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diff --git a/40227-0.txt b/40227-0.txt index cd1d923..d56f05f 100644 --- a/40227-0.txt +++ b/40227-0.txt @@ -1,42 +1,4 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The love letters of Abelard and Heloise, by -Peter Abelard and Heloise - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. 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/license - - -Title: The love letters of Abelard and Heloise - -Author: Peter Abelard - Heloise - -Editor: Ralph Seymour - -Release Date: July 14, 2012 [EBook #40227] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE LETTERS *** - - - - -Produced by Michael Roe and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 40227 *** THE LOVE LETTERS OF ABELARD AND HELOISE @@ -2079,366 +2041,4 @@ Inserted missing phrase “be the highest love” after “It will always” End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The love letters of Abelard and Heloise, by Peter Abelard and Heloise -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE LETTERS *** - -***** This file should be named 40227-0.txt or 40227-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/2/2/40227/ - -Produced by Michael Roe and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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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/license - - -Title: The love letters of Abelard and Heloise - -Author: Peter Abelard - Heloise - -Editor: Ralph Seymour - -Release Date: July 14, 2012 [EBook #40227] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE LETTERS *** - - - - -Produced by Michael Roe and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - -THE LOVE LETTERS OF ABELARD AND HELOISE - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE LOVE LETTERS OF ABELARD AND HELOISE - - -_Translated from the original latin and now reprinted from the -edition of 1722: together with a brief account of their lives and -work_ - -RALPH FLETCHER SEYMOUR·CHICAGO - - Copyright 1903 - by - Ralph Fletcher Seymour - - - - -THE STORY OF ABELARD AND HELOISE. - - -It sometimes happens that Love is little esteemed by those who choose -rather to think of other affairs, and in requital He strongly -manifests His power in unthought ways. Need is to think of Abelard -and Heloise: how now his treatises and works are memories only, and -how the love of her (who in lifetime received little comfort -therefor) has been crowned with the violet crown of Grecian Sappho -and the homage of all lovers. - -The world itself was learning a new love when these two met; was -beginning to heed the quiet call of the spirit of the Renaissance, -which, at its consummation, brought forth the glories of the -Quattrocento. - -It was among the stone-walled, rose-covered gardens and clustered -homes of ecclesiastics, who served the ancient Roman builded pile of -Notre Dame, that Abelard found Heloise. - -From his noble father's home in Brittany, Abelard, gifted and -ambitious, came to study with William of Champeaux in Paris. His -advancement was rapid, and time brought him the acknowledged -leadership of the Philosophic School of the city, a prestige which -received added lustre from his controversies with his later -instructor in theology, Anselm of Laon. - -His career at this time was brilliant. Adulation and flattery, added -to the respect given his great and genuine ability, made sweet a life -which we can imagine was in most respects to his liking. Among the -students who flocked to him came the beautiful maiden, Heloise, to -learn of philosophy. Her uncle Fulbert, living in retired ease near -Notre Dame, offered in exchange for such instruction both bed and -board; and Abelard, having already seen and resolved to win her, -undertook the contract. - -Many quiet hours these two spent on the green, river-watered isle, -studying old philosophies, and Time, swift and silent as the Seine, -sped on, until when days had changed to months they became aware of -the deeper knowledge of Love. Heloise responded wholly to this new -influence, and Abelard, forgetting his ambition, desired their -marriage. Yet as this would have injured his opportunities for -advancement in the Church Heloise steadfastly refused this formal -sanction of her passion. Their love becoming known in time to -Fulbert, his grief and anger were uncontrollable. In fear the two -fled to the country and there their child was born. Abelard still -urged marriage, and at last, outwearied with importunities, she -consented, only insisting that it be kept a secret. Such a course was -considered best to pacify her uncle, who, in fact, promised -reconciliation as a reward. Yet, upon its accomplishment he openly -declared the marriage. Unwilling that this be known lest the -knowledge hurt her lover, Heloise strenuously denied the truth. The -two had returned, confident of Fulbert's reaffirmed regard, and he, -now deeply troubled and revengeful, determined to inflict that -punishment and indignity on Abelard, which, in its accomplishment, -shocked even that ruder civilization to horror and to reprisal. - -The shamed and mortified victim, caring only for solitude in which to -hide and rest, retired into the wilderness; returning after a time to -take the vows of monasticism. Unwilling to leave his love where by -chance she could become another's, he demanded that she become a nun. -She yielded obedience, and, although but twenty-two years of age, -entered the convent of Argenteuil. - -Abelard's mind was still virile and, perhaps to his surprise, the -world again sought him out, anxious still to listen to his masterful -logic. But with his renewed influence came fierce persecution, and -the following years of life were filled with trials and sorrows. -Sixteen years passed after the lovers parted and then Heloise, -prioress of the Paraclete, found a letter of consolation, written by -Abelard to a friend, recounting his sad career. Her response is a -letter of passion and complaining, an equal to which it is hard to -find in all literature. To his cold and formal reply she wrote a -second, questioning and confused, and a third, constrained and -resigned. These three constitute the record of a soul vainly seeking -in spiritual consolation rest from love. - -Abelard, with little heart for love or ambition, still stubbornly -contested with his foes. On a journey to Rome, where he had appealed -from a judgment of heresy against his teachings, he, overweary, -turned aside to rest in the monastery of Cluni, in Burgundy, and -there died. Heloise begged his body for burial in the Paraclete. -Twenty years later, and at the same age as her lover, she, too, -passed to rest. - -It is said that he whose arms had one time yielded her a too sweet -comfort, raised them again to greet her as she came to rest beside -him in their narrow tomb. - -Love never yet was held by arms alone, nor its mysterious ministries -constrained to forms or qualities. Like water sweet in barren land it -lies within our lives, ever by its unsolved formula awakening us to -fuller freedom. - - - - -THE LOVE LETTERS OF ABELARD AND HELOISE - - -_Wherein are written how the scholar Peter Abelard forgot his -learning and became a lover, altho the price he paid was great: and -how the beautiful Heloise in desiring to acquire knowledge from -Abelard learned of all lessons the greatest, from the greatest master -of all, to wit, Love: and how she prized it most highly, altho it -brought her both shame and sorrow_ - - - - -LETTER I - -_Heloise to Abelard_ - - -_To her Lord, her Father, her Husband, her Brother; his Servant, his -Child, his Wife, his Sister, and to express all that is humble, -respectful and loving to her Abelard, Heloise writes this._ - -A consolatory letter of yours to a friend happened some days since to -fall into my hands; my knowledge of the writing and my love of the -hand gave me the curiosity to open it. In justification of the -liberty I took, I flattered myself I might claim a sovereign -privilege over everything which came from you. Nor was I scrupulous -to break through the rules of good breeding when I was to hear news -of Abelard. But how dear did my curiosity cost me! What disturbance -did it occasion, and how surprised I was 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 put my heart into such violent -motion that I thought it was too much to offer comfort to a friend -for a few slight disgraces, but 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. Though 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 always be present to my aching 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 pseudo 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 upon you opinions quite different from your meanings. In vain -you condemned those opinions; all was of no effect towards your -justification, 'twas 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 of 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 refrain, 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 I kept it; but it was demanded of me -too soon. - -I must confess I was much easier in my mind before I read your -letter. Surely all the misfortunes of lovers are conveyed to them -through the eyes: upon reading your letter I feel 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 then, -perhaps, your ashes will not be allowed to rest in peace!--let me -always meditate on your calamities, let me publish them through 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 passed evils; and are there more to be feared still? -Shall my Abelard never be mentioned without tears? Shall the dear -name never be 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 me, I beg of you, that little relief which you only can give. -Let me have a faithful account of all that concerns you; I would know -everything, be it ever so unfortunate. Perhaps by mingling my sighs -with yours I may make your sufferings less, for it is said that all -sorrows divided are made lighter. - -Tell me not by way of excuse you will spare me 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 chooses the side of the virtuous, and fortune is so -blind that in a crowd in which there is perhaps but one wise and -brave man it is not to be expected that 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 a happy -turn. I shall always have this, if you please, and this will always -be agreeable to me, that when I receive any letter from you I shall -know you still remember me. Seneca (with whose writings you made me -acquainted), though he was a Stoic, seemed to be so very sensible to -this kind of pleasure, that upon opening any letters from Lucilius he -imagined he felt the same delight as when they conversed together. - -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 us. It seems to me as if the farther -they are removed their pictures grow the more finished, and acquire a -greater resemblance; or 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 flat colour. I have your picture in my room; I never pass -it without stopping to look at it; and yet when you are present with -me I scarce ever cast my eyes on 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 tenderness and the -delicacy of speech, and sometimes even a boldness of expression -beyond it. - -We may write to each other; so innocent a pleasure is not denied 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 sign myself your wife. In spite of all our misfortunes -you may be what you please in your letter. Letters were first -invented for consoling 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 sacred thoughts; I shall -carry them always about with 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 upon 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 will not tell me that -you still love me; but that language ought to be so natural to you, -that I believe you cannot speak otherwise to me without violence to -yourself. And since by this melancholy relation to your friend you -have awakened all my sorrows, 'tis but reasonable you should allay -them by some tokens of your unchanging love. - -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 far greater. Charity is ingenious in finding out such pious -plans, 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 should use it. 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 always be a -pleasure to me to say that you only are the founder of this house, -'tis wholly your work. You, by inhabiting here, have given fame and -holiness to a place known before only for robberies and murders. You -have in a literal sense made the den of thieves into a house of -prayer. These cloisters owe nothing to public charities; our walls -were not raised by the usuries 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 only 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 temptation; though our walls and gates prohibit all -approaches, yet it is the outside only, the bark of the tree, that is -protected from injuries; the sap of the 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 changeable, the other is weak. To plant the Lord's -vineyard is a work of no little labour; but after it is planted it -will require great application and diligence to dress it. The Apostle -of the Gentiles, great labourer as he was, says he hath planted, -Apollos hath watered, but it is God that gives the increase. Paul had -planted the Gospel amongst the Corinthians, Apollos, his zealous -disciple, continued to cultivate it by frequent exhortations; and the -grace of God, which their constant prayers implored for that church, -made the work of both be fruitful. - -This ought to be an example for your conduct towards us. I know you -are not slothful, yet your labours are not directed towards 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 prevent 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 over 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 entreat you in the name of your -children? Is it possible I should fear obtaining anything of you when -I ask it in my own name? And must I use any other prayers than my own -in order to prevail upon you? The St. Austins, Tertullians and -Jeromes have written to the Eudoxias, 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 Scriptures; or Tertullian and preach mortification; or -St. Austin and explain to me the nature of grace? Why should I alone -not reap the advantage of 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 the least scandal satisfy me, why -will you not? I am not only engaged by my vows, but I have the fear -of my Uncle before me. There is nothing, then, that you need dread; -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 stay in it with devotion. You -have been the occasion of all my misfortunes, you therefore must be -the instrument of all my comfort. - -You cannot but remember (for lovers cannot forget) with what pleasure -I have passed 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 messengers. This detail perhaps surprises you, and -you are in pain for what may follow. But I am no longer ashamed that -my passion 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 quietly -and at ease. Nothing but virtue, joined to a love perfectly -disengaged from the senses, could have produced such effects. Vice -never inspires anything 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 notion; 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 so revenge myself on 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 both -mind and body loved 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. - -You cannot but be entirely persuaded of this by the extreme -unwillingness I showed to marry you, though 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 would perhaps 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 which 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 -protested that it was infinitely preferable to me to live with -Abelard as his mistress than with any other as Empress of the World. -I was more happy in obeying you than I should have been as lawful -spouse of the King of the Earth. Riches and pomp are not the charm of -love. True tenderness makes us separate the lover from all that is -external to him, and setting aside his position, fortune or -employments, consider him merely as himself. - -It is not love, but the desire of riches and position which makes a -woman run into the embraces of an indolent husband. Ambition, and 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 experience the pleasures of affectionate union, -nor to feel those subtle and charming joys when hearts long parted -are at last united. These martyrs of marriage pine always for larger -fortunes which they think they have missed. The wife sees husbands -richer than her own, and the husband wives better portioned than his. -Their mercenary vows occasion regret, and regret produces hatred. -Soon they part--or else desire to. This restless and tormenting -passion for gold punishes them for aiming at other advantages by love -than love itself. - -If there is anything that may properly be called happiness here -below, I am persuaded it is 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 merits. Their hearts are full and -leave no vacancy for any other passion; they enjoy perpetual -tranquillity because they enjoy content. - -If I could believe you as truly persuaded of my merit as I am of -yours, I might say there has been a time when we were such a pair. -Alas! how was it possible I should not be certain of your mind? If I -could ever have doubted it, the universal esteem would have made me -decide 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 everyone rejoice in having seen you? Even -women, breaking through the laws of decorum which custom had imposed -upon them, showed they felt more for you than mere esteem. I have -known some who have been profuse in their husbands' praises who have -yet envied me my happiness. But what could resist you? Your -reputation, which so much attracts the vanity of our sex, your air, -your manner, that light in your eyes which expresses the vivacity of -your mind, your conversation so easy and elegant that it gave -everything you said an agreeable turn; in short, everything spoke for -you! Very different from those mere scholars who with all their -learning have not the capacity to keep up an ordinary conversation, -and who with all their wit cannot win a woman who has much less share -of brains than themselves. - -With what ease did you compose verses! And yet those ingenious -trifles, which were but a recreation to you, are still the -entertainment and delight of persons of the best taste. The smallest -song, the least sketch of anything you made for me, had a thousand -beauties capable of making it last as long as there are 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 they themselves are capable of. - -What rivalries did your gallantries of this kind occasion me! How -many ladies lay 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 anything the advantage over them but -in being beloved by you. Can you believe me if I tell you, that -notwithstanding 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, that I might be more certain that I pleased you. - -But oh! where is that happy time? I now lament my lover, and of all -my joys have nothing but the painful memory that they are past. Now -learn, all you my rivals who once viewed my happiness with jealous -eyes, that he you once envied me can never more be 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 were a crime, 'tis a crime I am -yet fond of, and I have no other regret save that against my will I -must now be innocent. But what do I say? My misfortune was to have -cruel relatives whose malice destroyed the calm we enjoyed; had they -been reasonable 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 -Heloise then? What joy should I have had in defending my lover; I -would have guarded you from violence at the expense of my life. Oh! -whither does this excess of passion hurry me? Here love is shocked -and modesty deprives me of words. - -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 my 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 thought of pleasure which engaged you to me? And has not -my tenderness, by leaving you nothing to wish for, extinguished your -desires? Wretched Heloise! 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 a sad experience that it is -natural to avoid those to whom we have been too much obliged, and -that uncommon generosity causes neglect rather than gratitude. My -heart surrendered too soon to gain the esteem of the conqueror; you -took it without difficulty and throw it aside with ease. But -ungrateful as you are I am no consenting party to this, and though I -ought not to retain a wish of my own, yet I still preserve secretly -the desire to be loved by you. When I pronounced my sad vow I then -had about me your last letters in which you protested your whole -being wholly mine, and would never live but to love me. It is to you -therefore I have offered myself; you had my heart and I had yours; do -not demand anything back. You must bear with my passion as a thing -which of right belongs to you, and from which you can be no ways -disengaged. - -Alas! what folly it is to talk in this way! 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 One! 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 some -faint signs of a dying passion I would have favoured the deception. -But in vain do I flatter myself that you could be constant; you have -left no vestige of an excuse for you. 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 your -reputation; all I desire is such letters as the heart dictates, and -which the hand cannot transcribe fast enough. How did I deceive -myself with hopes that you would be wholly mine when I took the veil, -and engage myself to live for ever under your laws? For in being -professed I vowed no more than to be yours only, and I forced myself -voluntarily to a confinement which you desired for me. Death only -then can make me leave the cloister where you have placed me; and -then my ashes shall rest here and wait for yours in order to show to -the very last my obedience and devotion to you. - -Why should I conceal from you the secret of my call? You know it was -neither zeal nor devotion that brought me here. 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 a cruel -relation 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 -consequences of our love and your disgrace have made me put on the -habit of chastity, but I am not penitent of the past. Thus I strive -and labour in vain. Among those who are wedded to God I am wedded to -a man; among the heroic supporters of the Cross I am the slave of a -human desire; at the head of a religious community I am devoted to -Abelard alone. What a monster am I! Enlighten me, O Lord, for I know -not if my despair or Thy grace draws these words from me! I am, I -confess, a sinner, but one who, far from weeping for her sins, weeps -only for her lover; far from abhorring her crimes, longs only to add -to them; and who, with a weakness unbecoming my state, please myself -continually with the remembrance of past delights when it is -impossible to renew them. - -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 it is to fight for -duty against inclination. I know what obligations this veil lays upon -me, but I feel more strongly what power an old passion has over my -heart. I am conquered by my feelings; love troubles my mind and -disorders my will. Sometimes I am swayed by the sentiment of piety -which arises within me, and then 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 a 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 thoughts, and darkens -alike my reason and my religion. 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 my efforts but serve to bind them faster. Oh, for pity's sake -help a wretch to renounce her desires--her self--and if possible even -to renounce you! If you are a lover--a father, help a mistress, -comfort a child! These tender names must surely move you; yield -either to pity or to love. If you gratify my request I shall continue -a religious, and without longer profaning my calling. I am ready to -humble myself with you to the wonderful goodness of God, Who does all -things for our sanctification, Who by His grace purifies all that is -vicious and corrupt, and by the great riches of His mercy draws us -against our wishes, and by degrees opens our eyes to behold His -bounty which at first we could not perceive. - -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 somewhat hard that when we had both -engaged to consecrate ourselves to Heaven you should insist upon my -doing it first. ‘Does Abelard then,’ said I, ‘suspect that, like -Lot's wife, I shall look back?’ 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, -banish such ungenerous apprehensions? This distrust hurt me; 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 to 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 to follow him to the Seats of Holiness? I, who have not -refused to be the victim of pleasure in order to gratify him, can he -think I would refuse to be a sacrifice of honour when he desired it?’ -Has vice such charms to refined natures, that when once we have drunk -of the cup of sinners it is with such difficulty we accept the -chalice of saints? Or did you believe yourself to be more competent -to teach vice than virtue, or me more ready to learn the first than -the latter? No; this suspicion would be injurious to us both: Virtue -is too beautiful not to be embraced when you reveal her charms, and -Vice too hideous not to be abhorred when you display her deformities. -Nay, when you please, anything seems lovely to me, and nothing is -ugly when you are by. I am only weak when I am alone and unsupported -by you, and therefore it depends on you alone to make me such as you -desire. I wish to Heaven 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 happily -together you might have doubted whether pleasure or affection united -me more to you, but the place from whence I write to you must surely -have dissolved all doubt. Even here I love you as much as ever I did -in the world. If I had loved pleasures could I not have found means -to gratify myself? I was not more than twenty-two years old, and -there were other men left though I was deprived of Abelard. And yet I -buried myself alive in a nunnery, and triumphed over life at an age -capable of enjoying it to its full latitude. It is to you I sacrifice -these remains of a transitory beauty, these widowed nights and -tedious days; and since you cannot possess them I take them from you -to offer them to Heaven, and so make, alas! but a secondary oblation -of my heart, my days, my life! - -I am sensible I have dwelt too long on this subject; I ought to speak -less to you of your misfortunes and of my sufferings. 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 actions. -Now if you were this sort of creature 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 stript myself of everything, but -I find I neither have nor can renounce my Abelard. 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 turned me -to marble by changing my habit; my heart is not hardened by my -imprisonment; I am still sensible to what has touched me, though, -alas! I ought not to be! 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 pleasant if he show me their advantage. Retirement and -solitude will no longer seem terrible if I may know that I still have -a place in his memory. A heart which has loved as mine cannot soon be -indifferent. We fluctuate long between love and hatred before we can -arrive at tranquillity, and we always flatter ourselves with some -forlorn hope that we shall not be utterly forgotten. - -Yes, Abelard, I conjure you by the chains I bear here to ease the -weight of them, and make them as agreeable as I would they were to -me. Teach me the maxims of Divine Love; since you have forsaken me I -would 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 -works, how it purifies. When we were tossed on the ocean of the world -we could hear of nothing but your verses, which published everywhere -our joys and pleasures. Now we are in the haven of grace is it not -fit you should discourse to me of this new happiness, and teach me -everything that might heighten or improve it? Show 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 objects; let us leave our songs and sing hymns; let us lift up -our hearts to God and have no transports but for His glory! - -I expect this from you as a thing you cannot refuse me. God has a -peculiar right over the hearts of great men 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 and fidelity and constancy: -love me as your mistress, cherish me as your child, your sister, your -wife! Remember I still love you, and yet strive to avoid loving you. -What a terrible saying 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 desire it (would to Heaven I -could!), for ever adieu! - - - - -LETTER II - -_Abelard to Heloise_ - - -Could I have imagined that a letter not written to yourself would -fall into your hands, I had been more cautious not to have inserted -anything 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 to a loss he had sustained. If by -this well-meaning device I have disturbed you, I purpose now 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 secret -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. - -It is true, that in a sense of the afflictions which have befallen -us, and observing that no change of our condition could be expected; -that those prosperous days which had seduced us were now past, and -there remained nothing but to erase from our minds, by painful -endeavours, all marks and remembrances 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 thoughts yet run free. I -promise myself that I will forget you, and yet cannot think of it -without loving you. My love is not at all lessened by those -reflections I make in order to free myself. The silence I am -surrounded by 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 strive -to free myself; and that it is sufficient wisdom to conceal from all -but you how confused and weak I am. - -I remove 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 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 I should seem more -indifferent than you fare, and yet I am ashamed to discover my -trouble. 