'd,<BR>Wrapt in the gloom these +holy mansions shed,<BR>The thorny paths of Penitence I tread;<BR>Lost +to the world, from all its int'rests free,<BR>And torn from all my +soul held dear in thee,<BR>Ambition with its train of frailties +gone,<BR>All loves and forms forget——but thine +alone,<BR>Amid the blaze of day, the dusk of night,<BR>My <I>Eloisa</I> +rises to my sight;<BR>Veil'd as in Paraclete's secluded tow'rs,<BR>The +wretched mourner counts the lagging hours;<BR>I hear her sighs, see +the swift falling tears,<BR>Weep all her griefs, and pant with all +her cares.<BR>O vows! O convent! your stern force impart,<BR>And +frown the melting phantom from my heart;<BR>Let other sighs a +worthier sorrow show,<BR>Let other tears from sin repentance +flow;<BR>Low to the earth my guilty eyes I roll,<BR>And humble to the +dust my heaving soul,<BR>Forgiving Pow'r! thy gracious call I +meet,<BR>Who first impower'd this rebel heart to heart;<BR>Who thro' +this trembling, this offending frame,<BR>For nobler ends inspir'd +life's active flame.<BR>O! change the temper of this laboring +breast,<BR>And form anew each beating pulse to rest!<BR>Let springing +grace, fair faith, and hope remove<BR>The fatal traces of destructive +love!<BR>Destructive love from his warm mansions tear,<BR>And leave +no traits of <I>Eloisa</I> there! +</BLOCKQUOTE> +<BLOCKQUOTE>Are these the wishes of my inmost soul?<BR>Would I its +soft, its tend'rest sense controul?<BR>Would I, thus touch'd, this +glowing heart refine,<BR>To the cold substance of this marble +shrine?<BR>Transform'd like these pale swarms that round me move,<BR>Of +blest insensibles—who know no love?<BR>Ah! rather let me keep +this hapless flame;<BR>Adieu! false honour, unavailing fame!<BR>Not +your harsh rules, but tender love, supplies<BR>The streams that gush +from my despairing eyes;<BR>I feel the traitor melt about my +heart,<BR>And thro' my veins with treacherous influence dart;<BR>Inspire +me, Heav'n! assist me, Grace divine,<BR>Aid me, ye Saints! unknown to +pains like mine;<BR>You, who on earth serene all griefs could +prove,<BR>All but the tort'ring pangs of hopeless love;<BR>A holier +rage in your pure bosoms dwelt,<BR>Nor can you pity what you never +felt:<BR>A sympathising grief alone can lure,<BR>The hand that heals, +must feel what I endure.<BR>Thou, <I>Eloise</I> alone canst give me +ease,<BR>And bid my struggling soul subside to peace;<BR>Restore me +to my long lost heav'n of rest,<BR>And take thyself from my reluctant +breast;<BR>If crimes like mine could an allay receive,<BR>That blest +allay thy wond'rons charms might give.<BR>Thy form, that first to +love my heart inclin'd,<BR>Still wanders in my lost, my guilty +mind.<BR>I saw thee as the new blown blossoms fair,<BR>Sprightly as +light, more soft than summer's air,<BR>Bright as their beams thy eyes +a mind disclose,<BR>Whilst on thy lips gay blush'd the fragrant +rose;<BR>Wit, youth, and love, in each dear feature shone;<BR>Prest +by my fate, I gaz'd—and was undone.<BR> There dy'd +the gen'rous fire, whose vig'rous flame<BR>Enlarged my soul, and +urg'd me on to same;<BR>Nor fame, nor wealth, my soften'd heart could +move,<BR>Dully insensible to all but love.<BR>Snatch'd from myself, +my learning tasteless grew;<BR>Vain my philosophy, oppos'd to you;<BR>A +train of woes succeed, nor should we mourn,<BR>The hours that cannot, +ought not to return. +</BLOCKQUOTE> +<BLOCKQUOTE>As once to love I sway'd your yielding mind,<BR>Too fond, +alas! too fatally inclin'd,<BR>To virtue now let me your breast +inspire,<BR>And fan, with zeal divine, the heav'nly fire;<BR>Teach +you to injur'd Heav'n all chang'd to turn,<BR>And bid the soul with +sacred rapture burn.