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 of serving two masters which afflicts your heart -affect mine too? You see the confusion I am in, how I blame myself -and how I suffer. Religion commands me to pursue virtue since I have -nothing to hope for from love. But love still preserves its dominion -over my fancies 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 these regions of death and silence; it -is very seldom that what ought to be is truly followed here and that -God only is loved and served. Had I known this before I had -instructed you better. You call me your master; it is true you were -entrusted 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 my enemy and revenged himself on me. If -now having lost the power of satisfying my passion I had also lost -that of loving you, I should have some consolation. My enemies would -have given me that tranquillity which Origen purchased with a crime. -How miserable am I! I find myself much more guilty in my thoughts of -you, even amidst my tears, than in possessing you when I was in full -liberty. I continually think of you; I continually call to mind your -tenderness. In this condition, O Lord! if I run to prostrate myself -before your altar, if I beseech you to pity me, why does not the pure -flame of the Spirit consume the sacrifice that is offered? Cannot -this habit of penitence which I wear interest Heaven to treat me more -favourably? But Heaven 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 grace. We deceive men, -but nothing is hid from God. - -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 with 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. We commonly die to the -affections of those 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 rest in my memory without -troubling my mind; that Brittany and the sea would suggest other -thoughts; that my fasts and studies would by degrees delete you from -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, as you describe yourself in your veil, appears to me and -confounds all my resolutions. - -What means have I not used! I have armed my hands against myself; I -have exhausted my strength in constant exercises; I comment upon St. -Paul; I contend 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; -allow me to be indifferent. I envy their happiness who have never -loved; how quiet and easy are they! But the tide of pleasure 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 procure me in their stead both merit and -repose. Why use your 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? -What efforts, what relapses, what agitations do we undergo! And how -long are we lost in this confusion, unable to exert our reason, to -possess our souls, or to rule our affections? - -What a troublesome employment is love! And how valuable is virtue -even upon consideration of our own ease! Recollect your -extravagancies of passion, guess at my distractions; number up our -cares, our griefs; throw these things out of the account and let love -have all the remaining tenderness 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 save by extraordinary efforts; it has so powerful an -advocate 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 should 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. It is -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 tried to make a defence, love was soon -the master. God, in order to punish me, forsook me. You are no longer -of the world; you have renounced it: I am a religious devoted to -solitude; shall we not take advantage of our condition? Would you -destroy my piety in its infant state? Would you have me forsake the -abbey 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 should I violate them? Suffer me to seek ease in my duty: -though difficult it is to procure it. 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 alike pierced with your sorrows and my 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 show more firmness of mind I -might provoke 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 in love-songs and verses, ought not the dark -cells of this house at least to conceal that same weakness under an -appearance of piety? Alas! I am still the same! Or if I avoid the -evil, I cannot do the good. Duty, reason and decency, which upon -other occasions have some power over me, are here useless. The Gospel -is a language I do not understand when it opposes my passion. Those -vows I have taken before the altar are feeble when opposed to -thoughts of you. Amidst so many voices which bid me do my duty, I -hear and obey nothing but the secret cry of a desperate passion. Void -of all relish for virtue, without 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 to correct -myself. I feel a perpetual strife between inclination and duty. I -find myself a distracted lover, unquiet in the midst of silence, and -restless in the midst of peace. How shameful is such a condition! - -Regard me no more, I entreat you, as a founder or any great -personage; your praises ill agree with my many weaknesses. I am a -miserable sinner, prostrate before my Judge, and with my face pressed -to the earth I mix my tears with the earth. Can you see me in this -posture and solicit me to love you? Come, if you think fit, and in -your holy habit thrust yourself between my God and me, and be a wall -of separation. Come and force from me those sighs and thoughts and -vows I owe to Him alone. Assist the evil spirits and be the -instrument of their malice. What cannot you induce a heart to do -whose weakness you so perfectly know? Nay, withdraw yourself and -contribute to my salvation. Suffer me to avoid destruction, I entreat -you by our former tender affection and by our now common misfortune. -It will always be the highest love to show none; I here release you -from 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 indeed be a religious and you a -perfect example of an abbess. - -Make yourself amends by so glorious a choice; make your virtue a -spectacle worthy of 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 light a rate that you should not turn it to the best -advantage? Since you have permitted yourself to be abused by false -doctrine and criminal instruction, 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 instil vice than to -teach 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 -enchanting a sweetness, and we are naturally so much inclined to -taste it, that it needs only to 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 -to you first. I willingly submit to these accusations. I cannot -enough admire the readiness you showed to accept the religious habit; -bear therefore with courage the Cross you so resolutely took up. -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 ‘Fly!’. - -You entreat 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 our misfortunes. -The Church is jealous of its honour, and commands that her children -should be induced to the practice of virtue by virtuous means. When -we approach God in a blameless manner then we may with boldness -invite others to Him. But to forget Heloise, to see her no more, is -what Heaven demands of Abelard; and to expect nothing from Abelard, -to forget him even as an idea, is what Heaven enjoins on Heloise. To -forget, in the case of love, is the most necessary penance, 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 we have adored, and adoring the God whom we -have neglected. This may appear harsh, but it must be done if we -would be saved. - -To make it more easy consider 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. When I saw -myself oppressed by my misfortune I was furiously jealous, and -regarded all men as my rivals. Love has more of distrust than -assurance. I was apprehensive of many things because of my many -defects, and being tormented with fear because of my own example I -imagined your heart so accustomed to love that it could not be long -without entering on a new engagement. Jealousy can easily believe the -most terrible things. I was desirous to make it impossible for me to -doubt you. I was very urgent to persuade you that propriety demanded -your withdrawal from the eyes of the world; that modesty and our -friendship required it; and that your own safety obliged it. After -such a revenge taken on me you could expect to be secure nowhere but -in a convent. - -I will do you justice, you were very easily persuaded. My jealousy -secretly rejoiced in 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 in order to -keep it out of the power of other 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 with those convents I held in -the highest esteem. What a comfort I felt in seeing you shut up. I -was now at ease and took a satisfaction in considering that you -continued no longer in the world after my disgrace, and that you -would return to it no more. - -But still I was doubtful. I imagined women were incapable of -steadfast resolutions unless they were forced by the necessity of -vows. I wanted those vows, and Heaven itself for your security, that -I might no longer distrust you. Ye holy mansions and impenetrable -retreats! from what innumerable apprehensions have ye freed me? -Religion and piety keep a strict guard round your grates and walls. -What a haven of rest this is to a jealous mind! And with what -impatience did I endeavour after 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 -the great loss I was 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 alike bribed -and concealed from you, at my directions, all their scruples and -disgusts. I omitted nothing, either little or great; and if you had -escaped my snares I myself would not have retired; I was resolved to -follow you everywhere. The shadow of myself would always have pursued -your steps and continually have occasioned either your confusion or -your fear, which would have been a sensible gratification to me. - -But, thanks to Heaven, you resolved to take the vows. I accompanied -you to the foot of the altar, and while you stretched out your hand -to touch the sacred cloth I heard you distinctly pronounce those -fatal words that for ever separated you from man. Till then I thought -your youth and beauty would foil my design and force your return to -the world. Might not a small temptation have changed you? Is it -possible to renounce oneself entirely at the age of two-and-twenty? -At an age which claims the utmost liberty could you think the world -no longer worth your regard? How much did I wrong you, and what -weakness did I impute to you? You were in my imagination both light -and inconstant. Would not a woman at the noise of the flames and the -fall of Sodom involuntarily look back in pity on some person? I -watched your eyes, your every movement, your air; I trembled at -everything. You may call such self-interested conduct treachery, -perfidy, murder. A love so like to hatred should provoke the utmost -contempt and anger. - -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, I imagined I could love you no more. I thought -it time to leave off giving you marks of my affection, and I -considered that by your Holy Espousals you were now the peculiar care -of Heaven, and no longer a charge on me as my 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 even -dared to pray to Him to take you away from my eyes. But it was not a -time to make rash prayers, and my faith did not warrant them being -heard. Necessity and despair were at the root of my proceedings, and -thus I offered an insult to Heaven rather than a sacrifice. God -rejected my offering and my prayer, and continued my punishment by -suffering me to continue my love. Thus I bear alike the guilt of your -vows and of the passion that preceded them, and must be tormented all -the days of my life. - -If God spoke to your heart as to that of a religious whose innocence -had first asked him for favours, I should have matter of comfort; but -to see both of us the victims of a guilty love, to see this love -insult us in our very habits and spoil our devotions, 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 poison and a drunkenness till we are illuminated by Grace; -in the meantime it is an evil we doat on. When we are under such a -mistake, the knowledge of our misery is the first step towards -amendment. Who does not know that 'tis for the glory of God to find -no other reason in man for His mercy than man's very weakness? When -He has shown us this weakness and we have bewailed it, He is ready to -put forth His Omnipotence and assist us. Let us say for our comfort -that what we suffer is one of those terrible temptations which have -sometimes disturbed the vocations of the most holy. - -God can grant 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 more than six months -before you wrote me a letter, nor during all that time did I receive -a message from you. I admired this silence, which I durst not blame, -but could not imitate. I wrote to you, and you returned me no answer: -your heart was then shut, but this garden 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 are too deeply in love to free ourselves. Our follies have -penetrated into the sacred places; our amours have been a scandal to -the whole kingdom. They are read and admired; love which produced -them has caused them to be described. We shall be a consolation to -the failings of youth for ever; those who offend after us will think -themselves less guilty. We are criminals whose repentance is late; -oh, let it be sincere! Let us repair as far as is possible the evils -we have done, and let France, which has been the witness of our -crimes, be amazed at our repentance. Let us confound all who would -imitate our guilt; let us take the side of God against ourselves, and -by so doing prevent His judgment. Our former lapses require tears, -shame and sorrow to expiate them. Let us offer up these sacrifices -from our hearts, let us blush and let us weep. If in these feeble -beginnings, O Lord, our hearts are not entirely Thine, let them at -least feel that they ought to be so. - -Deliver yourself, Heloise, from the shameful remains of a passion -which has taken too deep root. Remember that the least thought for -any other than God is an 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 you will be -true to the habit which covers you by an inward retirement. Fear God, -that you may be delivered from your frailties; love Him that you may -advance in virtue. Be not restless in the cloister for it is the -peace of saints. Embrace your bands, they are the chains of Christ -Jesus; He will lighten them and bear them with you, if you will but -accept them with humility. - -Without growing severe to a passion that still 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 -should importune you, fly to the foot of the Cross and there beg for -mercy--there are wounds open for healing; lament them 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 the earthly passion that still burns in the -heart of a religious. If during your abode in the world your soul has -acquired a habit of loving, feel it now no more save for Jesus -Christ. Repent of all the moments of your life which you have wasted -in the world and on pleasure; demand them of me, 'tis a robbery of -which I am guilty; take courage and boldly reproach me with it. - -I have been indeed your master, but it was only to teach sin. You -call me your father; before I had any claim to the title, I deserved -that of parricide. I am your brother, but it is the affinity of sin -that brings me that distinction. I am called your husband, but it is -after a public scandal. If you have abused the sanctity of so many -holy terms in the superscription of your letter to do me honour and -flatter your own passion, blot them out and replace them with those -of murderer, villain and enemy, who has conspired against your -honour, troubled your quiet, and betrayed your innocence. You would -have perished through my means but for an extraordinary act of grace -which, that you might be saved, has thrown me down in the middle of -my course. - -This is the thought you ought to have of a fugitive who desires to -deprive you of the hope of ever seeing him again. 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 -wandering heart still eternally seeks you, and is filled with anguish -at having lost you, in spite of all the powers of my reason. In the -meantime, though I should be so cowardly as to retract what you have -read, do not suffer me to offer myself to your thoughts save in this -last fashion. Remember my last worldly endeavours were to seduce your -heart; you perished by my means and I with you: the same waves -swallowed us up. We waited for death with indifference, and the same -death had carried us headlong to the same punishments. But Providence -warded off the blow, and our shipwreck has thrown us into a haven. -There are some whom God saves by suffering. Let my salvation be the -fruit of your prayers; let me owe it to your tears and your exemplary -holiness. Though my heart, Lord, be filled with the love of Thy -creature, Thy hand can, when it pleases, empty me of all love save -for Thee. To love Heloise truly is to leave her to that quiet which -retirement and virtue afford. I have resolved it: this letter shall -be my last fault. Adieu. 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, for it will be too -late; weep rather for me now and extinguish the fire which burns me. -You shall see me in order that your piety may be strengthened by -horror of this carcase, and my death be eloquent to tell you what you -brave when you love a man. I hope you will be willing, when you have -finished this mortal life, to be buried near me. Your cold ashes need -then fear nothing, and my tomb shall be the more rich and renowned. - - - - -LETTER III - -_Heloise to Abelard_ - - -_To Abelard her well-beloved in Christ Jesus, from Heloise his -well-beloved in the same Christ Jesus._ - -I read the letter I received from you with great 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 Heloise before that of -Abelard? What means this cruel and unjust distinction? It was your -name only--the name of a father and a husband--which my eager eyes -sought for. I did not look for my own, which I would if possible -forget, for it is the cause of all your misfortunes. The rules of -decorum, and your position as master and director over me, opposed -that ceremony in addressing me; and love commanded you to banish it: -alas! you know all this but too well! - -Did you address me thus before cruel fortune had ruined my happiness? -I see your heart has forsaken 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. Can you have the cruelty to abandon me? The fear of this -stabs my heart; the fearful presages you make at the end of your -letter, those terrible images you draw of your death, quite distract -me. Cruel Abelard! you ought to have stopped my tears and you make -them flow. You ought to have quelled the turmoil of my heart and you -throw me into greater disorder. - -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 -dread of causing my immediate 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, severe as it has been to me, is not -so insensible as to permit me to live one moment after you. Life -without Abelard were an insupportable punishment, and death a most -exquisite happiness if by that means I could be united to him. If -Heaven but hearken to my continual cry, your days will be prolonged -and you will bury me. - -Is it not your part to prepare me by powerful exhortation against -that great crisis which shakes the most resolute and stable minds? Is -it not your part to receive my last sighs, superintend my funeral, -and give an account of my acts and my 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 vows? We expect those 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 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 me no more such terrible things; for we are already -sufficiently miserable, nor need to have our sorrows aggravated. Our -life here is but a languishing death; would you hasten it? Our -present disgraces are sufficient to employ our thoughts continually, -and shall we seek in the future new reasons for fear? How void of -reason are men, said Seneca, to make distant evils present by -reflections, and to take pains before death to lose all the joys of -life. - -When you have finished your course here below, you said that it is -your desire that your body be borne to the House of the Paraclete, to -the intent that being always before my eyes you may be ever present -in my mind. Can you think that the traces you have drawn on my heart -can ever be worn out, or that any length of time can obliterate the -memory we hold 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, for so heavy a misfortune would leave me no moment's quiet. -Can my feeble reason resist such powerful assaults? When I am -distracted and raving (if I dare say it) even against Heaven itself, -I shall not soften it by my cries, but rather provoke it by my -reproaches. How should I pray or how bear up against my grief? I -should be more eager to follow you than to pay you the sad ceremonies -of a funeral. It is for you, for Abelard, that I have resolved to -live, and if you are ravished from me I can make no use of my -miserable days. Alas! what lamentations should I make if Heaven, by a -cruel pity, preserved me for that moment? When I but think of this -last separation I feel all the pangs of death; what should 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. - -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 both night and -day? 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? What have I hope for -after the loss of you? What can confine me to earth when death shall -have taken away from me all that was dear on 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 dare not -flatter myself even with the hope that I shall ever see you again. -This is the greatest of my afflictions. - -Merciless Fortune! hadst 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 to fear from thy anger. But what use to longer arm thyself -against me? The wounds I have already received leave no room for -others, unless thou desirest to kill me. Or dost thou fear amidst the -numerous torments heaped on me, dost thou fear that such a final -stroke would deliver me from all other ills? Therefore thou -preservest me from death in order to make me die daily. - -Dear Abelard, pity my despair! Was ever any being 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 the more terrible fall. -Nothing could be compared to my pleasures, and now nothing can equal -my misery. My joys once raised the envy of my rivals, my present -wretchedness calls forth the compassion of all that see me. My -Fortune has been always in extremes; she has loaded me with the -greatest favours and then heaped me with the greatest afflictions; -ingenious in tormenting me, she has made the memory of the joys I -have lost an inexhaustible spring of tears. Love, which being possest -was her most delightful gift, on being taken away is an untold -sorrow. In short, her malice has entirely succeeded, and I find my -present afflictions proportionately bitter as the transports which -charmed me were sweet. - -But what aggravates my sufferings yet more is, that we began to be -miserable at a time when we seemed the least to deserve it. While we -gave ourselves up to the enjoyment of a guilty love nothing opposed -our pleasures; but scarcely had we retrenched our passion and taken -refuge in matrimony, than the wrath of Heaven fell on us with all its -weight. And how barbarous was your punishment! Ah! what right had a -cruel Uncle over us? We were joined to each other even before the -altar, and this should have protected us from the rage of our -enemies. Besides, we were separated; you were busy with your lectures -and instructed a learned audience in mysteries which the greatest -geniuses before you could not 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. At this very juncture punishment fell upon us, and you -who were least guilty became the object of the whole vengeance of a -barbarous man. But why should I rave at Fulbert? I, wretched I, have -ruined you, and have been the cause of all your misfortunes. How -dangerous it is for a great man to suffer himself to be moved by our -sex! He ought from his infancy to be inured to insensibility of heart -against all our charms. ‘Hearken, my son’ (said formerly the wisest -of men), ‘attend and keep my instructions; if a beautiful woman by -her looks endeavour to entice thee, permit not thyself to be overcome -by a corrupt inclination; reject the poison she offers, and follow -not the paths she directs. Her house is the gate of destruction and -death.’ I have long examined things, and have found that death is -less dangerous than beauty. It is the shipwreck of liberty, a fatal -snare, from which it is impossible ever to get free. It was a woman -who threw down the first man from the glorious position in which -Heaven had placed him; she, who was created to partake of his -happiness, was the sole cause of his ruin. How bright had been the -glory of Samson if his heart had been proof against the charms of -Delilah, as against the weapons of the Philistines. A woman disarmed -and betrayed he who had been a conqueror of armies. He saw himself -delivered into the hands of his enemies; he was deprived of his eyes, -those inlets of love into the soul; distracted and despairing he died -without any consolation save that of including his enemies in his -ruin. Solomon, that he might please women, forsook pleasing God; that -king whose wisdom princes came from all parts to admire, he whom God -had chosen to build the temple, abandoned the worship of the very -altars he had raised, and proceeded to such a pitch of folly as even -to burn incense to idols. Job had no enemy more cruel than his wife; -what temptations did he not bear? The evil spirit who had declared -himself his persecutor employed a woman as an instrument to shake his -constancy. And the same evil spirit made Heloise an instrument to -ruin Abelard. All the poor comfort I have is that I am not the -voluntary cause of your misfortunes. I have not betrayed you; but my -constancy and love have been destructive to you. If I have committed -a crime in loving you so constantly I cannot repent it. I have -endeavoured to please you even at the expense of my virtue, and -therefore deserve the pains I feel. As soon as I was persuaded of -your love I delayed scarce a moment in yielding to your -protestations; to be beloved by Abelard was in my esteem so great a -glory, and I so impatiently desired it, not to believe in it -immediately. I aimed 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 tyrannise 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 -famous and learned person of the age. If any consideration had been -able to stop me, it would have been without doubt my love. I feared -lest having nothing further to offer you your passion might become -languid, and you might seek for new pleasures in another conquest. -But it was easy for you to cure me of a suspicion so opposite to my -own inclination. I ought to have foreseen other more certain evils, -and to have considered that the idea of lost enjoyments would be the -trouble of my whole life. - -How happy should I be could I wash out with my tears the memory of -those pleasures which I yet think of with delight. At least I will -try by strong endeavour to smother in my heart those desires to which -the frailty of my nature gives birth, and I will exercise on myself -such torments as those you have to suffer from the rage of your -enemies. I will endeavour by this means to satisfy you at least, if I -cannot appease an angry God. For to show you to what a deplorable -condition I am reduced, and how far my repentance is from being -complete, I dare even accuse Heaven at this moment of cruelty for -delivering you over to the snares prepared for you. My repinings can -only kindle divine wrath, when I should be seeking for mercy. - -In order to expiate a crime it is not sufficient to bear the -punishment; whatever we suffer is of no avail if the passion still -continues and the heart is filled with the same desire. It is an easy -matter to confess a weakness, and inflict on ourselves some -punishment, but it needs perfect power over our nature to extinguish -the memory of pleasures, which by a loved habitude have gained -possession of our minds. How many persons do we see who make an -outward confession of their faults, yet, far from being in distress -about them, take a new pleasure in relating them. Contrition of the -heart ought to accompany the confession of the mouth, yet this very -rarely happens. I, who have experienced so many pleasures in loving -you, feel, in spite of myself, that I cannot repent them, nor forbear -through memory to enjoy them over again. Whatever efforts I use, on -whatever side I turn, the sweet thought still pursues me, and every -object brings to my mind what it is my duty to forget. During the -quiet night, when my heart ought to be still in that sleep which -suspends the greatest cares, I cannot avoid the illusions of my -heart. I dream I am still with my dear Abelard. I see him, I speak to -him and hear him answer. Charmed with each other we forsake our -studies and give ourselves up to love. Sometimes too I seem to -struggle with your enemies; I oppose their fury, I break into piteous -cries, and in a moment I awake in tears. Even into holy places before -the altar I carry the memory of our love, and far from lamenting for -having been seduced by pleasures, I sigh for having lost them. - -I remember (for nothing is forgot by lovers) the time and place in -which you first declared your passion and swore you would love me -till death. Your words, your oaths, are deeply graven in my heart. My -stammering speech betrays to all the disorder of my mind; my sighs -discover me, and your name is ever on my lips. O Lord! when I am thus -afflicted why dost not Thou pity my weakness and strengthen me with -Thy grace? You are happy, Abelard, in that grace is given 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 deal -heavily with you, sought only to help you; He was a Father chastising -and not an Enemy revenging--a wise Physician putting you to some pain -in order to preserve your life. I am a thousand times more to be -pitied than you, for I have still a thousand passions to fight. I -must resist those fires which love kindles in a young heart. Our sex -is nothing but weakness, and I have the greater difficulty in -defending myself because the enemy that attacks me pleases me; I doat -on the danger which threatens; how then can I avoid yielding? - -In the midst of these struggles I try at least to conceal my weakness -from those you have entrusted to my care. All who are about me admire -my virtue, but could their eyes penetrate into my heart what would -they not discover? My passions there are in rebellion; I preside over -others but cannot rule myself. I have a false covering, and this -seeming virtue is a real vice. Men judge me praiseworthy, but I am -guilty before God; from His all-seeing eye nothing is hid, and He -views through all their windings the secrets of the heart. I cannot -escape His discovery. And yet it means great effort to me merely to -maintain this appearance of virtue, so surely 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 those feeble ones who are under my rule. With my heart full of the -love of man, I teach them at least to love only God. Charmed with the -pomp of worldly pleasures, I endeavor to show them that they are all -vanity and deceit. I have just strength enough to conceal from them -my longings, and I look upon that as a great effect of grace. If it -is not enough to make me embrace virtue, 'tis enough to keep me from -committing sin. - -And yet it is in vain to try and separate these two things: they must -be guilty who are not righteous, 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 to offend a man than to provoke God, and I -study less to please Him than to please you. Yes, it was your command -only, and not a sincere vocation, which sent me into these cloisters; -I sought to give you ease and not to sanctify myself. How unhappy am -I! I tear myself from all that pleases me; I bury myself alive; I -exercise myself with the most rigid fastings and all those severities -the cruel laws impose on us; I feed myself with tears and sorrows; -and notwithstanding this I merit nothing by my penance. My false -piety has long deceived you as well as others; you have thought me at -peace when I was more disturbed than ever. You persuaded yourself I -was wholly devoted to my duty, yet I had no business but love. Under -this mistake you desire my prayers--alas! I need yours! Do not -presume upon my virtue and my care; I am wavering, fix me by your -advice; I am feeble, sustain and guide me by your counsel. - -What occasion had you to praise me? Praise is often hurtful for those -on whom it is bestowed: a secret vanity springs up in the heart, -blinds us, and conceals from us the wounds that are half healed. A -seducer flatters us, and at the same time destroys us. A sincere -friend disguises nothing from us, and far 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 -anything 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 reprobate as well as the -elect may lay claim to it. An artful impostor may by his address gain -more admiration than is given to the zeal of a saint. - -The heart of man is a labyrinth whose windings are very difficult to -discover. The praises you give me are the more dangerous because I -love the person who bestows them. The more I desire to please you the -readier am I to believe the merit you attribute to me. Ah! think -rather how to nerve my weakness by wholesome remonstrances! Be rather -fearful than confident of my salvation; say our virtue is founded -upon weakness, and that they only will be crowned who have fought -with the greatest difficulties. But I seek not the crown which is the -reward of victory--I am content if I can avoid danger. It is easier -to keep out of the way than to win a battle. There are several -degrees in glory, and I am not ambitious of the highest; I leave them -to those of greater courage who have often been victorious. I seek -not to conquer for fear I should be overcome; happiness enough for me -to escape shipwreck and at last reach port. Heaven commands me to -renounce my fatal passion for you, but oh! my heart will never be -able to consent to it. Adieu. - - - - -LETTER IV - -_Heloise to Abelard_ - - -Dear Abelard,--You expect, perhaps, that I should accuse you of -negligence. You have not answered my last letter, and, thanks to -Heaven, in the condition I am now in it is a relief to me that you -show so much insensibility for the passion which I betrayed. At last, -Abelard, you have lost Heloise for ever. Notwithstanding all the -oaths I made to think of nothing but you, and to be entertained by -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 be no -more my happiness! Dear image of Abelard! thou wilt no longer follow -me, no longer shall I remember thee. O celebrity and merit of that -man who, in spite of his enemies, is the wonder of the age! O -enchanting pleasures to which Heloise resigned herself--you, you have -been my tormentors! I confess my inconstancy, Abelard, without a -blush; let my infidelity teach the world that there is no depending -on the promises of women--we are all subject to change. This troubles -you, Abelard; this news without surprises you; you never imagined -Heloise could be inconstant. She was prejudiced by such a strong -inclination towards you that you cannot conceive how Time could alter -it. But be undeceived, I am going to disclose to you my falseness, -though, instead of reproaching me, I persuade myself you will shed -tears of joy. When I tell you what Rival hath ravished my heart from -you, you will praise my inconstancy, and pray this Rival to fix it. -By this you will know that 'tis God alone that takes Heloise from -you. Yes, my dear Abelard, He gives my mind that tranquillity which a -vivid remembrance of our misfortunes formerly forbade. Just Heaven! -what other rival could take me from you? Could you imagine it -possible for a mere human to blot you from my heart? Could you think -me guilty of sacrificing the virtuous and learned Abelard to any -other but God? No, I believe you have done me justice on this point. -I doubt not you are eager to learn what means God used to accomplish -so great an end? I will tell you, that you may 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, grew criminal in my eyes. My memory represented -faithfully to me all the past actions of my life, and I confess to -you pain for our love was the only pain I felt. Death, which till -then I had only viewed from a distance, now presented itself to me as -it appears to sinners. I began to dread the wrath of God now I was -near experiencing it, and I repented that I had not better used the -means of Grace. Those tender letters I wrote to you, those fond -conversations I have had with you, give me as much pain now as they -had formerly given pleasure. ‘Ah, miserable Heloise!’ I said, ‘if it -is a crime to give oneself up to such transports, and if, after this -life is ended, punishment certainly follows them, why didst thou not -resist such dangerous temptations? Think on the tortures prepared for -thee, consider with terror the store of torments, and recollect, at -the same time, those pleasures which thy deluded soul thought so -entrancing. Ah! dost thou not despair for having rioted in such false -pleasures?’ In short, Abelard, imagine all the remorse of mind I -suffered, and you will not be astonished at my change. - -Solitude is insupportable to the uneasy mind; its troubles increase -in the midst of silence, and retirement heightens them. Since I have -been shut up in these walls I have done nothing but weep our -misfortunes. This cloister has resounded with my cries, and, like a -wretch condemned to eternal slavery, I have worn out my days with -grief. Instead of fulfilling God's merciful design towards me I have -offended against Him; I have looked upon this sacred refuge as a -frightful prison, and have borne with unwillingness the yoke of the -Lord. Instead of purifying myself with a life of penitence I have -confirmed my condemnation. What a fatal mistake! But Abelard, I have -torn off the bandage which blinded me, and, if I dare rely upon my -own feelings, I have now made myself worthy of your esteem. You are -to me no more the loving Abelard who constantly sought private -conversations with me by deceiving the vigilance of our observers. -Our misfortunes gave you a horror of vice, and you instantly -consecrated the rest of your days to virtue, and seemed to submit -willingly to the necessity. I indeed, more tender than you, and more -sensible to pleasure, bore misfortune with extreme impatience, and -you have heard my exclaimings against your enemies. You have seen my -resentment in my late letters; it was this, doubtless, which deprived -me of the esteem of my Abelard. You were alarmed at my repinings, -and, if the truth be told, despaired of my salvation. You could not -foresee that Heloise would conquer so reigning a passion; but you -were mistaken, Abelard, my weakness, when supported by grace, has not -hindered me from winning a complete victory. Restore me, then, to -your esteem; your own piety should solicit you to this. - -But what secret trouble rises in my soul--what unthought-of emotion -now rises to oppose the resolution I have formed to sigh no more for -Abelard? Just Heaven! have I not triumphed over my love? Unhappy -Heloise! as long as thou drawest a breath it is decreed thou must -love Abelard. Weep, unfortunate wretch, for thou never hadst a more -just occasion. I ought to die of grief; grace had overtaken me and I -had promised to be faithful to it, but now am I perjured once more, -and even grace is sacrificed to Abelard. This sacrilege fills up the -measure of my iniquity. After this how can I hope that God will open -to me the treasure of His mercy, for I have tired out His -forgiveness. I began to offend Him from the first moment I saw -Abelard; an unhappy sympathy engaged us both in a guilty love, and -God raised us up an enemy to separate us. I lament the misfortune -which lighted upon us and I adore the cause. Ah! I ought rather to -regard this misfortune as the gift of Heaven, which disapproved of -our engagement and parted us, and I ought to apply myself to -extirpate my passion. How much better it were to forget entirely the -object of it than to preserve a memory so fatal to my peace and -salvation? Great God! shall Abelard possess my thoughts for ever? Can -I never free myself from the chains of love? But perhaps I am -unreasonably afraid; virtue directs all my acts and they are all -subject to grace. Therefore fear not, Abelard; I have no longer 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 passion gave us, to awaken any guilty fondness you may -yet feel for me. I free you from all your oaths; forget the titles of -lover and husband and keep only that of father. I expect no more from -you than tender protestations and those letters so proper to feed the -flame of love. I demand nothing of you but spiritual advice and -wholesome discipline. The path of holiness, however thorny it be, -will yet appear agreeable to me if I may but walk in your footsteps. -You will always find me ready to follow you. I shall read with more -pleasure the letters in which you shall describe the advantages of -virtue than ever I did those in which you so artfully instilled the -poison of 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 do I blame you; but now you -have nothing to fear. This fortunate illness, with which Providence -has chastised me for my good, has done what all human efforts and -your cruelty in vain attempted. I see now the vanity of that -happiness we had set our hearts upon, as if it were eternal. What -fears, what distress have we not suffered for it! - -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 until fixed on Thee. What have I not suffered, -Abelard, whilst I kept alive in my retirement those fires which -ruined me in the world? I saw with hatred the walls that surrounded -me; the hours seemed as long as years. I repented a thousand times -that I had buried myself here. But since grace has opened my eyes all -the scene is changed; solitude looks charming, and the peace of the -place enters my very heart. In the satisfaction of doing my duty I -feel a delight above all that riches, pomp or sensuality could -afford. My quiet has indeed cost me dear, for I have bought it at the -price of my love; I have offered a violent sacrifice I thought beyond -my power. But if I have torn you from my heart, be not jealous; God, -who ought always to have possessed it, reigns there in your stead. Be -content with having a place in my mind which you shall never lose; I -shall always take a secret pleasure in thinking of you, and esteem it -a glory to obey those rules you shall give me. - - * * * * * - -This very moment I receive a letter from you; I will read it and -answer it immediately. You shall see by my promptitude in writing to -you that you are always dear to me. - -You very obligingly reproach me for delay in writing 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 tell me 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 love me you will moderate the -rigours 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 repetitions. You -desire us not to forget you in our prayers: ah! dear Abelard, you may -depend upon the zeal of this society; it is devoted to you and you -cannot justly fear its forgetfulness. You are our Father, and we are -your children; you are our guide, and we resign ourselves to your -direction with full assurance in your piety. You command; we obey; we -faithfully execute what you have prudently ordered. We impose no -penance on ourselves but what you recommend, lest we should rather -follow an indiscreet zeal than solid virtue. In a word, nothing is -thought right but what has Abelard's approbation. You tell me one -thing that perplexes me--that you have heard that some of our Sisters -are bad examples, and that they are generally not strict enough. -Ought this to seem strange to you who know how monasteries are filled -nowadays? Do fathers consult the inclination 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 show me the proper remedy -for them. I have not yet observed any looseness: 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 -that happened in the monasteries near Paris. - -You end your letter with a general deploring of your unhappiness and -wish for death to end a weary life. Is it possible so great a genius -as you cannot rise above your misfortunes? What would the world say -should they read the letters you send me? Would they consider the -noble motive of your retirement or not rather think you had shut -yourself up merely to lament your woes? What would your young -students say, who come so far to hear you and prefer your severe -lectures to the ease of a worldly life, if they should discover you -secretly a slave to your passions and the victim of those weaknesses -from which your rule secures them? This Abelard they so much admire, -this great leader, would lose his fame and become the sport of his -pupils. If these reasons are not sufficient to give you constancy in -your misfortune, cast your eyes upon me, and admire the resolution -with which I shut myself up at your request. I was young when we -separated, and (if I dare believe what you were always telling me) -worthy of any man's affections. If I had loved nothing in Abelard but -sensual pleasure, other 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 still 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 indulged, the caresses I -gave, would surely have comforted you. Had you seen me grow by -degrees indifferent to you, you might have had reason to despair, but -you never received greater tokens of my affection than after you felt -misfortune. - -Let me see no more in your letters, dear Abelard, such murmurs -against Fate; you are not the only one who has felt her blows and you -ought to forget her outrages. What a shame it is that a philosopher -cannot accept what might befall any man. Govern yourself by my -example; I was born with violent passions, I daily strive with tender -emotions, and glory in triumphing and subjecting them to reason. Must -a weak mind fortify one that is so much superior? But I am carried -away. Is it thus I write to my dear Abelard? He who practises all -those virtues he preaches? If you complain of Fortune, it is not so -much that you feel her strokes as that you try to show your enemies -how much to blame they are in attempting to hurt you. Leave them, -Abelard, to exhaust their malice, and continue to charm your -auditors. Discover those treasures of learning Heaven seems to have -reserved for you; your enemies, struck with the splendour of your -reasoning, will in the end 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; your greatest adversaries -confess you are ignorant of nothing the mind of man is capable of -knowing. - -My dear Husband (for the last time I use that title!), shall I never -see you again? Shall I never have the pleasure of embracing you -before death? What dost thou say, wretched Heloise? Dost thou know -what thou desirest? Couldst thou behold those brilliant eyes without -recalling the tender glances which have been so fatal to thee? -Couldst thou see that majestic air of Abelard without being jealous -of everyone who beholds so attractive a man? That mouth cannot be -looked upon without desire; in short, no woman can view the person of -Abelard without danger. Ask no more therefore to see Abelard; if the -memory of him has caused thee so much trouble, Heloise, what would -not his presence do? What desires will it not excite in thy soul? How -will it be possible to keep thy reason at the sight of so lovable a -man? - -I will own to you what makes the greatest pleasure in my retirement; -after having passed the day in thinking of you, full of the repressed -idea, I give myself up at night to sleep. Then it is that Heloise, -who dares not think of you by day, resigns herself with pleasure to -see and hear you. How my eyes gloat over you! Sometimes you tell me -stories of your secret troubles, and create in me a felt sorrow; -sometimes the rage of our enemies is forgotten and you press me to -you and I yield to you, and our souls, animated with the same -passion, are sensible of the same pleasures. But O! delightful dreams -and tender illusions, how soon do you vanish away! I awake and open -my eyes to find no Abelard: I stretch out my arms to embrace him and -he is not there; I cry, and he hears me not. What a fool I am to tell -my dreams to you who are insensible to these pleasures. But do you, -Abelard, never see Heloise in your sleep? How does she appear to you? -Do you entertain her with the same tender language as formerly, and -are you glad or sorry when you awake? Pardon me, Abelard, pardon a -mistaken lover. I must no longer expect from you that vivacity which -once marked your every action; no more must I require from you the -correspondence of desires. We have bound ourselves to severe -austerities and must follow them at all costs. Let us think of our -duties and our rules, and make good use of that necessity which keeps -us separate. You, Abelard, will happily finish your course; your -desires and ambitions will be no obstacle to your salvation. But -Heloise must weep, she must lament for ever without being certain -whether all her tears will avail for her salvation. - -I had liked to have ended my letter without telling you what happened -here a few days ago. A young nun, who had been forced to enter the -convent without a vocation therefor, is by a stratagem I know nothing -of escaped and fled to England with a gentleman. I have ordered all -the house to conceal the matter. Ah, Abelard! if you were near us -these things would not happen, for all the Sisters, charmed with -seeing and hearing you, would think of nothing but practising 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 in holiness. If your eyes were witnesses of our -actions they would be innocent. When we slipped you should lift us up -and establish us by your counsels; we should march with sure steps in -the rough path of virtue. I begin to perceive, Abelard, that I take -too much pleasure in writing to you; I ought to burn this letter. It -shows that I still feel a deep passion for you, though at the -beginning I tried to persuade you to the contrary. I am sensible of -waves both of grace and passion, and by turns yield to each. Have -pity, Abelard, on the condition to which you have brought me, and -make in some measure my last days as peaceful as my first have been -uneasy and disturbed. - - - - -LETTER V - -_Abelard to Heloise_ - - -Write no more to me, Heloise, write no more to me; 'tis time to end -communications which make our penances of nought avail. We retired -from the world to purify ourselves, and, by a conduct directly -contrary to Christian morality, we became odious to Jesus Christ. Let -us no more deceive ourselves with remembrance of our past pleasures; -we but make our lives troubled and spoil the sweets of solitude. Let -us make good use of our austerities and no longer preserve the -memories of our crimes amongst the severities of penance. Let a -mortification of body and mind, a strict fasting, continual solitude, -profound and holy meditations, and a sincere love of God succeed our -former irregularities. - -Let us try to carry religious perfection to its farthest point. It is -beautiful to find Christian minds so disengaged from 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 our -object. Be our efforts ever so great they will always come short of -attaining that exalted Divinity which even our apprehension cannot -reach. Let us act for God's glory independent of the creatures or -ourselves, paying no regard to our own desires or the opinions of -others. Were we in this temper of mind, Heloise, I would willingly -make my abode at the Paraclete, and by my earnest care for the house -I have founded 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, labour, meditate, and be -silent. - -And 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 the 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 you ought to -perform, and satisfy those doubts which through the weakness of your -reason might arise. I would be your master and father, and by a -marvellous talent I would become lively or slow, gentle or severe, -according to the different characters of those I should guide in the -painful path to Christian perfection. - -But whither does my vain imagination carry me! Ah, Heloise, how far -are we from such a happy temper? Your heart still burns with that -fatal fire you cannot extinguish, and mine is full of trouble and -unrest. Think not, Heloise, that I here enjoy a perfect peace; I will -for the last time open my heart to you;--I am not yet disengaged from -you, and though I fight against my excessive tenderness for you, in -spite of all my endeavours I remain but too sensible of your sorrows -and long to share in them. Your letters have indeed moved me; I could -not read with indifference characters written by that dear hand! I -sigh and weep, and all my reason is scarce sufficient to conceal my -weakness from my pupils. This, unhappy Heloise, is the miserable -condition of Abelard. The world, which is generally wrong in its -notions, thinks I am at peace, and imagining that I loved you only -for the gratification of the senses, have now forgot you. What a -mistake is this! People indeed were not wrong in saying that when we -separated it was shame and grief that made me abandon the world. It -was not, as you know, a sincere repentance for having offended God -which inspired me with a design for retiring. However, I consider our -misfortunes as a secret design of Providence to punish our sins; and -only look 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 that God Himself raised them up in order -to purify me. - -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 all suspicion of novelty. - -I should be happy if I had none to fear but my enemies, and no other -hindrance to my salvation but their calumny. But, Heloise, you make -me tremble, your letters declare to me that you are enslaved to human -love, and yet, if you cannot conquer it, you cannot be saved; and -what part would you have me play in this trial? 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 save to lament our sins and to gain -heaven; let us then resign ourselves to God with all our heart. - -I know everything is difficult in the beginning; but it is glorious -to courageously start a great action, and glory increases -proportionately as the difficulties are more considerable. We ought -on 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 a furnace. No one can continue long there unless he bear -worthily the yoke of the Lord. - -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 entreat you to think of me in your prayers. Endeavor 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 efforts prove -weak do not give way to despair, for that would be cowardice; -besides, I would have you know that you must necessarily take great -pains, for you strive to conquer a terrible enemy, to extinguish a -raging fire, to reduce to subjection your dearest affections. You -have to fight against your own desires, so be not 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, ‘The life of man is one long temptation’: the devil, who -never sleeps, walks continually around us in order to surprise us on -some unguarded side, and enters into our soul in order to destroy it. - -However perfect anyone may be, yet he may fall into temptations, and -perhaps into such as may be useful. Nor is it wonderful that man -should never be exempt from them, because he always hath in himself -their source; scarce are we delivered from one temptation when -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 of our own. - -Be constant, Heloise, and trust in God; then you shall fall into few -temptations: when they come stifle them at their birth--let them not -take root in your heart. ‘Apply remedies to a disease,’ said an -ancient, ‘at the beginning, for when it hath gained strength -medicines are of no avail’: temptations have their degrees, they are -at first mere thoughts and do not appear dangerous; the imagination -receives them without any fears; the pleasure grows; we dwell upon -it, and at last we yield to it. - -Do you now, Heloise, 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 yet these ardent aspirations, pray that you may be inspired -by them. I shall never cease to recommend you in my prayers and to -beseech God 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 to whom the rest of your days are -consecrated. Life upon this earth is misery; the very necessities to -which our bodies are subject here are matters of affliction to a -saint. ‘Lord,’ said the royal prophet, ‘deliver me from my -necessities.’ Many are wretched who do not know they are; and yet -they are more wretched who know their misery and yet cannot 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 too -late how much they have been to blame in loving such false good. -Truly pious persons are not thus mistaken; they are freed from all -sensual pleasures and raise their desires to Heaven. - -Begin, Heloise; put your design into action without delay; you have -yet time enough to work out your salvation. Love Christ, and despise -yourself for His sake; He will 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 -leave me and cleave to Him, you will be steadfast and safe. If you -force the Lord to forsake you, you will fall into trouble; but if you -are faithful to Him you shall find joy. Magdalen wept, thinking that -Jesus had forsaken her, but Martha said, ‘See, the Lord calls you.’ -Be diligent in your duty, obey faithfully the calls of grace, and -Jesus will be with you. Attend, Heloise, to some instructions I have -to give you: you are at the head of a society, and you know there is -a difference between those who lead a private life and those who are -charged with the conduct of others: the first need only labour for -their own sanctification, and in their round of duties are not -obliged to practise all the virtues in such an apparent manner: but -those who have the charge of others entrusted to them ought by their -example to encourage their followers to do all the good of which they -are capable. I beseech you to remember this truth, and so to follow -it that your whole life may be a perfect model of that of a religious -recluse. - -God heartily desires our salvation, and has made all the means of it -easy to us. In the Old Testament He has written in the tables of law -what He requires of us, that we might not be bewildered in seeking -after His will. In the New Testament He has written the law of grace -to the intent that it might ever be present in our hearts; so, -knowing the weakness and incapacity of our nature, He has given us -grace to perform His will. And, as if this were not enough, He has -raised up at all times, in all states of the Church, men who by their -exemplary life can excite others to their duty. To effect this He has -chosen persons of every age, sex and condition. Strive now to unite -in yourself all the virtues of these different examples. 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. - -‘The death of His saints,’ says the prophet, ‘is precious in the -sight of the Lord.’ Nor is it difficult to discover 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; second, -the continuation of their good works; and lastly, the triumph they -gain over the devil. - -A saint who has accustomed himself to submit to the will of God -yields to death without reluctance. He waits with joy (says Dr. -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 dreads the presence of the [1]offending -Judge; and having so often abused the means of grace he sees no way -to avoid the punishment of his sins. - -The saints have also this advantage over sinners, that having become -familiar with works of piety during their life they exercise them -without trouble, and having gained new strength against the devil -every time they overcame him, they will find themselves in a -condition at the hour of death to obtain that victory on which -depends all eternity, and the blessed union of their souls with their -Creator. - -I hope, Heloise, that after having deplored the irregularities of -your past life, you will ‘die the death of the righteous.’ Ah, how -few there are who make this end! And why? It is because there are so -few who love the Cross of Christ. Everyone wishes to be saved, but -few will use those means which religion prescribes. Yet can we be -saved by nothing but the Cross: why then refuse to bear it? Hath not -our Saviour bore 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 -suffered affliction, and our Saviour himself did not pass one hour of -His life without some sorrow. Hope not therefore to be exempt from -suffering: the Cross, Heloise, is always at hand, take care that you -do not receive it with regret, for by so doing you will make it more -heavy and you will be oppressed by it to no profit. On the contrary, -if you bear it with willing 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, Heloise, do you doubt? Is not your soul -ravished at so saving a command? Are you insensible to words so full -of kindness? Beware, Heloise, of refusing a Husband who demands you, -and who is more to be feared than any earthly 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, and 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 wilfully -destroyed yourself; go, wretch, and take the portion of the -reprobates.’ - -Oh, Heloise, prevent these terrible words, and avoid, by a holy life, -the punishment prepared for sinners. I dare not give you a -description of those dreadful torments which are the consequences of -a career of guilt. I am filled with horror when they offer themselves -to my imagination. And yet, Heloise, I can conceive nothing which can -reach the tortures of the damned; the fire which we see upon this -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 anyone sin who is persuaded of -this? My God! can we dare to offend Thee? Though the riches of Thy -mercy could not engage us to love Thee, the dread of being thrown -into such an abyss of misery should restrain us from doing anything -which might displease Thee. - -I question not, Heloise, 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 guiltily cannot but be hurtful, whatever advances we may -have made in the way 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 desirable 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 your reprobation -written in the judgment book, 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. - -Farewell, Heloise, this is the last advice of your dear Abelard; for -the last time let me persuade you to follow the 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 Abelard, -always present to your mind, be now changed into the image of Abelard -truly penitent; and may you shed as many tears for your salvation as -you have done for our misfortunes. - -[Footnote 1: Errata--offended] - - - - -TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE - - -The following printer's errors have been corrected: - -Added a heading “LETTER I” for the first letter - -Replaced “tranquility” with “tranquillity” (p. 28, 30 and 59) - -Inserted missing phrase “be the highest love” after “It will always” -(p. 53) - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The love letters of Abelard and Heloise, by -Peter Abelard and Heloise - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE LETTERS *** - -***** This file should be named 40227-8.txt or 40227-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/2/2/40227/ - -Produced by Michael Roe and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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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/license - - -Title: The love letters of Abelard and Heloise - -Author: Peter Abelard - Heloise - -Editor: Ralph Seymour - -Release Date: July 14, 2012 [EBook #40227] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE LETTERS *** - - - - -Produced by Michael Roe and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 40227 ***</div> <h1> <a id="chapter1"></a> @@ -3495,387 +3454,6 @@ Replaced “tranquility” with “tranquillity” (p. 28, 30 an Inserted missing phrase “be the highest love” after “It will always” (p. 53) </p> - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The love letters of Abelard and Heloise, by -Peter Abelard and Heloise - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE LETTERS *** - -***** This file should be named 40227-h.htm or 40227-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/2/2/40227/ - -Produced by Michael Roe and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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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/license - - -Title: The love letters of Abelard and Heloise - -Author: Peter Abelard - Heloise - -Editor: Ralph Seymour - -Release Date: July 14, 2012 [EBook #40227] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE LETTERS *** - - - - -Produced by Michael Roe and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - -THE LOVE LETTERS OF ABELARD AND HELOISE - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE LOVE LETTERS OF ABELARD AND HELOISE - - -_Translated from the original latin and now reprinted from the -edition of 1722: together with a brief account of their lives and -work_ - -RALPH FLETCHER SEYMOURA.CHICAGO - - Copyright 1903 - by - Ralph Fletcher Seymour - - - - -THE STORY OF ABELARD AND HELOISE. - - -It sometimes happens that Love is little esteemed by those who choose -rather to think of other affairs, and in requital He strongly -manifests His power in unthought ways. Need is to think of Abelard -and Heloise: how now his treatises and works are memories only, and -how the love of her (who in lifetime received little comfort -therefor) has been crowned with the violet crown of Grecian Sappho -and the homage of all lovers. - -The world itself was learning a new love when these two met; was -beginning to heed the quiet call of the spirit of the Renaissance, -which, at its consummation, brought forth the glories of the -Quattrocento. - -It was among the stone-walled, rose-covered gardens and clustered -homes of ecclesiastics, who served the ancient Roman builded pile of -Notre Dame, that Abelard found Heloise. - -From his noble father's home in Brittany, Abelard, gifted and -ambitious, came to study with William of Champeaux in Paris. His -advancement was rapid, and time brought him the acknowledged -leadership of the Philosophic School of the city, a prestige which -received added lustre from his controversies with his later -instructor in theology, Anselm of Laon. - -His career at this time was brilliant. Adulation and flattery, added -to the respect given his great and genuine ability, made sweet a life -which we can imagine was in most respects to his liking. Among the -students who flocked to him came the beautiful maiden, Heloise, to -learn of philosophy. Her uncle Fulbert, living in retired ease near -Notre Dame, offered in exchange for such instruction both bed and -board; and Abelard, having already seen and resolved to win her, -undertook the contract. - -Many quiet hours these two spent on the green, river-watered isle, -studying old philosophies, and Time, swift and silent as the Seine, -sped on, until when days had changed to months they became aware of -the deeper knowledge of Love. Heloise responded wholly to this new -influence, and Abelard, forgetting his ambition, desired their -marriage. Yet as this would have injured his opportunities for -advancement in the Church Heloise steadfastly refused this formal -sanction of her passion. Their love becoming known in time to -Fulbert, his grief and anger were uncontrollable. In fear the two -fled to the country and there their child was born. Abelard still -urged marriage, and at last, outwearied with importunities, she -consented, only insisting that it be kept a secret. Such a course was -considered best to pacify her uncle, who, in fact, promised -reconciliation as a reward. Yet, upon its accomplishment he openly -declared the marriage. Unwilling that this be known lest the -knowledge hurt her lover, Heloise strenuously denied the truth. The -two had returned, confident of Fulbert's reaffirmed regard, and he, -now deeply troubled and revengeful, determined to inflict that -punishment and indignity on Abelard, which, in its accomplishment, -shocked even that ruder civilization to horror and to reprisal. - -The shamed and mortified victim, caring only for solitude in which to -hide and rest, retired into the wilderness; returning after a time to -take the vows of monasticism. Unwilling to leave his love where by -chance she could become another's, he demanded that she become a nun. -She yielded obedience, and, although but twenty-two years of age, -entered the convent of Argenteuil. - -Abelard's mind was still virile and, perhaps to his surprise, the -world again sought him out, anxious still to listen to his masterful -logic. But with his renewed influence came fierce persecution, and -the following years of life were filled with trials and sorrows. -Sixteen years passed after the lovers parted and then Heloise, -prioress of the Paraclete, found a letter of consolation, written by -Abelard to a friend, recounting his sad career. Her response is a -letter of passion and complaining, an equal to which it is hard to -find in all literature. To his cold and formal reply she wrote a -second, questioning and confused, and a third, constrained and -resigned. These three constitute the record of a soul vainly seeking -in spiritual consolation rest from love. - -Abelard, with little heart for love or ambition, still stubbornly -contested with his foes. On a journey to Rome, where he had appealed -from a judgment of heresy against his teachings, he, overweary, -turned aside to rest in the monastery of Cluni, in Burgundy, and -there died. Heloise begged his body for burial in the Paraclete. -Twenty years later, and at the same age as her lover, she, too, -passed to rest. - -It is said that he whose arms had one time yielded her a too sweet -comfort, raised them again to greet her as she came to rest beside -him in their narrow tomb. - -Love never yet was held by arms alone, nor its mysterious ministries -constrained to forms or qualities. Like water sweet in barren land it -lies within our lives, ever by its unsolved formula awakening us to -fuller freedom. - - - - -THE LOVE LETTERS OF ABELARD AND HELOISE - - -_Wherein are written how the scholar Peter Abelard forgot his -learning and became a lover, altho the price he paid was great: and -how the beautiful Heloise in desiring to acquire knowledge from -Abelard learned of all lessons the greatest, from the greatest master -of all, to wit, Love: and how she prized it most highly, altho it -brought her both shame and sorrow_ - - - - -LETTER I - -_Heloise to Abelard_ - - -_To her Lord, her Father, her Husband, her Brother; his Servant, his -Child, his Wife, his Sister, and to express all that is humble, -respectful and loving to her Abelard, Heloise writes this._ - -A consolatory letter of yours to a friend happened some days since to -fall into my hands; my knowledge of the writing and my love of the -hand gave me the curiosity to open it. In justification of the -liberty I took, I flattered myself I might claim a sovereign -privilege over everything which came from you. Nor was I scrupulous -to break through the rules of good breeding when I was to hear news -of Abelard. But how dear did my curiosity cost me! What disturbance -did it occasion, and how surprised I was 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 put my heart into such violent -motion that I thought it was too much to offer comfort to a friend -for a few slight disgraces, but 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. Though 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 always be present to my aching 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 pseudo 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 upon you opinions quite different from your meanings. In vain -you condemned those opinions; all was of no effect towards your -justification, 'twas 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 of 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 refrain, 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 I kept it; but it was demanded of me -too soon. - -I must confess I was much easier in my mind before I read your -letter. Surely all the misfortunes of lovers are conveyed to them -through the eyes: upon reading your letter I feel 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 then, -perhaps, your ashes will not be allowed to rest in peace!--let me -always meditate on your calamities, let me publish them through 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 passed evils; and are there more to be feared still? -Shall my Abelard never be mentioned without tears? Shall the dear -name never be 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 me, I beg of you, that little relief which you only can give. -Let me have a faithful account of all that concerns you; I would know -everything, be it ever so unfortunate. Perhaps by mingling my sighs -with yours I may make your sufferings less, for it is said that all -sorrows divided are made lighter. - -Tell me not by way of excuse you will spare me 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 chooses the side of the virtuous, and fortune is so -blind that in a crowd in which there is perhaps but one wise and -brave man it is not to be expected that 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 a happy -turn. I shall always have this, if you please, and this will always -be agreeable to me, that when I receive any letter from you I shall -know you still remember me. Seneca (with whose writings you made me -acquainted), though he was a Stoic, seemed to be so very sensible to -this kind of pleasure, that upon opening any letters from Lucilius he -imagined he felt the same delight as when they conversed together. - -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 us. It seems to me as if the farther -they are removed their pictures grow the more finished, and acquire a -greater resemblance; or 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 flat colour. I have your picture in my room; I never pass -it without stopping to look at it; and yet when you are present with -me I scarce ever cast my eyes on 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 tenderness and the -delicacy of speech, and sometimes even a boldness of expression -beyond it. - -We may write to each other; so innocent a pleasure is not denied 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 sign myself your wife. In spite of all our misfortunes -you may be what you please in your letter. Letters were first -invented for consoling 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 sacred thoughts; I shall -carry them always about with 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 upon 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 will not tell me that -you still love me; but that language ought to be so natural to you, -that I believe you cannot speak otherwise to me without violence to -yourself. And since by this melancholy relation to your friend you -have awakened all my sorrows, 'tis but reasonable you should allay -them by some tokens of your unchanging love. - -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 far greater. Charity is ingenious in finding out such pious -plans, 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 should use it. 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 always be a -pleasure to me to say that you only are the founder of this house, -'tis wholly your work. You, by inhabiting here, have given fame and -holiness to a place known before only for robberies and murders. You -have in a literal sense made the den of thieves into a house of -prayer. These cloisters owe nothing to public charities; our walls -were not raised by the usuries 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 only 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 temptation; though our walls and gates prohibit all -approaches, yet it is the outside only, the bark of the tree, that is -protected from injuries; the sap of the 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 changeable, the other is weak. To plant the Lord's -vineyard is a work of no little labour; but after it is planted it -will require great application and diligence to dress it. The Apostle -of the Gentiles, great labourer as he was, says he hath planted, -Apollos hath watered, but it is God that gives the increase. Paul had -planted the Gospel amongst the Corinthians, Apollos, his zealous -disciple, continued to cultivate it by frequent exhortations; and the -grace of God, which their constant prayers implored for that church, -made the work of both be fruitful. - -This ought to be an example for your conduct towards us. I know you -are not slothful, yet your labours are not directed towards 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 prevent 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 over 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 entreat you in the name of your -children? Is it possible I should fear obtaining anything of you when -I ask it in my own name? And must I use any other prayers than my own -in order to prevail upon you? The St. Austins, Tertullians and -Jeromes have written to the Eudoxias, 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 Scriptures; or Tertullian and preach mortification; or -St. Austin and explain to me the nature of grace? Why should I alone -not reap the advantage of 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 the least scandal satisfy me, why -will you not? I am not only engaged by my vows, but I have the fear -of my Uncle before me. There is nothing, then, that you need dread; -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 stay in it with devotion. You -have been the occasion of all my misfortunes, you therefore must be -the instrument of all my comfort. - -You cannot but remember (for lovers cannot forget) with what pleasure -I have passed 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 messengers. This detail perhaps surprises you, and -you are in pain for what may follow. But I am no longer ashamed that -my passion 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 quietly -and at ease. Nothing but virtue, joined to a love perfectly -disengaged from the senses, could have produced such effects. Vice -never inspires anything 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 notion; 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 so revenge myself on 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 both -mind and body loved 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. - -You cannot but be entirely persuaded of this by the extreme -unwillingness I showed to marry you, though 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 would perhaps 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 which 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 -protested that it was infinitely preferable to me to live with -Abelard as his mistress than with any other as Empress of the World. -I was more happy in obeying you than I should have been as lawful -spouse of the King of the Earth. Riches and pomp are not the charm of -love. True tenderness makes us separate the lover from all that is -external to him, and setting aside his position, fortune or -employments, consider him merely as himself. - -It is not love, but the desire of riches and position which makes a -woman run into the embraces of an indolent husband. Ambition, and 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 experience the pleasures of affectionate union, -nor to feel those subtle and charming joys when hearts long parted -are at last united. These martyrs of marriage pine always for larger -fortunes which they think they have missed. The wife sees husbands -richer than her own, and the husband wives better portioned than his. -Their mercenary vows occasion regret, and regret produces hatred. -Soon they part--or else desire to. This restless and tormenting -passion for gold punishes them for aiming at other advantages by love -than love itself. - -If there is anything that may properly be called happiness here -below, I am persuaded it is 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 merits. Their hearts are full and -leave no vacancy for any other passion; they enjoy perpetual -tranquillity because they enjoy content. - -If I could believe you as truly persuaded of my merit as I am of -yours, I might say there has been a time when we were such a pair. -Alas! how was it possible I should not be certain of your mind? If I -could ever have doubted it, the universal esteem would have made me -decide 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 everyone rejoice in having seen you? Even -women, breaking through the laws of decorum which custom had imposed -upon them, showed they felt more for you than mere esteem. I have -known some who have been profuse in their husbands' praises who have -yet envied me my happiness. But what could resist you? Your -reputation, which so much attracts the vanity of our sex, your air, -your manner, that light in your eyes which expresses the vivacity of -your mind, your conversation so easy and elegant that it gave -everything you said an agreeable turn; in short, everything spoke for -you! Very different from those mere scholars who with all their -learning have not the capacity to keep up an ordinary conversation, -and who with all their wit cannot win a woman who has much less share -of brains than themselves. - -With what ease did you compose verses! And yet those ingenious -trifles, which were but a recreation to you, are still the -entertainment and delight of persons of the best taste. The smallest -song, the least sketch of anything you made for me, had a thousand -beauties capable of making it last as long as there are 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 they themselves are capable of. - -What rivalries did your gallantries of this kind occasion me! How -many ladies lay 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 anything the advantage over them but -in being beloved by you. Can you believe me if I tell you, that -notwithstanding 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, that I might be more certain that I pleased you. - -But oh! where is that happy time? I now lament my lover, and of all -my joys have nothing but the painful memory that they are past. Now -learn, all you my rivals who once viewed my happiness with jealous -eyes, that he you once envied me can never more be 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 were a crime, 'tis a crime I am -yet fond of, and I have no other regret save that against my will I -must now be innocent. But what do I say? My misfortune was to have -cruel relatives whose malice destroyed the calm we enjoyed; had they -been reasonable 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 -Heloise then? What joy should I have had in defending my lover; I -would have guarded you from violence at the expense of my life. Oh! -whither does this excess of passion hurry me? Here love is shocked -and modesty deprives me of words. - -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 my 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 thought of pleasure which engaged you to me? And has not -my tenderness, by leaving you nothing to wish for, extinguished your -desires? Wretched Heloise! 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 a sad experience that it is -natural to avoid those to whom we have been too much obliged, and -that uncommon generosity causes neglect rather than gratitude. My -heart surrendered too soon to gain the esteem of the conqueror; you -took it without difficulty and throw it aside with ease. But -ungrateful as you are I am no consenting party to this, and though I -ought not to retain a wish of my own, yet I still preserve secretly -the desire to be loved by you. When I pronounced my sad vow I then -had about me your last letters in which you protested your whole -being wholly mine, and would never live but to love me. It is to you -therefore I have offered myself; you had my heart and I had yours; do -not demand anything back. You must bear with my passion as a thing -which of right belongs to you, and from which you can be no ways -disengaged. - -Alas! what folly it is to talk in this way! 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 One! 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 some -faint signs of a dying passion I would have favoured the deception. -But in vain do I flatter myself that you could be constant; you have -left no vestige of an excuse for you. 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 your -reputation; all I desire is such letters as the heart dictates, and -which the hand cannot transcribe fast enough. How did I deceive -myself with hopes that you would be wholly mine when I took the veil, -and engage myself to live for ever under your laws? For in being -professed I vowed no more than to be yours only, and I forced myself -voluntarily to a confinement which you desired for me. Death only -then can make me leave the cloister where you have placed me; and -then my ashes shall rest here and wait for yours in order to show to -the very last my obedience and devotion to you. - -Why should I conceal from you the secret of my call? You know it was -neither zeal nor devotion that brought me here. 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 a cruel -relation 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 -consequences of our love and your disgrace have made me put on the -habit of chastity, but I am not penitent of the past. Thus I strive -and labour in vain. Among those who are wedded to God I am wedded to -a man; among the heroic supporters of the Cross I am the slave of a -human desire; at the head of a religious community I am devoted to -Abelard alone. What a monster am I! Enlighten me, O Lord, for I know -not if my despair or Thy grace draws these words from me! I am, I -confess, a sinner, but one who, far from weeping for her sins, weeps -only for her lover; far from abhorring her crimes, longs only to add -to them; and who, with a weakness unbecoming my state, please myself -continually with the remembrance of past delights when it is -impossible to renew them. - -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 it is to fight for -duty against inclination. I know what obligations this veil lays upon -me, but I feel more strongly what power an old passion has over my -heart. I am conquered by my feelings; love troubles my mind and -disorders my will. Sometimes I am swayed by the sentiment of piety -which arises within me, and then 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 a 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 thoughts, and darkens -alike my reason and my religion. 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 my efforts but serve to bind them faster. Oh, for pity's sake -help a wretch to renounce her desires--her self--and if possible even -to renounce you! If you are a lover--a father, help a mistress, -comfort a child! These tender names must surely move you; yield -either to pity or to love. If you gratify my request I shall continue -a religious, and without longer profaning my calling. I am ready to -humble myself with you to the wonderful goodness of God, Who does all -things for our sanctification, Who by His grace purifies all that is -vicious and corrupt, and by the great riches of His mercy draws us -against our wishes, and by degrees opens our eyes to behold His -bounty which at first we could not perceive. - -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 somewhat hard that when we had both -engaged to consecrate ourselves to Heaven you should insist upon my -doing it first. 'Does Abelard then,aEuro(TM) said I, 'suspect that, like -Lot's wife, I shall look back?aEuro(TM) 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, -banish such ungenerous apprehensions? This distrust hurt me; 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 to 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 to follow him to the Seats of Holiness? I, who have not -refused to be the victim of pleasure in order to gratify him, can he -think I would refuse to be a sacrifice of honour when he desired it?aEuro(TM) -Has vice such charms to refined natures, that when once we have drunk -of the cup of sinners it is with such difficulty we accept the -chalice of saints? Or did you believe yourself to be more competent -to teach vice than virtue, or me more ready to learn the first than -the latter? No; this suspicion would be injurious to us both: Virtue -is too beautiful not to be embraced when you reveal her charms, and -Vice too hideous not to be abhorred when you display her deformities. -Nay, when you please, anything seems lovely to me, and nothing is -ugly when you are by. I am only weak when I am alone and unsupported -by you, and therefore it depends on you alone to make me such as you -desire. I wish to Heaven 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 happily -together you might have doubted whether pleasure or affection united -me more to you, but the place from whence I write to you must surely -have dissolved all doubt. Even here I love you as much as ever I did -in the world. If I had loved pleasures could I not have found means -to gratify myself? I was not more than twenty-two years old, and -there were other men left though I was deprived of Abelard. And yet I -buried myself alive in a nunnery, and triumphed over life at an age -capable of enjoying it to its full latitude. It is to you I sacrifice -these remains of a transitory beauty, these widowed nights and -tedious days; and since you cannot possess them I take them from you -to offer them to Heaven, and so make, alas! but a secondary oblation -of my heart, my days, my life! - -I am sensible I have dwelt too long on this subject; I ought to speak -less to you of your misfortunes and of my sufferings. 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 actions. -Now if you were this sort of creature 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 stript myself of everything, but -I find I neither have nor can renounce my Abelard. 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 turned me -to marble by changing my habit; my heart is not hardened by my -imprisonment; I am still sensible to what has touched me, though, -alas! I ought not to be! 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 pleasant if he show me their advantage. Retirement and -solitude will no longer seem terrible if I may know that I still have -a place in his memory. A heart which has loved as mine cannot soon be -indifferent. We fluctuate long between love and hatred before we can -arrive at tranquillity, and we always flatter ourselves with some -forlorn hope that we shall not be utterly forgotten. - -Yes, Abelard, I conjure you by the chains I bear here to ease the -weight of them, and make them as agreeable as I would they were to -me. Teach me the maxims of Divine Love; since you have forsaken me I -would 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 -works, how it purifies. When we were tossed on the ocean of the world -we could hear of nothing but your verses, which published everywhere -our joys and pleasures. Now we are in the haven of grace is it not -fit you should discourse to me of this new happiness, and teach me -everything that might heighten or improve it? Show 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 objects; let us leave our songs and sing hymns; let us lift up -our hearts to God and have no transports but for His glory! - -I expect this from you as a thing you cannot refuse me. God has a -peculiar right over the hearts of great men 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 and fidelity and constancy: -love me as your mistress, cherish me as your child, your sister, your -wife! Remember I still love you, and yet strive to avoid loving you. -What a terrible saying 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 desire it (would to Heaven I -could!), for ever adieu! - - - - -LETTER II - -_Abelard to Heloise_ - - -Could I have imagined that a letter not written to yourself would -fall into your hands, I had been more cautious not to have inserted -anything 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 to a loss he had sustained. If by -this well-meaning device I have disturbed you, I purpose now 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 secret -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. - -It is true, that in a sense of the afflictions which have befallen -us, and observing that no change of our condition could be expected; -that those prosperous days which had seduced us were now past, and -there remained nothing but to erase from our minds, by painful -endeavours, all marks and remembrances 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 thoughts yet run free. I -promise myself that I will forget you, and yet cannot think of it -without loving you. My love is not at all lessened by those -reflections I make in order to free myself. The silence I am -surrounded by 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 strive -to free myself; and that it is sufficient wisdom to conceal from all -but you how confused and weak I am. - -I remove 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 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 I should seem more -indifferent than you fare, and yet I am ashamed to discover my -trouble. 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 of serving two masters which afflicts your heart -affect mine too? You see the confusion I am in, how I blame myself -and how I suffer. Religion commands me to pursue virtue since I have -nothing to hope for from love. But love still preserves its dominion -over my fancies 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 these regions of death and silence; it -is very seldom that what ought to be is truly followed here and that -God only is loved and served. Had I known this before I had -instructed you better. You call me your master; it is true you were -entrusted 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 my enemy and revenged himself on me. If -now having lost the power of satisfying my passion I had also lost -that of loving you, I should have some consolation. My enemies would -have given me that tranquillity which Origen purchased with a crime. -How miserable am I! I find myself much more guilty in my thoughts of -you, even amidst my tears, than in possessing you when I was in full -liberty. I continually think of you; I continually call to mind your -tenderness. In this condition, O Lord! if I run to prostrate myself -before your altar, if I beseech you to pity me, why does not the pure -flame of the Spirit consume the sacrifice that is offered? Cannot -this habit of penitence which I wear interest Heaven to treat me more -favourably? But Heaven 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 grace. We deceive men, -but nothing is hid from God. - -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 with 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. We commonly die to the -affections of those 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 rest in my memory without -troubling my mind; that Brittany and the sea would suggest other -thoughts; that my fasts and studies would by degrees delete you from -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, as you describe yourself in your veil, appears to me and -confounds all my resolutions. - -What means have I not used! I have armed my hands against myself; I -have exhausted my strength in constant exercises; I comment upon St. -Paul; I contend 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; -allow me to be indifferent. I envy their happiness who have never -loved; how quiet and easy are they! But the tide of pleasure 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 procure me in their stead both merit and -repose. Why use your 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? -What efforts, what relapses, what agitations do we undergo! And how -long are we lost in this confusion, unable to exert our reason, to -possess our souls, or to rule our affections? - -What a troublesome employment is love! And how valuable is virtue -even upon consideration of our own ease! Recollect your -extravagancies of passion, guess at my distractions; number up our -cares, our griefs; throw these things out of the account and let love -have all the remaining tenderness 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 save by extraordinary efforts; it has so powerful an -advocate 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 should 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. It is -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 tried to make a defence, love was soon -the master. God, in order to punish me, forsook me. You are no longer -of the world; you have renounced it: I am a religious devoted to -solitude; shall we not take advantage of our condition? Would you -destroy my piety in its infant state? Would you have me forsake the -abbey 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 should I violate them? Suffer me to seek ease in my duty: -though difficult it is to procure it. 