<BR>O! that my own example might impart<BR>This +noble warmth to your soft trembling heart!<BR>That mine, with pious +undissembled care,<BR>Could aid the latent virtue struggling there; +</BLOCKQUOTE> +<BLOCKQUOTE>Alas! I rave—nor grace, nor zeal divine,<BR>Burn in +a heart oppress'd with crimes like mine,<BR>Too sure I find, while I +the tortures prove<BR>Of feeble piety, conflicting love,<BR>On black +despair my forc'd devotion's built;<BR>Absence for me has sharper +pangs than guilt.<BR>Yet, yet, my <I>Eloisa</I>, thy charms I +view,<BR>Yet my sighs breath, my tears pour forth for you;<BR>Each +weak resistance stronger knits my chain,<BR>I sigh, weep, love, +despair, repent——in vain,<BR>Haste, <I>Eloisa</I>, haste, +your lover free,<BR>Amidst your warmest pray'r——O think +on me!<BR>Wing with your rising zeal my grov'ling mind,<BR>And let me +mine from your repentance find!<BR>Ah! labour, strife, your love, +your self control!<BR>The change will sure affect my kindred soul;<BR>In +blest consent our purer sighs shall breath,<BR>And Heav'n assisting, +shall our crimes forgive,<BR>But if unhappy, wretched, lost in +vain,<BR>Faintly th' unequal combat you sustain;<BR>If not to Heav'n +you feel your bosom rise,<BR>Nor tears refin'd fall contrite from +your eyes;<BR>If still, your heart its wonted passions move,<BR>If +still, to speak all pains in one—you love;<BR>Deaf to the weak +essays of living breath,<BR>Attend the stronger eloquence of +Death.<BR>When that kind pow'r this captive soul shall free,<BR>Which +only then can cease to doat on thee;<BR>When gently sunk to my +eternal sleep,<BR>The Paraclete my peaceful urn shall keep!<BR>Then, +<I>Eloisa</I>, then your lover view,<BR>See his quench'd eyes no +longer gaze on you;<BR>From their dead orbs that tender utt'rance +flown,<BR>Which first to thine my heart's soft fate made known,<BR>This +breast no more, at length to ease consign'd,<BR>Pant like the waving +aspin in the wind;<BR>See all my wild, tumultuous passion o'er,<BR>And +thou, amazing change! belov'd no more;<BR>Behold the destin'd end of +human love—<BR>But let the fight your zeal alone improve;<BR>Let +not your conscious soul, to sorrow mov'd,<BR>Recall how much, how +tenderly I lov'd:<BR>With pious care your fruitless griefs +restrain,<BR>Nor let a tear your sacred veil profane;<BR>Not ev'n a +sigh on my cold urn bestow;<BR>But let your breast with new-born +raptures glow;<BR>Let love divine, frail mortal love dethrone,<BR>And +to your mind immortal joys make known;<BR>Let Heav'n relenting strike +your ravish'd view,<BR>And still the bright, the blest pursuit +renew!<BR>So with your crimes shall your misfortune cease,<BR>And +your rack'd soul be calmly hush'd to peace. +</BLOCKQUOTE> +<BLOCKQUOTE><BR><BR> +</BLOCKQUOTE> +<P ALIGN=CENTER>THE END +</P> +<P><BR><BR> +</P> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Letters of Abelard and Heloise, by Pierre Bayle + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LETTERS OF ABELARD AND HELOISE *** + +***** This file should be named 35977-h.htm or 35977-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/9/7/35977/ + +Produced by Jim Adcock. 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