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 alike pierced with your sorrows and my 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 show more firmness of mind I -might provoke 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 in love-songs and verses, ought not the dark -cells of this house at least to conceal that same weakness under an -appearance of piety? Alas! I am still the same! Or if I avoid the -evil, I cannot do the good. Duty, reason and decency, which upon -other occasions have some power over me, are here useless. The Gospel -is a language I do not understand when it opposes my passion. Those -vows I have taken before the altar are feeble when opposed to -thoughts of you. Amidst so many voices which bid me do my duty, I -hear and obey nothing but the secret cry of a desperate passion. Void -of all relish for virtue, without 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 to correct -myself. I feel a perpetual strife between inclination and duty. I -find myself a distracted lover, unquiet in the midst of silence, and -restless in the midst of peace. How shameful is such a condition! - -Regard me no more, I entreat you, as a founder or any great -personage; your praises ill agree with my many weaknesses. I am a -miserable sinner, prostrate before my Judge, and with my face pressed -to the earth I mix my tears with the earth. Can you see me in this -posture and solicit me to love you? Come, if you think fit, and in -your holy habit thrust yourself between my God and me, and be a wall -of separation. Come and force from me those sighs and thoughts and -vows I owe to Him alone. Assist the evil spirits and be the -instrument of their malice. What cannot you induce a heart to do -whose weakness you so perfectly know? Nay, withdraw yourself and -contribute to my salvation. Suffer me to avoid destruction, I entreat -you by our former tender affection and by our now common misfortune. -It will always be the highest love to show none; I here release you -from 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 indeed be a religious and you a -perfect example of an abbess. - -Make yourself amends by so glorious a choice; make your virtue a -spectacle worthy of 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 light a rate that you should not turn it to the best -advantage? Since you have permitted yourself to be abused by false -doctrine and criminal instruction, 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 instil vice than to -teach 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 -enchanting a sweetness, and we are naturally so much inclined to -taste it, that it needs only to 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 -to you first. I willingly submit to these accusations. I cannot -enough admire the readiness you showed to accept the religious habit; -bear therefore with courage the Cross you so resolutely took up. -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 'Fly!aEuro(TM). - -You entreat 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 our misfortunes. -The Church is jealous of its honour, and commands that her children -should be induced to the practice of virtue by virtuous means. When -we approach God in a blameless manner then we may with boldness -invite others to Him. But to forget Heloise, to see her no more, is -what Heaven demands of Abelard; and to expect nothing from Abelard, -to forget him even as an idea, is what Heaven enjoins on Heloise. To -forget, in the case of love, is the most necessary penance, 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 we have adored, and adoring the God whom we -have neglected. This may appear harsh, but it must be done if we -would be saved. - -To make it more easy consider 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. When I saw -myself oppressed by my misfortune I was furiously jealous, and -regarded all men as my rivals. Love has more of distrust than -assurance. I was apprehensive of many things because of my many -defects, and being tormented with fear because of my own example I -imagined your heart so accustomed to love that it could not be long -without entering on a new engagement. Jealousy can easily believe the -most terrible things. I was desirous to make it impossible for me to -doubt you. I was very urgent to persuade you that propriety demanded -your withdrawal from the eyes of the world; that modesty and our -friendship required it; and that your own safety obliged it. After -such a revenge taken on me you could expect to be secure nowhere but -in a convent. - -I will do you justice, you were very easily persuaded. My jealousy -secretly rejoiced in 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 in order to -keep it out of the power of other 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 with those convents I held in -the highest esteem. What a comfort I felt in seeing you shut up. I -was now at ease and took a satisfaction in considering that you -continued no longer in the world after my disgrace, and that you -would return to it no more. - -But still I was doubtful. I imagined women were incapable of -steadfast resolutions unless they were forced by the necessity of -vows. I wanted those vows, and Heaven itself for your security, that -I might no longer distrust you. Ye holy mansions and impenetrable -retreats! from what innumerable apprehensions have ye freed me? -Religion and piety keep a strict guard round your grates and walls. -What a haven of rest this is to a jealous mind! And with what -impatience did I endeavour after 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 -the great loss I was 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 alike bribed -and concealed from you, at my directions, all their scruples and -disgusts. I omitted nothing, either little or great; and if you had -escaped my snares I myself would not have retired; I was resolved to -follow you everywhere. The shadow of myself would always have pursued -your steps and continually have occasioned either your confusion or -your fear, which would have been a sensible gratification to me. - -But, thanks to Heaven, you resolved to take the vows. I accompanied -you to the foot of the altar, and while you stretched out your hand -to touch the sacred cloth I heard you distinctly pronounce those -fatal words that for ever separated you from man. Till then I thought -your youth and beauty would foil my design and force your return to -the world. Might not a small temptation have changed you? Is it -possible to renounce oneself entirely at the age of two-and-twenty? -At an age which claims the utmost liberty could you think the world -no longer worth your regard? How much did I wrong you, and what -weakness did I impute to you? You were in my imagination both light -and inconstant. Would not a woman at the noise of the flames and the -fall of Sodom involuntarily look back in pity on some person? I -watched your eyes, your every movement, your air; I trembled at -everything. You may call such self-interested conduct treachery, -perfidy, murder. A love so like to hatred should provoke the utmost -contempt and anger. - -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, I imagined I could love you no more. I thought -it time to leave off giving you marks of my affection, and I -considered that by your Holy Espousals you were now the peculiar care -of Heaven, and no longer a charge on me as my 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 even -dared to pray to Him to take you away from my eyes. But it was not a -time to make rash prayers, and my faith did not warrant them being -heard. Necessity and despair were at the root of my proceedings, and -thus I offered an insult to Heaven rather than a sacrifice. God -rejected my offering and my prayer, and continued my punishment by -suffering me to continue my love. Thus I bear alike the guilt of your -vows and of the passion that preceded them, and must be tormented all -the days of my life. - -If God spoke to your heart as to that of a religious whose innocence -had first asked him for favours, I should have matter of comfort; but -to see both of us the victims of a guilty love, to see this love -insult us in our very habits and spoil our devotions, 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 poison and a drunkenness till we are illuminated by Grace; -in the meantime it is an evil we doat on. When we are under such a -mistake, the knowledge of our misery is the first step towards -amendment. Who does not know that 'tis for the glory of God to find -no other reason in man for His mercy than man's very weakness? When -He has shown us this weakness and we have bewailed it, He is ready to -put forth His Omnipotence and assist us. Let us say for our comfort -that what we suffer is one of those terrible temptations which have -sometimes disturbed the vocations of the most holy. - -God can grant 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 more than six months -before you wrote me a letter, nor during all that time did I receive -a message from you. I admired this silence, which I durst not blame, -but could not imitate. I wrote to you, and you returned me no answer: -your heart was then shut, but this garden 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 are too deeply in love to free ourselves. Our follies have -penetrated into the sacred places; our amours have been a scandal to -the whole kingdom. They are read and admired; love which produced -them has caused them to be described. We shall be a consolation to -the failings of youth for ever; those who offend after us will think -themselves less guilty. We are criminals whose repentance is late; -oh, let it be sincere! Let us repair as far as is possible the evils -we have done, and let France, which has been the witness of our -crimes, be amazed at our repentance. Let us confound all who would -imitate our guilt; let us take the side of God against ourselves, and -by so doing prevent His judgment. Our former lapses require tears, -shame and sorrow to expiate them. Let us offer up these sacrifices -from our hearts, let us blush and let us weep. If in these feeble -beginnings, O Lord, our hearts are not entirely Thine, let them at -least feel that they ought to be so. - -Deliver yourself, Heloise, from the shameful remains of a passion -which has taken too deep root. Remember that the least thought for -any other than God is an 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 you will be -true to the habit which covers you by an inward retirement. Fear God, -that you may be delivered from your frailties; love Him that you may -advance in virtue. Be not restless in the cloister for it is the -peace of saints. Embrace your bands, they are the chains of Christ -Jesus; He will lighten them and bear them with you, if you will but -accept them with humility. - -Without growing severe to a passion that still 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 -should importune you, fly to the foot of the Cross and there beg for -mercy--there are wounds open for healing; lament them 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 the earthly passion that still burns in the -heart of a religious. If during your abode in the world your soul has -acquired a habit of loving, feel it now no more save for Jesus -Christ. Repent of all the moments of your life which you have wasted -in the world and on pleasure; demand them of me, 'tis a robbery of -which I am guilty; take courage and boldly reproach me with it. - -I have been indeed your master, but it was only to teach sin. You -call me your father; before I had any claim to the title, I deserved -that of parricide. I am your brother, but it is the affinity of sin -that brings me that distinction. I am called your husband, but it is -after a public scandal. If you have abused the sanctity of so many -holy terms in the superscription of your letter to do me honour and -flatter your own passion, blot them out and replace them with those -of murderer, villain and enemy, who has conspired against your -honour, troubled your quiet, and betrayed your innocence. You would -have perished through my means but for an extraordinary act of grace -which, that you might be saved, has thrown me down in the middle of -my course. - -This is the thought you ought to have of a fugitive who desires to -deprive you of the hope of ever seeing him again. 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 -wandering heart still eternally seeks you, and is filled with anguish -at having lost you, in spite of all the powers of my reason. In the -meantime, though I should be so cowardly as to retract what you have -read, do not suffer me to offer myself to your thoughts save in this -last fashion. Remember my last worldly endeavours were to seduce your -heart; you perished by my means and I with you: the same waves -swallowed us up. We waited for death with indifference, and the same -death had carried us headlong to the same punishments. But Providence -warded off the blow, and our shipwreck has thrown us into a haven. -There are some whom God saves by suffering. Let my salvation be the -fruit of your prayers; let me owe it to your tears and your exemplary -holiness. Though my heart, Lord, be filled with the love of Thy -creature, Thy hand can, when it pleases, empty me of all love save -for Thee. To love Heloise truly is to leave her to that quiet which -retirement and virtue afford. I have resolved it: this letter shall -be my last fault. Adieu. 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, for it will be too -late; weep rather for me now and extinguish the fire which burns me. -You shall see me in order that your piety may be strengthened by -horror of this carcase, and my death be eloquent to tell you what you -brave when you love a man. I hope you will be willing, when you have -finished this mortal life, to be buried near me. Your cold ashes need -then fear nothing, and my tomb shall be the more rich and renowned. - - - - -LETTER III - -_Heloise to Abelard_ - - -_To Abelard her well-beloved in Christ Jesus, from Heloise his -well-beloved in the same Christ Jesus._ - -I read the letter I received from you with great 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 Heloise before that of -Abelard? What means this cruel and unjust distinction? It was your -name only--the name of a father and a husband--which my eager eyes -sought for. I did not look for my own, which I would if possible -forget, for it is the cause of all your misfortunes. The rules of -decorum, and your position as master and director over me, opposed -that ceremony in addressing me; and love commanded you to banish it: -alas! you know all this but too well! - -Did you address me thus before cruel fortune had ruined my happiness? -I see your heart has forsaken 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. Can you have the cruelty to abandon me? The fear of this -stabs my heart; the fearful presages you make at the end of your -letter, those terrible images you draw of your death, quite distract -me. Cruel Abelard! you ought to have stopped my tears and you make -them flow. You ought to have quelled the turmoil of my heart and you -throw me into greater disorder. - -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 -dread of causing my immediate 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, severe as it has been to me, is not -so insensible as to permit me to live one moment after you. Life -without Abelard were an insupportable punishment, and death a most -exquisite happiness if by that means I could be united to him. If -Heaven but hearken to my continual cry, your days will be prolonged -and you will bury me. - -Is it not your part to prepare me by powerful exhortation against -that great crisis which shakes the most resolute and stable minds? Is -it not your part to receive my last sighs, superintend my funeral, -and give an account of my acts and my 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 vows? We expect those 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 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 me no more such terrible things; for we are already -sufficiently miserable, nor need to have our sorrows aggravated. Our -life here is but a languishing death; would you hasten it? Our -present disgraces are sufficient to employ our thoughts continually, -and shall we seek in the future new reasons for fear? How void of -reason are men, said Seneca, to make distant evils present by -reflections, and to take pains before death to lose all the joys of -life. - -When you have finished your course here below, you said that it is -your desire that your body be borne to the House of the Paraclete, to -the intent that being always before my eyes you may be ever present -in my mind. Can you think that the traces you have drawn on my heart -can ever be worn out, or that any length of time can obliterate the -memory we hold 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, for so heavy a misfortune would leave me no moment's quiet. -Can my feeble reason resist such powerful assaults? When I am -distracted and raving (if I dare say it) even against Heaven itself, -I shall not soften it by my cries, but rather provoke it by my -reproaches. How should I pray or how bear up against my grief? I -should be more eager to follow you than to pay you the sad ceremonies -of a funeral. It is for you, for Abelard, that I have resolved to -live, and if you are ravished from me I can make no use of my -miserable days. Alas! what lamentations should I make if Heaven, by a -cruel pity, preserved me for that moment? When I but think of this -last separation I feel all the pangs of death; what should 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. - -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 both night and -day? 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? What have I hope for -after the loss of you? What can confine me to earth when death shall -have taken away from me all that was dear on 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 dare not -flatter myself even with the hope that I shall ever see you again. -This is the greatest of my afflictions. - -Merciless Fortune! hadst 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 to fear from thy anger. But what use to longer arm thyself -against me? The wounds I have already received leave no room for -others, unless thou desirest to kill me. Or dost thou fear amidst the -numerous torments heaped on me, dost thou fear that such a final -stroke would deliver me from all other ills? Therefore thou -preservest me from death in order to make me die daily. - -Dear Abelard, pity my despair! Was ever any being 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 the more terrible fall. -Nothing could be compared to my pleasures, and now nothing can equal -my misery. My joys once raised the envy of my rivals, my present -wretchedness calls forth the compassion of all that see me. My -Fortune has been always in extremes; she has loaded me with the -greatest favours and then heaped me with the greatest afflictions; -ingenious in tormenting me, she has made the memory of the joys I -have lost an inexhaustible spring of tears. Love, which being possest -was her most delightful gift, on being taken away is an untold -sorrow. In short, her malice has entirely succeeded, and I find my -present afflictions proportionately bitter as the transports which -charmed me were sweet. - -But what aggravates my sufferings yet more is, that we began to be -miserable at a time when we seemed the least to deserve it. While we -gave ourselves up to the enjoyment of a guilty love nothing opposed -our pleasures; but scarcely had we retrenched our passion and taken -refuge in matrimony, than the wrath of Heaven fell on us with all its -weight. And how barbarous was your punishment! Ah! what right had a -cruel Uncle over us? We were joined to each other even before the -altar, and this should have protected us from the rage of our -enemies. Besides, we were separated; you were busy with your lectures -and instructed a learned audience in mysteries which the greatest -geniuses before you could not 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. At this very juncture punishment fell upon us, and you -who were least guilty became the object of the whole vengeance of a -barbarous man. But why should I rave at Fulbert? I, wretched I, have -ruined you, and have been the cause of all your misfortunes. How -dangerous it is for a great man to suffer himself to be moved by our -sex! He ought from his infancy to be inured to insensibility of heart -against all our charms. 'Hearken, my sonaEuro(TM) (said formerly the wisest -of men), 'attend and keep my instructions; if a beautiful woman by -her looks endeavour to entice thee, permit not thyself to be overcome -by a corrupt inclination; reject the poison she offers, and follow -not the paths she directs. Her house is the gate of destruction and -death.aEuro(TM) I have long examined things, and have found that death is -less dangerous than beauty. It is the shipwreck of liberty, a fatal -snare, from which it is impossible ever to get free. It was a woman -who threw down the first man from the glorious position in which -Heaven had placed him; she, who was created to partake of his -happiness, was the sole cause of his ruin. How bright had been the -glory of Samson if his heart had been proof against the charms of -Delilah, as against the weapons of the Philistines. A woman disarmed -and betrayed he who had been a conqueror of armies. He saw himself -delivered into the hands of his enemies; he was deprived of his eyes, -those inlets of love into the soul; distracted and despairing he died -without any consolation save that of including his enemies in his -ruin. Solomon, that he might please women, forsook pleasing God; that -king whose wisdom princes came from all parts to admire, he whom God -had chosen to build the temple, abandoned the worship of the very -altars he had raised, and proceeded to such a pitch of folly as even -to burn incense to idols. Job had no enemy more cruel than his wife; -what temptations did he not bear? The evil spirit who had declared -himself his persecutor employed a woman as an instrument to shake his -constancy. And the same evil spirit made Heloise an instrument to -ruin Abelard. All the poor comfort I have is that I am not the -voluntary cause of your misfortunes. I have not betrayed you; but my -constancy and love have been destructive to you. If I have committed -a crime in loving you so constantly I cannot repent it. I have -endeavoured to please you even at the expense of my virtue, and -therefore deserve the pains I feel. As soon as I was persuaded of -your love I delayed scarce a moment in yielding to your -protestations; to be beloved by Abelard was in my esteem so great a -glory, and I so impatiently desired it, not to believe in it -immediately. I aimed 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 tyrannise 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 -famous and learned person of the age. If any consideration had been -able to stop me, it would have been without doubt my love. I feared -lest having nothing further to offer you your passion might become -languid, and you might seek for new pleasures in another conquest. -But it was easy for you to cure me of a suspicion so opposite to my -own inclination. I ought to have foreseen other more certain evils, -and to have considered that the idea of lost enjoyments would be the -trouble of my whole life. - -How happy should I be could I wash out with my tears the memory of -those pleasures which I yet think of with delight. At least I will -try by strong endeavour to smother in my heart those desires to which -the frailty of my nature gives birth, and I will exercise on myself -such torments as those you have to suffer from the rage of your -enemies. I will endeavour by this means to satisfy you at least, if I -cannot appease an angry God. For to show you to what a deplorable -condition I am reduced, and how far my repentance is from being -complete, I dare even accuse Heaven at this moment of cruelty for -delivering you over to the snares prepared for you. My repinings can -only kindle divine wrath, when I should be seeking for mercy. - -In order to expiate a crime it is not sufficient to bear the -punishment; whatever we suffer is of no avail if the passion still -continues and the heart is filled with the same desire. It is an easy -matter to confess a weakness, and inflict on ourselves some -punishment, but it needs perfect power over our nature to extinguish -the memory of pleasures, which by a loved habitude have gained -possession of our minds. How many persons do we see who make an -outward confession of their faults, yet, far from being in distress -about them, take a new pleasure in relating them. Contrition of the -heart ought to accompany the confession of the mouth, yet this very -rarely happens. I, who have experienced so many pleasures in loving -you, feel, in spite of myself, that I cannot repent them, nor forbear -through memory to enjoy them over again. Whatever efforts I use, on -whatever side I turn, the sweet thought still pursues me, and every -object brings to my mind what it is my duty to forget. During the -quiet night, when my heart ought to be still in that sleep which -suspends the greatest cares, I cannot avoid the illusions of my -heart. I dream I am still with my dear Abelard. I see him, I speak to -him and hear him answer. Charmed with each other we forsake our -studies and give ourselves up to love. Sometimes too I seem to -struggle with your enemies; I oppose their fury, I break into piteous -cries, and in a moment I awake in tears. Even into holy places before -the altar I carry the memory of our love, and far from lamenting for -having been seduced by pleasures, I sigh for having lost them. - -I remember (for nothing is forgot by lovers) the time and place in -which you first declared your passion and swore you would love me -till death. Your words, your oaths, are deeply graven in my heart. My -stammering speech betrays to all the disorder of my mind; my sighs -discover me, and your name is ever on my lips. O Lord! when I am thus -afflicted why dost not Thou pity my weakness and strengthen me with -Thy grace? You are happy, Abelard, in that grace is given 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 deal -heavily with you, sought only to help you; He was a Father chastising -and not an Enemy revenging--a wise Physician putting you to some pain -in order to preserve your life. I am a thousand times more to be -pitied than you, for I have still a thousand passions to fight. I -must resist those fires which love kindles in a young heart. Our sex -is nothing but weakness, and I have the greater difficulty in -defending myself because the enemy that attacks me pleases me; I doat -on the danger which threatens; how then can I avoid yielding? - -In the midst of these struggles I try at least to conceal my weakness -from those you have entrusted to my care. All who are about me admire -my virtue, but could their eyes penetrate into my heart what would -they not discover? My passions there are in rebellion; I preside over -others but cannot rule myself. I have a false covering, and this -seeming virtue is a real vice. Men judge me praiseworthy, but I am -guilty before God; from His all-seeing eye nothing is hid, and He -views through all their windings the secrets of the heart. I cannot -escape His discovery. And yet it means great effort to me merely to -maintain this appearance of virtue, so surely 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 those feeble ones who are under my rule. With my heart full of the -love of man, I teach them at least to love only God. Charmed with the -pomp of worldly pleasures, I endeavor to show them that they are all -vanity and deceit. I have just strength enough to conceal from them -my longings, and I look upon that as a great effect of grace. If it -is not enough to make me embrace virtue, 'tis enough to keep me from -committing sin. - -And yet it is in vain to try and separate these two things: they must -be guilty who are not righteous, 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 to offend a man than to provoke God, and I -study less to please Him than to please you. Yes, it was your command -only, and not a sincere vocation, which sent me into these cloisters; -I sought to give you ease and not to sanctify myself. How unhappy am -I! I tear myself from all that pleases me; I bury myself alive; I -exercise myself with the most rigid fastings and all those severities -the cruel laws impose on us; I feed myself with tears and sorrows; -and notwithstanding this I merit nothing by my penance. My false -piety has long deceived you as well as others; you have thought me at -peace when I was more disturbed than ever. You persuaded yourself I -was wholly devoted to my duty, yet I had no business but love. Under -this mistake you desire my prayers--alas! I need yours! Do not -presume upon my virtue and my care; I am wavering, fix me by your -advice; I am feeble, sustain and guide me by your counsel. - -What occasion had you to praise me? Praise is often hurtful for those -on whom it is bestowed: a secret vanity springs up in the heart, -blinds us, and conceals from us the wounds that are half healed. A -seducer flatters us, and at the same time destroys us. A sincere -friend disguises nothing from us, and far 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 -anything 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 reprobate as well as the -elect may lay claim to it. An artful impostor may by his address gain -more admiration than is given to the zeal of a saint. - -The heart of man is a labyrinth whose windings are very difficult to -discover. The praises you give me are the more dangerous because I -love the person who bestows them. The more I desire to please you the -readier am I to believe the merit you attribute to me. Ah! think -rather how to nerve my weakness by wholesome remonstrances! Be rather -fearful than confident of my salvation; say our virtue is founded -upon weakness, and that they only will be crowned who have fought -with the greatest difficulties. But I seek not the crown which is the -reward of victory--I am content if I can avoid danger. It is easier -to keep out of the way than to win a battle. There are several -degrees in glory, and I am not ambitious of the highest; I leave them -to those of greater courage who have often been victorious. I seek -not to conquer for fear I should be overcome; happiness enough for me -to escape shipwreck and at last reach port. Heaven commands me to -renounce my fatal passion for you, but oh! my heart will never be -able to consent to it. Adieu. - - - - -LETTER IV - -_Heloise to Abelard_ - - -Dear Abelard,--You expect, perhaps, that I should accuse you of -negligence. You have not answered my last letter, and, thanks to -Heaven, in the condition I am now in it is a relief to me that you -show so much insensibility for the passion which I betrayed. At last, -Abelard, you have lost Heloise for ever. Notwithstanding all the -oaths I made to think of nothing but you, and to be entertained by -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 be no -more my happiness! Dear image of Abelard! thou wilt no longer follow -me, no longer shall I remember thee. O celebrity and merit of that -man who, in spite of his enemies, is the wonder of the age! O -enchanting pleasures to which Heloise resigned herself--you, you have -been my tormentors! I confess my inconstancy, Abelard, without a -blush; let my infidelity teach the world that there is no depending -on the promises of women--we are all subject to change. This troubles -you, Abelard; this news without surprises you; you never imagined -Heloise could be inconstant. She was prejudiced by such a strong -inclination towards you that you cannot conceive how Time could alter -it. But be undeceived, I am going to disclose to you my falseness, -though, instead of reproaching me, I persuade myself you will shed -tears of joy. When I tell you what Rival hath ravished my heart from -you, you will praise my inconstancy, and pray this Rival to fix it. -By this you will know that 'tis God alone that takes Heloise from -you. Yes, my dear Abelard, He gives my mind that tranquillity which a -vivid remembrance of our misfortunes formerly forbade. Just Heaven! -what other rival could take me from you? Could you imagine it -possible for a mere human to blot you from my heart? Could you think -me guilty of sacrificing the virtuous and learned Abelard to any -other but God? No, I believe you have done me justice on this point. -I doubt not you are eager to learn what means God used to accomplish -so great an end? I will tell you, that you may 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, grew criminal in my eyes. My memory represented -faithfully to me all the past actions of my life, and I confess to -you pain for our love was the only pain I felt. Death, which till -then I had only viewed from a distance, now presented itself to me as -it appears to sinners. I began to dread the wrath of God now I was -near experiencing it, and I repented that I had not better used the -means of Grace. Those tender letters I wrote to you, those fond -conversations I have had with you, give me as much pain now as they -had formerly given pleasure. 'Ah, miserable Heloise!aEuro(TM) I said, 'if it -is a crime to give oneself up to such transports, and if, after this -life is ended, punishment certainly follows them, why didst thou not -resist such dangerous temptations? Think on the tortures prepared for -thee, consider with terror the store of torments, and recollect, at -the same time, those pleasures which thy deluded soul thought so -entrancing. Ah! dost thou not despair for having rioted in such false -pleasures?aEuro(TM) In short, Abelard, imagine all the remorse of mind I -suffered, and you will not be astonished at my change. - -Solitude is insupportable to the uneasy mind; its troubles increase -in the midst of silence, and retirement heightens them. Since I have -been shut up in these walls I have done nothing but weep our -misfortunes. This cloister has resounded with my cries, and, like a -wretch condemned to eternal slavery, I have worn out my days with -grief. Instead of fulfilling God's merciful design towards me I have -offended against Him; I have looked upon this sacred refuge as a -frightful prison, and have borne with unwillingness the yoke of the -Lord. Instead of purifying myself with a life of penitence I have -confirmed my condemnation. What a fatal mistake! But Abelard, I have -torn off the bandage which blinded me, and, if I dare rely upon my -own feelings, I have now made myself worthy of your esteem. You are -to me no more the loving Abelard who constantly sought private -conversations with me by deceiving the vigilance of our observers. -Our misfortunes gave you a horror of vice, and you instantly -consecrated the rest of your days to virtue, and seemed to submit -willingly to the necessity. I indeed, more tender than you, and more -sensible to pleasure, bore misfortune with extreme impatience, and -you have heard my exclaimings against your enemies. You have seen my -resentment in my late letters; it was this, doubtless, which deprived -me of the esteem of my Abelard. You were alarmed at my repinings, -and, if the truth be told, despaired of my salvation. You could not -foresee that Heloise would conquer so reigning a passion; but you -were mistaken, Abelard, my weakness, when supported by grace, has not -hindered me from winning a complete victory. Restore me, then, to -your esteem; your own piety should solicit you to this. - -But what secret trouble rises in my soul--what unthought-of emotion -now rises to oppose the resolution I have formed to sigh no more for -Abelard? Just Heaven! have I not triumphed over my love? Unhappy -Heloise! as long as thou drawest a breath it is decreed thou must -love Abelard. Weep, unfortunate wretch, for thou never hadst a more -just occasion. I ought to die of grief; grace had overtaken me and I -had promised to be faithful to it, but now am I perjured once more, -and even grace is sacrificed to Abelard. This sacrilege fills up the -measure of my iniquity. After this how can I hope that God will open -to me the treasure of His mercy, for I have tired out His -forgiveness. I began to offend Him from the first moment I saw -Abelard; an unhappy sympathy engaged us both in a guilty love, and -God raised us up an enemy to separate us. I lament the misfortune -which lighted upon us and I adore the cause. Ah! I ought rather to -regard this misfortune as the gift of Heaven, which disapproved of -our engagement and parted us, and I ought to apply myself to -extirpate my passion. How much better it were to forget entirely the -object of it than to preserve a memory so fatal to my peace and -salvation? Great God! shall Abelard possess my thoughts for ever? Can -I never free myself from the chains of love? But perhaps I am -unreasonably afraid; virtue directs all my acts and they are all -subject to grace. Therefore fear not, Abelard; I have no longer 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 passion gave us, to awaken any guilty fondness you may -yet feel for me. I free you from all your oaths; forget the titles of -lover and husband and keep only that of father. I expect no more from -you than tender protestations and those letters so proper to feed the -flame of love. I demand nothing of you but spiritual advice and -wholesome discipline. The path of holiness, however thorny it be, -will yet appear agreeable to me if I may but walk in your footsteps. -You will always find me ready to follow you. I shall read with more -pleasure the letters in which you shall describe the advantages of -virtue than ever I did those in which you so artfully instilled the -poison of 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 do I blame you; but now you -have nothing to fear. This fortunate illness, with which Providence -has chastised me for my good, has done what all human efforts and -your cruelty in vain attempted. I see now the vanity of that -happiness we had set our hearts upon, as if it were eternal. What -fears, what distress have we not suffered for it! - -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 until fixed on Thee. What have I not suffered, -Abelard, whilst I kept alive in my retirement those fires which -ruined me in the world? I saw with hatred the walls that surrounded -me; the hours seemed as long as years. I repented a thousand times -that I had buried myself here. But since grace has opened my eyes all -the scene is changed; solitude looks charming, and the peace of the -place enters my very heart. In the satisfaction of doing my duty I -feel a delight above all that riches, pomp or sensuality could -afford. My quiet has indeed cost me dear, for I have bought it at the -price of my love; I have offered a violent sacrifice I thought beyond -my power. But if I have torn you from my heart, be not jealous; God, -who ought always to have possessed it, reigns there in your stead. Be -content with having a place in my mind which you shall never lose; I -shall always take a secret pleasure in thinking of you, and esteem it -a glory to obey those rules you shall give me. - - * * * * * - -This very moment I receive a letter from you; I will read it and -answer it immediately. You shall see by my promptitude in writing to -you that you are always dear to me. - -You very obligingly reproach me for delay in writing 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 tell me 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 love me you will moderate the -rigours 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 repetitions. You -desire us not to forget you in our prayers: ah! dear Abelard, you may -depend upon the zeal of this society; it is devoted to you and you -cannot justly fear its forgetfulness. You are our Father, and we are -your children; you are our guide, and we resign ourselves to your -direction with full assurance in your piety. You command; we obey; we -faithfully execute what you have prudently ordered. We impose no -penance on ourselves but what you recommend, lest we should rather -follow an indiscreet zeal than solid virtue. In a word, nothing is -thought right but what has Abelard's approbation. You tell me one -thing that perplexes me--that you have heard that some of our Sisters -are bad examples, and that they are generally not strict enough. -Ought this to seem strange to you who know how monasteries are filled -nowadays? Do fathers consult the inclination 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 show me the proper remedy -for them. I have not yet observed any looseness: 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 -that happened in the monasteries near Paris. - -You end your letter with a general deploring of your unhappiness and -wish for death to end a weary life. Is it possible so great a genius -as you cannot rise above your misfortunes? What would the world say -should they read the letters you send me? Would they consider the -noble motive of your retirement or not rather think you had shut -yourself up merely to lament your woes? What would your young -students say, who come so far to hear you and prefer your severe -lectures to the ease of a worldly life, if they should discover you -secretly a slave to your passions and the victim of those weaknesses -from which your rule secures them? This Abelard they so much admire, -this great leader, would lose his fame and become the sport of his -pupils. If these reasons are not sufficient to give you constancy in -your misfortune, cast your eyes upon me, and admire the resolution -with which I shut myself up at your request. I was young when we -separated, and (if I dare believe what you were always telling me) -worthy of any man's affections. If I had loved nothing in Abelard but -sensual pleasure, other 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 still 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 indulged, the caresses I -gave, would surely have comforted you. Had you seen me grow by -degrees indifferent to you, you might have had reason to despair, but -you never received greater tokens of my affection than after you felt -misfortune. - -Let me see no more in your letters, dear Abelard, such murmurs -against Fate; you are not the only one who has felt her blows and you -ought to forget her outrages. What a shame it is that a philosopher -cannot accept what might befall any man. Govern yourself by my -example; I was born with violent passions, I daily strive with tender -emotions, and glory in triumphing and subjecting them to reason. Must -a weak mind fortify one that is so much superior? But I am carried -away. Is it thus I write to my dear Abelard? He who practises all -those virtues he preaches? If you complain of Fortune, it is not so -much that you feel her strokes as that you try to show your enemies -how much to blame they are in attempting to hurt you. Leave them, -Abelard, to exhaust their malice, and continue to charm your -auditors. Discover those treasures of learning Heaven seems to have -reserved for you; your enemies, struck with the splendour of your -reasoning, will in the end 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; your greatest adversaries -confess you are ignorant of nothing the mind of man is capable of -knowing. - -My dear Husband (for the last time I use that title!), shall I never -see you again? Shall I never have the pleasure of embracing you -before death? What dost thou say, wretched Heloise? Dost thou know -what thou desirest? Couldst thou behold those brilliant eyes without -recalling the tender glances which have been so fatal to thee? -Couldst thou see that majestic air of Abelard without being jealous -of everyone who beholds so attractive a man? That mouth cannot be -looked upon without desire; in short, no woman can view the person of -Abelard without danger. Ask no more therefore to see Abelard; if the -memory of him has caused thee so much trouble, Heloise, what would -not his presence do? What desires will it not excite in thy soul? How -will it be possible to keep thy reason at the sight of so lovable a -man? - -I will own to you what makes the greatest pleasure in my retirement; -after having passed the day in thinking of you, full of the repressed -idea, I give myself up at night to sleep. Then it is that Heloise, -who dares not think of you by day, resigns herself with pleasure to -see and hear you. How my eyes gloat over you! Sometimes you tell me -stories of your secret troubles, and create in me a felt sorrow; -sometimes the rage of our enemies is forgotten and you press me to -you and I yield to you, and our souls, animated with the same -passion, are sensible of the same pleasures. But O! delightful dreams -and tender illusions, how soon do you vanish away! I awake and open -my eyes to find no Abelard: I stretch out my arms to embrace him and -he is not there; I cry, and he hears me not. What a fool I am to tell -my dreams to you who are insensible to these pleasures. But do you, -Abelard, never see Heloise in your sleep? How does she appear to you? -Do you entertain her with the same tender language as formerly, and -are you glad or sorry when you awake? Pardon me, Abelard, pardon a -mistaken lover. I must no longer expect from you that vivacity which -once marked your every action; no more must I require from you the -correspondence of desires. We have bound ourselves to severe -austerities and must follow them at all costs. Let us think of our -duties and our rules, and make good use of that necessity which keeps -us separate. You, Abelard, will happily finish your course; your -desires and ambitions will be no obstacle to your salvation. But -Heloise must weep, she must lament for ever without being certain -whether all her tears will avail for her salvation. - -I had liked to have ended my letter without telling you what happened -here a few days ago. A young nun, who had been forced to enter the -convent without a vocation therefor, is by a stratagem I know nothing -of escaped and fled to England with a gentleman. I have ordered all -the house to conceal the matter. Ah, Abelard! if you were near us -these things would not happen, for all the Sisters, charmed with -seeing and hearing you, would think of nothing but practising 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 in holiness. If your eyes were witnesses of our -actions they would be innocent. When we slipped you should lift us up -and establish us by your counsels; we should march with sure steps in -the rough path of virtue. I begin to perceive, Abelard, that I take -too much pleasure in writing to you; I ought to burn this letter. It -shows that I still feel a deep passion for you, though at the -beginning I tried to persuade you to the contrary. I am sensible of -waves both of grace and passion, and by turns yield to each. Have -pity, Abelard, on the condition to which you have brought me, and -make in some measure my last days as peaceful as my first have been -uneasy and disturbed. - - - - -LETTER V - -_Abelard to Heloise_ - - -Write no more to me, Heloise, write no more to me; 'tis time to end -communications which make our penances of nought avail. We retired -from the world to purify ourselves, and, by a conduct directly -contrary to Christian morality, we became odious to Jesus Christ. Let -us no more deceive ourselves with remembrance of our past pleasures; -we but make our lives troubled and spoil the sweets of solitude. Let -us make good use of our austerities and no longer preserve the -memories of our crimes amongst the severities of penance. Let a -mortification of body and mind, a strict fasting, continual solitude, -profound and holy meditations, and a sincere love of God succeed our -former irregularities. - -Let us try to carry religious perfection to its farthest point. It is -beautiful to find Christian minds so disengaged from 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 our -object. Be our efforts ever so great they will always come short of -attaining that exalted Divinity which even our apprehension cannot -reach. Let us act for God's glory independent of the creatures or -ourselves, paying no regard to our own desires or the opinions of -others. Were we in this temper of mind, Heloise, I would willingly -make my abode at the Paraclete, and by my earnest care for the house -I have founded 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, labour, meditate, and be -silent. - -And 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 the 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 you ought to -perform, and satisfy those doubts which through the weakness of your -reason might arise. I would be your master and father, and by a -marvellous talent I would become lively or slow, gentle or severe, -according to the different characters of those I should guide in the -painful path to Christian perfection. - -But whither does my vain imagination carry me! Ah, Heloise, how far -are we from such a happy temper? Your heart still burns with that -fatal fire you cannot extinguish, and mine is full of trouble and -unrest. Think not, Heloise, that I here enjoy a perfect peace; I will -for the last time open my heart to you;--I am not yet disengaged from -you, and though I fight against my excessive tenderness for you, in -spite of all my endeavours I remain but too sensible of your sorrows -and long to share in them. Your letters have indeed moved me; I could -not read with indifference characters written by that dear hand! I -sigh and weep, and all my reason is scarce sufficient to conceal my -weakness from my pupils. This, unhappy Heloise, is the miserable -condition of Abelard. The world, which is generally wrong in its -notions, thinks I am at peace, and imagining that I loved you only -for the gratification of the senses, have now forgot you. What a -mistake is this! People indeed were not wrong in saying that when we -separated it was shame and grief that made me abandon the world. It -was not, as you know, a sincere repentance for having offended God -which inspired me with a design for retiring. However, I consider our -misfortunes as a secret design of Providence to punish our sins; and -only look 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 that God Himself raised them up in order -to purify me. - -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 all suspicion of novelty. - -I should be happy if I had none to fear but my enemies, and no other -hindrance to my salvation but their calumny. But, Heloise, you make -me tremble, your letters declare to me that you are enslaved to human -love, and yet, if you cannot conquer it, you cannot be saved; and -what part would you have me play in this trial? 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 save to lament our sins and to gain -heaven; let us then resign ourselves to God with all our heart. - -I know everything is difficult in the beginning; but it is glorious -to courageously start a great action, and glory increases -proportionately as the difficulties are more considerable. We ought -on 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 a furnace. No one can continue long there unless he bear -worthily the yoke of the Lord. - -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 entreat you to think of me in your prayers. Endeavor 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 efforts prove -weak do not give way to despair, for that would be cowardice; -besides, I would have you know that you must necessarily take great -pains, for you strive to conquer a terrible enemy, to extinguish a -raging fire, to reduce to subjection your dearest affections. You -have to fight against your own desires, so be not 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, 'The life of man is one long temptationaEuro(TM): the devil, who -never sleeps, walks continually around us in order to surprise us on -some unguarded side, and enters into our soul in order to destroy it. - -However perfect anyone may be, yet he may fall into temptations, and -perhaps into such as may be useful. Nor is it wonderful that man -should never be exempt from them, because he always hath in himself -their source; scarce are we delivered from one temptation when -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 of our own. - -Be constant, Heloise, and trust in God; then you shall fall into few -temptations: when they come stifle them at their birth--let them not -take root in your heart. 'Apply remedies to a disease,aEuro(TM) said an -ancient, 'at the beginning, for when it hath gained strength -medicines are of no availaEuro(TM): temptations have their degrees, they are -at first mere thoughts and do not appear dangerous; the imagination -receives them without any fears; the pleasure grows; we dwell upon -it, and at last we yield to it. - -Do you now, Heloise, 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 yet these ardent aspirations, pray that you may be inspired -by them. I shall never cease to recommend you in my prayers and to -beseech God 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 to whom the rest of your days are -consecrated. Life upon this earth is misery; the very necessities to -which our bodies are subject here are matters of affliction to a -saint. 'Lord,aEuro(TM) said the royal prophet, 'deliver me from my -necessities.aEuro(TM) Many are wretched who do not know they are; and yet -they are more wretched who know their misery and yet cannot 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 too -late how much they have been to blame in loving such false good. -Truly pious persons are not thus mistaken; they are freed from all -sensual pleasures and raise their desires to Heaven. - -Begin, Heloise; put your design into action without delay; you have -yet time enough to work out your salvation. Love Christ, and despise -yourself for His sake; He will 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 -leave me and cleave to Him, you will be steadfast and safe. If you -force the Lord to forsake you, you will fall into trouble; but if you -are faithful to Him you shall find joy. Magdalen wept, thinking that -Jesus had forsaken her, but Martha said, 'See, the Lord calls you.aEuro(TM) -Be diligent in your duty, obey faithfully the calls of grace, and -Jesus will be with you. Attend, Heloise, to some instructions I have -to give you: you are at the head of a society, and you know there is -a difference between those who lead a private life and those who are -charged with the conduct of others: the first need only labour for -their own sanctification, and in their round of duties are not -obliged to practise all the virtues in such an apparent manner: but -those who have the charge of others entrusted to them ought by their -example to encourage their followers to do all the good of which they -are capable. I beseech you to remember this truth, and so to follow -it that your whole life may be a perfect model of that of a religious -recluse. - -God heartily desires our salvation, and has made all the means of it -easy to us. In the Old Testament He has written in the tables of law -what He requires of us, that we might not be bewildered in seeking -after His will. In the New Testament He has written the law of grace -to the intent that it might ever be present in our hearts; so, -knowing the weakness and incapacity of our nature, He has given us -grace to perform His will. And, as if this were not enough, He has -raised up at all times, in all states of the Church, men who by their -exemplary life can excite others to their duty. To effect this He has -chosen persons of every age, sex and condition. Strive now to unite -in yourself all the virtues of these different examples. 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. - -'The death of His saints,aEuro(TM) says the prophet, 'is precious in the -sight of the Lord.aEuro(TM) Nor is it difficult to discover 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; second, -the continuation of their good works; and lastly, the triumph they -gain over the devil. - -A saint who has accustomed himself to submit to the will of God -yields to death without reluctance. He waits with joy (says Dr. -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 dreads the presence of the [1]offending -Judge; and having so often abused the means of grace he sees no way -to avoid the punishment of his sins. - -The saints have also this advantage over sinners, that having become -familiar with works of piety during their life they exercise them -without trouble, and having gained new strength against the devil -every time they overcame him, they will find themselves in a -condition at the hour of death to obtain that victory on which -depends all eternity, and the blessed union of their souls with their -Creator. - -I hope, Heloise, that after having deplored the irregularities of -your past life, you will 'die the death of the righteous.aEuro(TM) Ah, how -few there are who make this end! And why? It is because there are so -few who love the Cross of Christ. Everyone wishes to be saved, but -few will use those means which religion prescribes. Yet can we be -saved by nothing but the Cross: why then refuse to bear it? Hath not -our Saviour bore 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 -suffered affliction, and our Saviour himself did not pass one hour of -His life without some sorrow. Hope not therefore to be exempt from -suffering: the Cross, Heloise, is always at hand, take care that you -do not receive it with regret, for by so doing you will make it more -heavy and you will be oppressed by it to no profit. On the contrary, -if you bear it with willing 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.aEuro(TM) Oh, Heloise, do you doubt? Is not your soul -ravished at so saving a command? Are you insensible to words so full -of kindness? Beware, Heloise, of refusing a Husband who demands you, -and who is more to be feared than any earthly 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, and 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 wilfully -destroyed yourself; go, wretch, and take the portion of the -reprobates.aEuro(TM) - -Oh, Heloise, prevent these terrible words, and avoid, by a holy life, -the punishment prepared for sinners. I dare not give you a -description of those dreadful torments which are the consequences of -a career of guilt. I am filled with horror when they offer themselves -to my imagination. And yet, Heloise, I can conceive nothing which can -reach the tortures of the damned; the fire which we see upon this -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 anyone sin who is persuaded of -this? My God! can we dare to offend Thee? Though the riches of Thy -mercy could not engage us to love Thee, the dread of being thrown -into such an abyss of misery should restrain us from doing anything -which might displease Thee. - -I question not, Heloise, 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 guiltily cannot but be hurtful, whatever advances we may -have made in the way 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 desirable 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 your reprobation -written in the judgment book, 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. - -Farewell, Heloise, this is the last advice of your dear Abelard; for -the last time let me persuade you to follow the 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 Abelard, -always present to your mind, be now changed into the image of Abelard -truly penitent; and may you shed as many tears for your salvation as -you have done for our misfortunes. - -[Footnote 1: Errata--offended] - - - - -TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE - - -The following printer's errors have been corrected: - -Added a heading "LETTER I" for the first letter - -Replaced "tranquility" with "tranquillity" (p. 28, 30 and 59) - -Inserted missing phrase "be the highest love" after "It will always" -(p. 53) - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The love letters of Abelard and Heloise, by -Peter Abelard and Heloise - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE LETTERS *** - -***** This file should be named 40227.txt or 40227.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/2/2/40227/ - -Produced by Michael Roe and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - http://www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/40227.zip b/40227.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index fd2d8fb..0000000 --- a/40227.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/40227-0.txt b/old/40227-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index cd1d923..0000000 --- a/old/40227-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2444 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The love letters of Abelard and Heloise, by -Peter Abelard and Heloise - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. 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/license - - -Title: The love letters of Abelard and Heloise - -Author: Peter Abelard - Heloise - -Editor: Ralph Seymour - -Release Date: July 14, 2012 [EBook #40227] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE LETTERS *** - - - - -Produced by Michael Roe and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - -THE LOVE LETTERS OF ABELARD AND HELOISE - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE LOVE LETTERS OF ABELARD AND HELOISE - - -_Translated from the original latin and now reprinted from the -edition of 1722: together with a brief account of their lives and -work_ - -RALPH FLETCHER SEYMOUR·CHICAGO - - Copyright 1903 - by - Ralph Fletcher Seymour - - - - -THE STORY OF ABELARD AND HELOISE. - - -It sometimes happens that Love is little esteemed by those who choose -rather to think of other affairs, and in requital He strongly -manifests His power in unthought ways. Need is to think of Abelard -and Heloise: how now his treatises and works are memories only, and -how the love of her (who in lifetime received little comfort -therefor) has been crowned with the violet crown of Grecian Sappho -and the homage of all lovers. - -The world itself was learning a new love when these two met; was -beginning to heed the quiet call of the spirit of the Renaissance, -which, at its consummation, brought forth the glories of the -Quattrocento. - -It was among the stone-walled, rose-covered gardens and clustered -homes of ecclesiastics, who served the ancient Roman builded pile of -Notre Dame, that Abelard found Heloise. - -From his noble father's home in Brittany, Abelard, gifted and -ambitious, came to study with William of Champeaux in Paris. His -advancement was rapid, and time brought him the acknowledged -leadership of the Philosophic School of the city, a prestige which -received added lustre from his controversies with his later -instructor in theology, Anselm of Laon. - -His career at this time was brilliant. Adulation and flattery, added -to the respect given his great and genuine ability, made sweet a life -which we can imagine was in most respects to his liking. Among the -students who flocked to him came the beautiful maiden, Heloise, to -learn of philosophy. Her uncle Fulbert, living in retired ease near -Notre Dame, offered in exchange for such instruction both bed and -board; and Abelard, having already seen and resolved to win her, -undertook the contract. - -Many quiet hours these two spent on the green, river-watered isle, -studying old philosophies, and Time, swift and silent as the Seine, -sped on, until when days had changed to months they became aware of -the deeper knowledge of Love. Heloise responded wholly to this new -influence, and Abelard, forgetting his ambition, desired their -marriage. Yet as this would have injured his opportunities for -advancement in the Church Heloise steadfastly refused this formal -sanction of her passion. Their love becoming known in time to -Fulbert, his grief and anger were uncontrollable. In fear the two -fled to the country and there their child was born. Abelard still -urged marriage, and at last, outwearied with importunities, she -consented, only insisting that it be kept a secret. Such a course was -considered best to pacify her uncle, who, in fact, promised -reconciliation as a reward. Yet, upon its accomplishment he openly -declared the marriage. Unwilling that this be known lest the -knowledge hurt her lover, Heloise strenuously denied the truth. The -two had returned, confident of Fulbert's reaffirmed regard, and he, -now deeply troubled and revengeful, determined to inflict that -punishment and indignity on Abelard, which, in its accomplishment, -shocked even that ruder civilization to horror and to reprisal. - -The shamed and mortified victim, caring only for solitude in which to -hide and rest, retired into the wilderness; returning after a time to -take the vows of monasticism. Unwilling to leave his love where by -chance she could become another's, he demanded that she become a nun. -She yielded obedience, and, although but twenty-two years of age, -entered the convent of Argenteuil. - -Abelard's mind was still virile and, perhaps to his surprise, the -world again sought him out, anxious still to listen to his masterful -logic. But with his renewed influence came fierce persecution, and -the following years of life were filled with trials and sorrows. -Sixteen years passed after the lovers parted and then Heloise, -prioress of the Paraclete, found a letter of consolation, written by -Abelard to a friend, recounting his sad career. Her response is a -letter of passion and complaining, an equal to which it is hard to -find in all literature. To his cold and formal reply she wrote a -second, questioning and confused, and a third, constrained and -resigned. These three constitute the record of a soul vainly seeking -in spiritual consolation rest from love. - -Abelard, with little heart for love or ambition, still stubbornly -contested with his foes. On a journey to Rome, where he had appealed -from a judgment of heresy against his teachings, he, overweary, -turned aside to rest in the monastery of Cluni, in Burgundy, and -there died. Heloise begged his body for burial in the Paraclete. -Twenty years later, and at the same age as her lover, she, too, -passed to rest. - -It is said that he whose arms had one time yielded her a too sweet -comfort, raised them again to greet her as she came to rest beside -him in their narrow tomb. - -Love never yet was held by arms alone, nor its mysterious ministries -constrained to forms or qualities. Like water sweet in barren land it -lies within our lives, ever by its unsolved formula awakening us to -fuller freedom. - - - - -THE LOVE LETTERS OF ABELARD AND HELOISE - - -_Wherein are written how the scholar Peter Abelard forgot his -learning and became a lover, altho the price he paid was great: and -how the beautiful Heloise in desiring to acquire knowledge from -Abelard learned of all lessons the greatest, from the greatest master -of all, to wit, Love: and how she prized it most highly, altho it -brought her both shame and sorrow_ - - - - -LETTER I - -_Heloise to Abelard_ - - -_To her Lord, her Father, her Husband, her Brother; his Servant, his -Child, his Wife, his Sister, and to express all that is humble, -respectful and loving to her Abelard, Heloise writes this._ - -A consolatory letter of yours to a friend happened some days since to -fall into my hands; my knowledge of the writing and my love of the -hand gave me the curiosity to open it. In justification of the -liberty I took, I flattered myself I might claim a sovereign -privilege over everything which came from you. Nor was I scrupulous -to break through the rules of good breeding when I was to hear news -of Abelard. But how dear did my curiosity cost me! What disturbance -did it occasion, and how surprised I was 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 put my heart into such violent -motion that I thought it was too much to offer comfort to a friend -for a few slight disgraces, but 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. Though 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 always be present to my aching 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 pseudo 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 upon you opinions quite different from your meanings. In vain -you condemned those opinions; all was of no effect towards your -justification, 'twas 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 of 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 refrain, 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 I kept it; but it was demanded of me -too soon. - -I must confess I was much easier in my mind before I read your -letter. Surely all the misfortunes of lovers are conveyed to them -through the eyes: upon reading your letter I feel 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 then, -perhaps, your ashes will not be allowed to rest in peace!--let me -always meditate on your calamities, let me publish them through 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 passed evils; and are there more to be feared still? -Shall my Abelard never be mentioned without tears? Shall the dear -name never be 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 me, I beg of you, that little relief which you only can give. -Let me have a faithful account of all that concerns you; I would know -everything, be it ever so unfortunate. Perhaps by mingling my sighs -with yours I may make your sufferings less, for it is said that all -sorrows divided are made lighter. - -Tell me not by way of excuse you will spare me 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 chooses the side of the virtuous, and fortune is so -blind that in a crowd in which there is perhaps but one wise and -brave man it is not to be expected that 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 a happy -turn. I shall always have this, if you please, and this will always -be agreeable to me, that when I receive any letter from you I shall -know you still remember me. Seneca (with whose writings you made me -acquainted), though he was a Stoic, seemed to be so very sensible to -this kind of pleasure, that upon opening any letters from Lucilius he -imagined he felt the same delight as when they conversed together. - -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 us. It seems to me as if the farther -they are removed their pictures grow the more finished, and acquire a -greater resemblance; or 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 flat colour. I have your picture in my room; I never pass -it without stopping to look at it; and yet when you are present with -me I scarce ever cast my eyes on 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 tenderness and the -delicacy of speech, and sometimes even a boldness of expression -beyond it. - -We may write to each other; so innocent a pleasure is not denied 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 sign myself your wife. In spite of all our misfortunes -you may be what you please in your letter. Letters were first -invented for consoling 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 sacred thoughts; I shall -carry them always about with 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 upon 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 will not tell me that -you still love me; but that language ought to be so natural to you, -that I believe you cannot speak otherwise to me without violence to -yourself. And since by this melancholy relation to your friend you -have awakened all my sorrows, 'tis but reasonable you should allay -them by some tokens of your unchanging love. - -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 far greater. Charity is ingenious in finding out such pious -plans, 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 should use it. 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 always be a -pleasure to me to say that you only are the founder of this house, -'tis wholly your work. You, by inhabiting here, have given fame and -holiness to a place known before only for robberies and murders. You -have in a literal sense made the den of thieves into a house of -prayer. These cloisters owe nothing to public charities; our walls -were not raised by the usuries 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 only 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 temptation; though our walls and gates prohibit all -approaches, yet it is the outside only, the bark of the tree, that is -protected from injuries; the sap of the 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 changeable, the other is weak. To plant the Lord's -vineyard is a work of no little labour; but after it is planted it -will require great application and diligence to dress it. The Apostle -of the Gentiles, great labourer as he was, says he hath planted, -Apollos hath watered, but it is God that gives the increase. Paul had -planted the Gospel amongst the Corinthians, Apollos, his zealous -disciple, continued to cultivate it by frequent exhortations; and the -grace of God, which their constant prayers implored for that church, -made the work of both be fruitful. - -This ought to be an example for your conduct towards us. I know you -are not slothful, yet your labours are not directed towards 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 prevent 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 over 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 entreat you in the name of your -children? Is it possible I should fear obtaining anything of you when -I ask it in my own name? And must I use any other prayers than my own -in order to prevail upon you? The St. Austins, Tertullians and -Jeromes have written to the Eudoxias, 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 Scriptures; or Tertullian and preach mortification; or -St. Austin and explain to me the nature of grace? Why should I alone -not reap the advantage of 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 the least scandal satisfy me, why -will you not? I am not only engaged by my vows, but I have the fear -of my Uncle before me. There is nothing, then, that you need dread; -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 stay in it with devotion. You -have been the occasion of all my misfortunes, you therefore must be -the instrument of all my comfort. - -You cannot but remember (for lovers cannot forget) with what pleasure -I have passed 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 messengers. This detail perhaps surprises you, and -you are in pain for what may follow. But I am no longer ashamed that -my passion 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 quietly -and at ease. Nothing but virtue, joined to a love perfectly -disengaged from the senses, could have produced such effects. Vice -never inspires anything 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 notion; 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 so revenge myself on 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 both -mind and body loved 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. - -You cannot but be entirely persuaded of this by the extreme -unwillingness I showed to marry you, though 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 would perhaps 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 which 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 -protested that it was infinitely preferable to me to live with -Abelard as his mistress than with any other as Empress of the World. -I was more happy in obeying you than I should have been as lawful -spouse of the King of the Earth. Riches and pomp are not the charm of -love. True tenderness makes us separate the lover from all that is -external to him, and setting aside his position, fortune or -employments, consider him merely as himself. - -It is not love, but the desire of riches and position which makes a -woman run into the embraces of an indolent husband. Ambition, and 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 experience the pleasures of affectionate union, -nor to feel those subtle and charming joys when hearts long parted -are at last united. These martyrs of marriage pine always for larger -fortunes which they think they have missed. The wife sees husbands -richer than her own, and the husband wives better portioned than his. -Their mercenary vows occasion regret, and regret produces hatred. -Soon they part--or else desire to. This restless and tormenting -passion for gold punishes them for aiming at other advantages by love -than love itself. - -If there is anything that may properly be called happiness here -below, I am persuaded it is 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 merits. Their hearts are full and -leave no vacancy for any other passion; they enjoy perpetual -tranquillity because they enjoy content. - -If I could believe you as truly persuaded of my merit as I am of -yours, I might say there has been a time when we were such a pair. -Alas! how was it possible I should not be certain of your mind? If I -could ever have doubted it, the universal esteem would have made me -decide 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 everyone rejoice in having seen you? Even -women, breaking through the laws of decorum which custom had imposed -upon them, showed they felt more for you than mere esteem. I have -known some who have been profuse in their husbands' praises who have -yet envied me my happiness. But what could resist you? Your -reputation, which so much attracts the vanity of our sex, your air, -your manner, that light in your eyes which expresses the vivacity of -your mind, your conversation so easy and elegant that it gave -everything you said an agreeable turn; in short, everything spoke for -you! Very different from those mere scholars who with all their -learning have not the capacity to keep up an ordinary conversation, -and who with all their wit cannot win a woman who has much less share -of brains than themselves. - -With what ease did you compose verses! And yet those ingenious -trifles, which were but a recreation to you, are still the -entertainment and delight of persons of the best taste. The smallest -song, the least sketch of anything you made for me, had a thousand -beauties capable of making it last as long as there are 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 they themselves are capable of. - -What rivalries did your gallantries of this kind occasion me! How -many ladies lay 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 anything the advantage over them but -in being beloved by you. Can you believe me if I tell you, that -notwithstanding 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, that I might be more certain that I pleased you. - -But oh! where is that happy time? I now lament my lover, and of all -my joys have nothing but the painful memory that they are past. Now -learn, all you my rivals who once viewed my happiness with jealous -eyes, that he you once envied me can never more be 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 were a crime, 'tis a crime I am -yet fond of, and I have no other regret save that against my will I -must now be innocent. But what do I say? My misfortune was to have -cruel relatives whose malice destroyed the calm we enjoyed; had they -been reasonable 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 -Heloise then? What joy should I have had in defending my lover; I -would have guarded you from violence at the expense of my life. Oh! -whither does this excess of passion hurry me? Here love is shocked -and modesty deprives me of words. - -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 my 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 thought of pleasure which engaged you to me? And has not -my tenderness, by leaving you nothing to wish for, extinguished your -desires? Wretched Heloise! 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 a sad experience that it is -natural to avoid those to whom we have been too much obliged, and -that uncommon generosity causes neglect rather than gratitude. My -heart surrendered too soon to gain the esteem of the conqueror; you -took it without difficulty and throw it aside with ease. But -ungrateful as you are I am no consenting party to this, and though I -ought not to retain a wish of my own, yet I still preserve secretly -the desire to be loved by you. When I pronounced my sad vow I then -had about me your last letters in which you protested your whole -being wholly mine, and would never live but to love me. It is to you -therefore I have offered myself; you had my heart and I had yours; do -not demand anything back. You must bear with my passion as a thing -which of right belongs to you, and from which you can be no ways -disengaged. - -Alas! what folly it is to talk in this way! 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 One! 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 some -faint signs of a dying passion I would have favoured the deception. -But in vain do I flatter myself that you could be constant; you have -left no vestige of an excuse for you. 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 your -reputation; all I desire is such letters as the heart dictates, and -which the hand cannot transcribe fast enough. How did I deceive -myself with hopes that you would be wholly mine when I took the veil, -and engage myself to live for ever under your laws? For in being -professed I vowed no more than to be yours only, and I forced myself -voluntarily to a confinement which you desired for me. Death only -then can make me leave the cloister where you have placed me; and -then my ashes shall rest here and wait for yours in order to show to -the very last my obedience and devotion to you. - -Why should I conceal from you the secret of my call? You know it was -neither zeal nor devotion that brought me here. 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 a cruel -relation 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 -consequences of our love and your disgrace have made me put on the -habit of chastity, but I am not penitent of the past. Thus I strive -and labour in vain. Among those who are wedded to God I am wedded to -a man; among the heroic supporters of the Cross I am the slave of a -human desire; at the head of a religious community I am devoted to -Abelard alone. What a monster am I! Enlighten me, O Lord, for I know -not if my despair or Thy grace draws these words from me! I am, I -confess, a sinner, but one who, far from weeping for her sins, weeps -only for her lover; far from abhorring her crimes, longs only to add -to them; and who, with a weakness unbecoming my state, please myself -continually with the remembrance of past delights when it is -impossible to renew them. - -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 it is to fight for -duty against inclination. I know what obligations this veil lays upon -me, but I feel more strongly what power an old passion has over my -heart. I am conquered by my feelings; love troubles my mind and -disorders my will. Sometimes I am swayed by the sentiment of piety -which arises within me, and then 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 a 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 thoughts, and darkens -alike my reason and my religion. 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 my efforts but serve to bind them faster. Oh, for pity's sake -help a wretch to renounce her desires--her self--and if possible even -to renounce you! If you are a lover--a father, help a mistress, -comfort a child! These tender names must surely move you; yield -either to pity or to love. If you gratify my request I shall continue -a religious, and without longer profaning my calling. I am ready to -humble myself with you to the wonderful goodness of God, Who does all -things for our sanctification, Who by His grace purifies all that is -vicious and corrupt, and by the great riches of His mercy draws us -against our wishes, and by degrees opens our eyes to behold His -bounty which at first we could not perceive. - -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 somewhat hard that when we had both -engaged to consecrate ourselves to Heaven you should insist upon my -doing it first. ‘Does Abelard then,’ said I, ‘suspect that, like -Lot's wife, I shall look back?’ 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, -banish such ungenerous apprehensions? This distrust hurt me; 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 to 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 to follow him to the Seats of Holiness? I, who have not -refused to be the victim of pleasure in order to gratify him, can he -think I would refuse to be a sacrifice of honour when he desired it?’ -Has vice such charms to refined natures, that when once we have drunk -of the cup of sinners it is with such difficulty we accept the -chalice of saints? Or did you believe yourself to be more competent -to teach vice than virtue, or me more ready to learn the first than -the latter? No; this suspicion would be injurious to us both: Virtue -is too beautiful not to be embraced when you reveal her charms, and -Vice too hideous not to be abhorred when you display her deformities. -Nay, when you please, anything seems lovely to me, and nothing is -ugly when you are by. I am only weak when I am alone and unsupported -by you, and therefore it depends on you alone to make me such as you -desire. I wish to Heaven 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 happily -together you might have doubted whether pleasure or affection united -me more to you, but the place from whence I write to you must surely -have dissolved all doubt. Even here I love you as much as ever I did -in the world. If I had loved pleasures could I not have found means -to gratify myself? I was not more than twenty-two years old, and -there were other men left though I was deprived of Abelard. And yet I -buried myself alive in a nunnery, and triumphed over life at an age -capable of enjoying it to its full latitude. It is to you I sacrifice -these remains of a transitory beauty, these widowed nights and -tedious days; and since you cannot possess them I take them from you -to offer them to Heaven, and so make, alas! but a secondary oblation -of my heart, my days, my life! - -I am sensible I have dwelt too long on this subject; I ought to speak -less to you of your misfortunes and of my sufferings. 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 actions. -Now if you were this sort of creature 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 stript myself of everything, but -I find I neither have nor can renounce my Abelard. 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 turned me -to marble by changing my habit; my heart is not hardened by my -imprisonment; I am still sensible to what has touched me, though, -alas! I ought not to be! 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 pleasant if he show me their advantage. Retirement and -solitude will no longer seem terrible if I may know that I still have -a place in his memory. A heart which has loved as mine cannot soon be -indifferent. We fluctuate long between love and hatred before we can -arrive at tranquillity, and we always flatter ourselves with some -forlorn hope that we shall not be utterly forgotten. - -Yes, Abelard, I conjure you by the chains I bear here to ease the -weight of them, and make them as agreeable as I would they were to -me. Teach me the maxims of Divine Love; since you have forsaken me I -would 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 -works, how it purifies. When we were tossed on the ocean of the world -we could hear of nothing but your verses, which published everywhere -our joys and pleasures. Now we are in the haven of grace is it not -fit you should discourse to me of this new happiness, and teach me -everything that might heighten or improve it? Show 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 objects; let us leave our songs and sing hymns; let us lift up -our hearts to God and have no transports but for His glory! - -I expect this from you as a thing you cannot refuse me. God has a -peculiar right over the hearts of great men 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 and fidelity and constancy: -love me as your mistress, cherish me as your child, your sister, your -wife! Remember I still love you, and yet strive to avoid loving you. -What a terrible saying 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 desire it (would to Heaven I -could!), for ever adieu! - - - - -LETTER II - -_Abelard to Heloise_ - - -Could I have imagined that a letter not written to yourself would -fall into your hands, I had been more cautious not to have inserted -anything 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 to a loss he had sustained. If by -this well-meaning device I have disturbed you, I purpose now 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 secret -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. - -It is true, that in a sense of the afflictions which have befallen -us, and observing that no change of our condition could be expected; -that those prosperous days which had seduced us were now past, and -there remained nothing but to erase from our minds, by painful -endeavours, all marks and remembrances 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 thoughts yet run free. I -promise myself that I will forget you, and yet cannot think of it -without loving you. My love is not at all lessened by those -reflections I make in order to free myself. The silence I am -surrounded by 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 strive -to free myself; and that it is sufficient wisdom to conceal from all -but you how confused and weak I am. - -I remove 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 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 I should seem more -indifferent than you fare, and yet I am ashamed to discover my -trouble. 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 of serving two masters which afflicts your heart -affect mine too? You see the confusion I am in, how I blame myself -and how I suffer. Religion commands me to pursue virtue since I have -nothing to hope for from love. But love still preserves its dominion -over my fancies 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 these regions of death and silence; it -is very seldom that what ought to be is truly followed here and that -God only is loved and served. Had I known this before I had -instructed you better. You call me your master; it is true you were -entrusted 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 my enemy and revenged himself on me. If -now having lost the power of satisfying my passion I had also lost -that of loving you, I should have some consolation. My enemies would -have given me that tranquillity which Origen purchased with a crime. -How miserable am I! I find myself much more guilty in my thoughts of -you, even amidst my tears, than in possessing you when I was in full -liberty. I continually think of you; I continually call to mind your -tenderness. In this condition, O Lord! if I run to prostrate myself -before your altar, if I beseech you to pity me, why does not the pure -flame of the Spirit consume the sacrifice that is offered? Cannot -this habit of penitence which I wear interest Heaven to treat me more -favourably? But Heaven 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 grace. We deceive men, -but nothing is hid from God. - -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 with 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. We commonly die to the -affections of those 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 rest in my memory without -troubling my mind; that Brittany and the sea would suggest other -thoughts; that my fasts and studies would by degrees delete you from -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, as you describe yourself in your veil, appears to me and -confounds all my resolutions. - -What means have I not used! I have armed my hands against myself; I -have exhausted my strength in constant exercises; I comment upon St. -Paul; I contend 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; -allow me to be indifferent. I envy their happiness who have never -loved; how quiet and easy are they! But the tide of pleasure 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 procure me in their stead both merit and -repose. Why use your 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? -What efforts, what relapses, what agitations do we undergo! And how -long are we lost in this confusion, unable to exert our reason, to -possess our souls, or to rule our affections? - -What a troublesome employment is love! And how valuable is virtue -even upon consideration of our own ease! Recollect your -extravagancies of passion, guess at my distractions; number up our -cares, our griefs; throw these things out of the account and let love -have all the remaining tenderness 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 save by extraordinary efforts; it has so powerful an -advocate 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 should 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. It is -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 tried to make a defence, love was soon -the master. God, in order to punish me, forsook me. You are no longer -of the world; you have renounced it: I am a religious devoted to -solitude; shall we not take advantage of our condition? Would you -destroy my piety in its infant state? Would you have me forsake the -abbey 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 should I violate them? Suffer me to seek ease in my duty: -though difficult it is to procure it. 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 alike pierced with your sorrows and my 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 show more firmness of mind I -might provoke 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 in love-songs and verses, ought not the dark -cells of this house at least to conceal that same weakness under an -appearance of piety? Alas! I am still the same! Or if I avoid the -evil, I cannot do the good. Duty, reason and decency, which upon -other occasions have some power over me, are here useless. The Gospel -is a language I do not understand when it opposes my passion. Those -vows I have taken before the altar are feeble when opposed to -thoughts of you. Amidst so many voices which bid me do my duty, I -hear and obey nothing but the secret cry of a desperate passion. Void -of all relish for virtue, without 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 to correct -myself. I feel a perpetual strife between inclination and duty. I -find myself a distracted lover, unquiet in the midst of silence, and -restless in the midst of peace. How shameful is such a condition! - -Regard me no more, I entreat you, as a founder or any great -personage; your praises ill agree with my many weaknesses. I am a -miserable sinner, prostrate before my Judge, and with my face pressed -to the earth I mix my tears with the earth. Can you see me in this -posture and solicit me to love you? Come, if you think fit, and in -your holy habit thrust yourself between my God and me, and be a wall -of separation. Come and force from me those sighs and thoughts and -vows I owe to Him alone. Assist the evil spirits and be the -instrument of their malice. What cannot you induce a heart to do -whose weakness you so perfectly know? Nay, withdraw yourself and -contribute to my salvation. Suffer me to avoid destruction, I entreat -you by our former tender affection and by our now common misfortune. -It will always be the highest love to show none; I here release you -from 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 indeed be a religious and you a -perfect example of an abbess. - -Make yourself amends by so glorious a choice; make your virtue a -spectacle worthy of 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 light a rate that you should not turn it to the best -advantage? Since you have permitted yourself to be abused by false -doctrine and criminal instruction, 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 instil vice than to -teach 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 -enchanting a sweetness, and we are naturally so much inclined to -taste it, that it needs only to 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 -to you first. I willingly submit to these accusations. I cannot -enough admire the readiness you showed to accept the religious habit; -bear therefore with courage the Cross you so resolutely took up. -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 ‘Fly!’. - -You entreat 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 our misfortunes. -The Church is jealous of its honour, and commands that her children -should be induced to the practice of virtue by virtuous means. When -we approach God in a blameless manner then we may with boldness -invite others to Him. But to forget Heloise, to see her no more, is -what Heaven demands of Abelard; and to expect nothing from Abelard, -to forget him even as an idea, is what Heaven enjoins on Heloise. To -forget, in the case of love, is the most necessary penance, 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 we have adored, and adoring the God whom we -have neglected. This may appear harsh, but it must be done if we -would be saved. - -To make it more easy consider 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. When I saw -myself oppressed by my misfortune I was furiously jealous, and -regarded all men as my rivals. Love has more of distrust than -assurance. I was apprehensive of many things because of my many -defects, and being tormented with fear because of my own example I -imagined your heart so accustomed to love that it could not be long -without entering on a new engagement. Jealousy can easily believe the -most terrible things. I was desirous to make it impossible for me to -doubt you. I was very urgent to persuade you that propriety demanded -your withdrawal from the eyes of the world; that modesty and our -friendship required it; and that your own safety obliged it. After -such a revenge taken on me you could expect to be secure nowhere but -in a convent. - -I will do you justice, you were very easily persuaded. My jealousy -secretly rejoiced in 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 in order to -keep it out of the power of other 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 with those convents I held in -the highest esteem. What a comfort I felt in seeing you shut up. I -was now at ease and took a satisfaction in considering that you -continued no longer in the world after my disgrace, and that you -would return to it no more. - -But still I was doubtful. I imagined women were incapable of -steadfast resolutions unless they were forced by the necessity of -vows. I wanted those vows, and Heaven itself for your security, that -I might no longer distrust you. Ye holy mansions and impenetrable -retreats! from what innumerable apprehensions have ye freed me? -Religion and piety keep a strict guard round your grates and walls. -What a haven of rest this is to a jealous mind! And with what -impatience did I endeavour after 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 -the great loss I was 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 alike bribed -and concealed from you, at my directions, all their scruples and -disgusts. I omitted nothing, either little or great; and if you had -escaped my snares I myself would not have retired; I was resolved to -follow you everywhere. The shadow of myself would always have pursued -your steps and continually have occasioned either your confusion or -your fear, which would have been a sensible gratification to me. - -But, thanks to Heaven, you resolved to take the vows. I accompanied -you to the foot of the altar, and while you stretched out your hand -to touch the sacred cloth I heard you distinctly pronounce those -fatal words that for ever separated you from man. Till then I thought -your youth and beauty would foil my design and force your return to -the world. Might not a small temptation have changed you? Is it -possible to renounce oneself entirely at the age of two-and-twenty? -At an age which claims the utmost liberty could you think the world -no longer worth your regard? How much did I wrong you, and what -weakness did I impute to you? You were in my imagination both light -and inconstant. Would not a woman at the noise of the flames and the -fall of Sodom involuntarily look back in pity on some person? I -watched your eyes, your every movement, your air; I trembled at -everything. You may call such self-interested conduct treachery, -perfidy, murder. A love so like to hatred should provoke the utmost -contempt and anger. - -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, I imagined I could love you no more. I thought -it time to leave off giving you marks of my affection, and I -considered that by your Holy Espousals you were now the peculiar care -of Heaven, and no longer a charge on me as my 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 even -dared to pray to Him to take you away from my eyes. But it was not a -time to make rash prayers, and my faith did not warrant them being -heard. Necessity and despair were at the root of my proceedings, and -thus I offered an insult to Heaven rather than a sacrifice. God -rejected my offering and my prayer, and continued my punishment by -suffering me to continue my love. Thus I bear alike the guilt of your -vows and of the passion that preceded them, and must be tormented all -the days of my life. - -If God spoke to your heart as to that of a religious whose innocence -had first asked him for favours, I should have matter of comfort; but -to see both of us the victims of a guilty love, to see this love -insult us in our very habits and spoil our devotions, 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 poison and a drunkenness till we are illuminated by Grace; -in the meantime it is an evil we doat on. When we are under such a -mistake, the knowledge of our misery is the first step towards -amendment. Who does not know that 'tis for the glory of God to find -no other reason in man for His mercy than man's very weakness? When -He has shown us this weakness and we have bewailed it, He is ready to -put forth His Omnipotence and assist us. Let us say for our comfort -that what we suffer is one of those terrible temptations which have -sometimes disturbed the vocations of the most holy. - -God can grant 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 more than six months -before you wrote me a letter, nor during all that time did I receive -a message from you. I admired this silence, which I durst not blame, -but could not imitate. I wrote to you, and you returned me no answer: -your heart was then shut, but this garden 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 are too deeply in love to free ourselves. Our follies have -penetrated into the sacred places; our amours have been a scandal to -the whole kingdom. They are read and admired; love which produced -them has caused them to be described. We shall be a consolation to -the failings of youth for ever; those who offend after us will think -themselves less guilty. We are criminals whose repentance is late; -oh, let it be sincere! Let us repair as far as is possible the evils -we have done, and let France, which has been the witness of our -crimes, be amazed at our repentance. Let us confound all who would -imitate our guilt; let us take the side of God against ourselves, and -by so doing prevent His judgment. Our former lapses require tears, -shame and sorrow to expiate them. Let us offer up these sacrifices -from our hearts, let us blush and let us weep. If in these feeble -beginnings, O Lord, our hearts are not entirely Thine, let them at -least feel that they ought to be so. - -Deliver yourself, Heloise, from the shameful remains of a passion -which has taken too deep root. Remember that the least thought for -any other than God is an 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 you will be -true to the habit which covers you by an inward retirement. Fear God, -that you may be delivered from your frailties; love Him that you may -advance in virtue. Be not restless in the cloister for it is the -peace of saints. Embrace your bands, they are the chains of Christ -Jesus; He will lighten them and bear them with you, if you will but -accept them with humility. - -Without growing severe to a passion that still 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 -should importune you, fly to the foot of the Cross and there beg for -mercy--there are wounds open for healing; lament them 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 the earthly passion that still burns in the -heart of a religious. If during your abode in the world your soul has -acquired a habit of loving, feel it now no more save for Jesus -Christ. Repent of all the moments of your life which you have wasted -in the world and on pleasure; demand them of me, 'tis a robbery of -which I am guilty; take courage and boldly reproach me with it. - -I have been indeed your master, but it was only to teach sin. You -call me your father; before I had any claim to the title, I deserved -that of parricide. I am your brother, but it is the affinity of sin -that brings me that distinction. I am called your husband, but it is -after a public scandal. If you have abused the sanctity of so many -holy terms in the superscription of your letter to do me honour and -flatter your own passion, blot them out and replace them with those -of murderer, villain and enemy, who has conspired against your -honour, troubled your quiet, and betrayed your innocence. You would -have perished through my means but for an extraordinary act of grace -which, that you might be saved, has thrown me down in the middle of -my course. - -This is the thought you ought to have of a fugitive who desires to -deprive you of the hope of ever seeing him again. 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 -wandering heart still eternally seeks you, and is filled with anguish -at having lost you, in spite of all the powers of my reason. In the -meantime, though I should be so cowardly as to retract what you have -read, do not suffer me to offer myself to your thoughts save in this -last fashion. Remember my last worldly endeavours were to seduce your -heart; you perished by my means and I with you: the same waves -swallowed us up. We waited for death with indifference, and the same -death had carried us headlong to the same punishments. But Providence -warded off the blow, and our shipwreck has thrown us into a haven. -There are some whom God saves by suffering. Let my salvation be the -fruit of your prayers; let me owe it to your tears and your exemplary -holiness. Though my heart, Lord, be filled with the love of Thy -creature, Thy hand can, when it pleases, empty me of all love save -for Thee. To love Heloise truly is to leave her to that quiet which -retirement and virtue afford. I have resolved it: this letter shall -be my last fault. Adieu. 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, for it will be too -late; weep rather for me now and extinguish the fire which burns me. -You shall see me in order that your piety may be strengthened by -horror of this carcase, and my death be eloquent to tell you what you -brave when you love a man. I hope you will be willing, when you have -finished this mortal life, to be buried near me. Your cold ashes need -then fear nothing, and my tomb shall be the more rich and renowned. - - - - -LETTER III - -_Heloise to Abelard_ - - -_To Abelard her well-beloved in Christ Jesus, from Heloise his -well-beloved in the same Christ Jesus._ - -I read the letter I received from you with great 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 Heloise before that of -Abelard? What means this cruel and unjust distinction? It was your -name only--the name of a father and a husband--which my eager eyes -sought for. I did not look for my own, which I would if possible -forget, for it is the cause of all your misfortunes. The rules of -decorum, and your position as master and director over me, opposed -that ceremony in addressing me; and love commanded you to banish it: -alas! you know all this but too well! - -Did you address me thus before cruel fortune had ruined my happiness? -I see your heart has forsaken 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. Can you have the cruelty to abandon me? The fear of this -stabs my heart; the fearful presages you make at the end of your -letter, those terrible images you draw of your death, quite distract -me. Cruel Abelard! you ought to have stopped my tears and you make -them flow. You ought to have quelled the turmoil of my heart and you -throw me into greater disorder. - -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 -dread of causing my immediate 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, severe as it has been to me, is not -so insensible as to permit me to live one moment after you. Life -without Abelard were an insupportable punishment, and death a most -exquisite happiness if by that means I could be united to him. If -Heaven but hearken to my continual cry, your days will be prolonged -and you will bury me. - -Is it not your part to prepare me by powerful exhortation against -that great crisis which shakes the most resolute and stable minds? Is -it not your part to receive my last sighs, superintend my funeral, -and give an account of my acts and my 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 vows? We expect those 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 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 me no more such terrible things; for we are already -sufficiently miserable, nor need to have our sorrows aggravated. Our -life here is but a languishing death; would you hasten it? Our -present disgraces are sufficient to employ our thoughts continually, -and shall we seek in the future new reasons for fear? How void of -reason are men, said Seneca, to make distant evils present by -reflections, and to take pains before death to lose all the joys of -life. - -When you have finished your course here below, you said that it is -your desire that your body be borne to the House of the Paraclete, to -the intent that being always before my eyes you may be ever present -in my mind. Can you think that the traces you have drawn on my heart -can ever be worn out, or that any length of time can obliterate the -memory we hold 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, for so heavy a misfortune would leave me no moment's quiet. -Can my feeble reason resist such powerful assaults? When I am -distracted and raving (if I dare say it) even against Heaven itself, -I shall not soften it by my cries, but rather provoke it by my -reproaches. How should I pray or how bear up against my grief? I -should be more eager to follow you than to pay you the sad ceremonies -of a funeral. It is for you, for Abelard, that I have resolved to -live, and if you are ravished from me I can make no use of my -miserable days. Alas! what lamentations should I make if Heaven, by a -cruel pity, preserved me for that moment? When I but think of this -last separation I feel all the pangs of death; what should 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. - -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 both night and -day? 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? What have I hope for -after the loss of you? What can confine me to earth when death shall -have taken away from me all that was dear on 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 dare not -flatter myself even with the hope that I shall ever see you again. -This is the greatest of my afflictions. - -Merciless Fortune! hadst 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 to fear from thy anger. But what use to longer arm thyself -against me? The wounds I have already received leave no room for -others, unless thou desirest to kill me. Or dost thou fear amidst the -numerous torments heaped on me, dost thou fear that such a final -stroke would deliver me from all other ills? Therefore thou -preservest me from death in order to make me die daily. - -Dear Abelard, pity my despair! Was ever any being 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 the more terrible fall. -Nothing could be compared to my pleasures, and now nothing can equal -my misery. My joys once raised the envy of my rivals, my present -wretchedness calls forth the compassion of all that see me. My -Fortune has been always in extremes; she has loaded me with the -greatest favours and then heaped me with the greatest afflictions; -ingenious in tormenting me, she has made the memory of the joys I -have lost an inexhaustible spring of tears. Love, which being possest -was her most delightful gift, on being taken away is an untold -sorrow. In short, her malice has entirely succeeded, and I find my -present afflictions proportionately bitter as the transports which -charmed me were sweet. - -But what aggravates my sufferings yet more is, that we began to be -miserable at a time when we seemed the least to deserve it. While we -gave ourselves up to the enjoyment of a guilty love nothing opposed -our pleasures; but scarcely had we retrenched our passion and taken -refuge in matrimony, than the wrath of Heaven fell on us with all its -weight. And how barbarous was your punishment! Ah! what right had a -cruel Uncle over us? We were joined to each other even before the -altar, and this should have protected us from the rage of our -enemies. Besides, we were separated; you were busy with your lectures -and instructed a learned audience in mysteries which the greatest -geniuses before you could not 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. At this very juncture punishment fell upon us, and you -who were least guilty became the object of the whole vengeance of a -barbarous man. But why should I rave at Fulbert? I, wretched I, have -ruined you, and have been the cause of all your misfortunes. How -dangerous it is for a great man to suffer himself to be moved by our -sex! He ought from his infancy to be inured to insensibility of heart -against all our charms. ‘Hearken, my son’ (said formerly the wisest -of men), ‘attend and keep my instructions; if a beautiful woman by -her looks endeavour to entice thee, permit not thyself to be overcome -by a corrupt inclination; reject the poison she offers, and follow -not the paths she directs. Her house is the gate of destruction and -death.’ I have long examined things, and have found that death is -less dangerous than beauty. It is the shipwreck of liberty, a fatal -snare, from which it is impossible ever to get free. It was a woman -who threw down the first man from the glorious position in which -Heaven had placed him; she, who was created to partake of his -happiness, was the sole cause of his ruin. How bright had been the -glory of Samson if his heart had been proof against the charms of -Delilah, as against the weapons of the Philistines. A woman disarmed -and betrayed he who had been a conqueror of armies. He saw himself -delivered into the hands of his enemies; he was deprived of his eyes, -those inlets of love into the soul; distracted and despairing he died -without any consolation save that of including his enemies in his -ruin. Solomon, that he might please women, forsook pleasing God; that -king whose wisdom princes came from all parts to admire, he whom God -had chosen to build the temple, abandoned the worship of the very -altars he had raised, and proceeded to such a pitch of folly as even -to burn incense to idols. Job had no enemy more cruel than his wife; -what temptations did he not bear? The evil spirit who had declared -himself his persecutor employed a woman as an instrument to shake his -constancy. And the same evil spirit made Heloise an instrument to -ruin Abelard. All the poor comfort I have is that I am not the -voluntary cause of your misfortunes. I have not betrayed you; but my -constancy and love have been destructive to you. If I have committed -a crime in loving you so constantly I cannot repent it. I have -endeavoured to please you even at the expense of my virtue, and -therefore deserve the pains I feel. As soon as I was persuaded of -your love I delayed scarce a moment in yielding to your -protestations; to be beloved by Abelard was in my esteem so great a -glory, and I so impatiently desired it, not to believe in it -immediately. I aimed 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 tyrannise 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 -famous and learned person of the age. If any consideration had been -able to stop me, it would have been without doubt my love. I feared -lest having nothing further to offer you your passion might become -languid, and you might seek for new pleasures in another conquest. -But it was easy for you to cure me of a suspicion so opposite to my -own inclination. I ought to have foreseen other more certain evils, -and to have considered that the idea of lost enjoyments would be the -trouble of my whole life. - -How happy should I be could I wash out with my tears the memory of -those pleasures which I yet think of with delight. At least I will -try by strong endeavour to smother in my heart those desires to which -the frailty of my nature gives birth, and I will exercise on myself -such torments as those you have to suffer from the rage of your -enemies. I will endeavour by this means to satisfy you at least, if I -cannot appease an angry God. For to show you to what a deplorable -condition I am reduced, and how far my repentance is from being -complete, I dare even accuse Heaven at this moment of cruelty for -delivering you over to the snares prepared for you. My repinings can -only kindle divine wrath, when I should be seeking for mercy. - -In order to expiate a crime it is not sufficient to bear the -punishment; whatever we suffer is of no avail if the passion still -continues and the heart is filled with the same desire. It is an easy -matter to confess a weakness, and inflict on ourselves some -punishment, but it needs perfect power over our nature to extinguish -the memory of pleasures, which by a loved habitude have gained -possession of our minds. How many persons do we see who make an -outward confession of their faults, yet, far from being in distress -about them, take a new pleasure in relating them. Contrition of the -heart ought to accompany the confession of the mouth, yet this very -rarely happens. I, who have experienced so many pleasures in loving -you, feel, in spite of myself, that I cannot repent them, nor forbear -through memory to enjoy them over again. Whatever efforts I use, on -whatever side I turn, the sweet thought still pursues me, and every -object brings to my mind what it is my duty to forget. During the -quiet night, when my heart ought to be still in that sleep which -suspends the greatest cares, I cannot avoid the illusions of my -heart. I dream I am still with my dear Abelard. I see him, I speak to -him and hear him answer. Charmed with each other we forsake our -studies and give ourselves up to love. Sometimes too I seem to -struggle with your enemies; I oppose their fury, I break into piteous -cries, and in a moment I awake in tears. Even into holy places before -the altar I carry the memory of our love, and far from lamenting for -having been seduced by pleasures, I sigh for having lost them. - -I remember (for nothing is forgot by lovers) the time and place in -which you first declared your passion and swore you would love me -till death. Your words, your oaths, are deeply graven in my heart. My -stammering speech betrays to all the disorder of my mind; my sighs -discover me, and your name is ever on my lips. O Lord! when I am thus -afflicted why dost not Thou pity my weakness and strengthen me with -Thy grace? You are happy, Abelard, in that grace is given 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 deal -heavily with you, sought only to help you; He was a Father chastising -and not an Enemy revenging--a wise Physician putting you to some pain -in order to preserve your life. I am a thousand times more to be -pitied than you, for I have still a thousand passions to fight. I -must resist those fires which love kindles in a young heart. Our sex -is nothing but weakness, and I have the greater difficulty in -defending myself because the enemy that attacks me pleases me; I doat -on the danger which threatens; how then can I avoid yielding? - -In the midst of these struggles I try at least to conceal my weakness -from those you have entrusted to my care. All who are about me admire -my virtue, but could their eyes penetrate into my heart what would -they not discover? My passions there are in rebellion; I preside over -others but cannot rule myself. I have a false covering, and this -seeming virtue is a real vice. Men judge me praiseworthy, but I am -guilty before God; from His all-seeing eye nothing is hid, and He -views through all their windings the secrets of the heart. I cannot -escape His discovery. And yet it means great effort to me merely to -maintain this appearance of virtue, so surely 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 those feeble ones who are under my rule. With my heart full of the -love of man, I teach them at least to love only God. Charmed with the -pomp of worldly pleasures, I endeavor to show them that they are all -vanity and deceit. I have just strength enough to conceal from them -my longings, and I look upon that as a great effect of grace. If it -is not enough to make me embrace virtue, 'tis enough to keep me from -committing sin. - -And yet it is in vain to try and separate these two things: they must -be guilty who are not righteous, 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 to offend a man than to provoke God, and I -study less to please Him than to please you. Yes, it was your command -only, and not a sincere vocation, which sent me into these cloisters; -I sought to give you ease and not to sanctify myself. How unhappy am -I! I tear myself from all that pleases me; I bury myself alive; I -exercise myself with the most rigid fastings and all those severities -the cruel laws impose on us; I feed myself with tears and sorrows; -and notwithstanding this I merit nothing by my penance. My false -piety has long deceived you as well as others; you have thought me at -peace when I was more disturbed than ever. You persuaded yourself I -was wholly devoted to my duty, yet I had no business but love. Under -this mistake you desire my prayers--alas! I need yours! Do not -presume upon my virtue and my care; I am wavering, fix me by your -advice; I am feeble, sustain and guide me by your counsel. - -What occasion had you to praise me? Praise is often hurtful for those -on whom it is bestowed: a secret vanity springs up in the heart, -blinds us, and conceals from us the wounds that are half healed. A -seducer flatters us, and at the same time destroys us. A sincere -friend disguises nothing from us, and far 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 -anything 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 reprobate as well as the -elect may lay claim to it. An artful impostor may by his address gain -more admiration than is given to the zeal of a saint. - -The heart of man is a labyrinth whose windings are very difficult to -discover. The praises you give me are the more dangerous because I -love the person who bestows them. The more I desire to please you the -readier am I to believe the merit you attribute to me. Ah! think -rather how to nerve my weakness by wholesome remonstrances! Be rather -fearful than confident of my salvation; say our virtue is founded -upon weakness, and that they only will be crowned who have fought -with the greatest difficulties. But I seek not the crown which is the -reward of victory--I am content if I can avoid danger. It is easier -to keep out of the way than to win a battle. There are several -degrees in glory, and I am not ambitious of the highest; I leave them -to those of greater courage who have often been victorious. I seek -not to conquer for fear I should be overcome; happiness enough for me -to escape shipwreck and at last reach port. Heaven commands me to -renounce my fatal passion for you, but oh! my heart will never be -able to consent to it. Adieu. - - - - -LETTER IV - -_Heloise to Abelard_ - - -Dear Abelard,--You expect, perhaps, that I should accuse you of -negligence. You have not answered my last letter, and, thanks to -Heaven, in the condition I am now in it is a relief to me that you -show so much insensibility for the passion which I betrayed. At last, -Abelard, you have lost Heloise for ever. Notwithstanding all the -oaths I made to think of nothing but you, and to be entertained by -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 be no -more my happiness! Dear image of Abelard! thou wilt no longer follow -me, no longer shall I remember thee. O celebrity and merit of that -man who, in spite of his enemies, is the wonder of the age! O -enchanting pleasures to which Heloise resigned herself--you, you have -been my tormentors! I confess my inconstancy, Abelard, without a -blush; let my infidelity teach the world that there is no depending -on the promises of women--we are all subject to change. This troubles -you, Abelard; this news without surprises you; you never imagined -Heloise could be inconstant. She was prejudiced by such a strong -inclination towards you that you cannot conceive how Time could alter -it. But be undeceived, I am going to disclose to you my falseness, -though, instead of reproaching me, I persuade myself you will shed -tears of joy. When I tell you what Rival hath ravished my heart from -you, you will praise my inconstancy, and pray this Rival to fix it. -By this you will know that 'tis God alone that takes Heloise from -you. Yes, my dear Abelard, He gives my mind that tranquillity which a -vivid remembrance of our misfortunes formerly forbade. Just Heaven! -what other rival could take me from you? Could you imagine it -possible for a mere human to blot you from my heart? Could you think -me guilty of sacrificing the virtuous and learned Abelard to any -other but God? No, I believe you have done me justice on this point. -I doubt not you are eager to learn what means God used to accomplish -so great an end? I will tell you, that you may 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, grew criminal in my eyes. My memory represented -faithfully to me all the past actions of my life, and I confess to -you pain for our love was the only pain I felt. Death, which till -then I had only viewed from a distance, now presented itself to me as -it appears to sinners. I began to dread the wrath of God now I was -near experiencing it, and I repented that I had not better used the -means of Grace. Those tender letters I wrote to you, those fond -conversations I have had with you, give me as much pain now as they -had formerly given pleasure. ‘Ah, miserable Heloise!’ I said, ‘if it -is a crime to give oneself up to such transports, and if, after this -life is ended, punishment certainly follows them, why didst thou not -resist such dangerous temptations? Think on the tortures prepared for -thee, consider with terror the store of torments, and recollect, at -the same time, those pleasures which thy deluded soul thought so -entrancing. Ah! dost thou not despair for having rioted in such false -pleasures?’ In short, Abelard, imagine all the remorse of mind I -suffered, and you will not be astonished at my change. - -Solitude is insupportable to the uneasy mind; its troubles increase -in the midst of silence, and retirement heightens them. Since I have -been shut up in these walls I have done nothing but weep our -misfortunes. This cloister has resounded with my cries, and, like a -wretch condemned to eternal slavery, I have worn out my days with -grief. Instead of fulfilling God's merciful design towards me I have -offended against Him; I have looked upon this sacred refuge as a -frightful prison, and have borne with unwillingness the yoke of the -Lord. Instead of purifying myself with a life of penitence I have -confirmed my condemnation. What a fatal mistake! But Abelard, I have -torn off the bandage which blinded me, and, if I dare rely upon my -own feelings, I have now made myself worthy of your esteem. You are -to me no more the loving Abelard who constantly sought private -conversations with me by deceiving the vigilance of our observers. -Our misfortunes gave you a horror of vice, and you instantly -consecrated the rest of your days to virtue, and seemed to submit -willingly to the necessity. I indeed, more tender than you, and more -sensible to pleasure, bore misfortune with extreme impatience, and -you have heard my exclaimings against your enemies. You have seen my -resentment in my late letters; it was this, doubtless, which deprived -me of the esteem of my Abelard. You were alarmed at my repinings, -and, if the truth be told, despaired of my salvation. You could not -foresee that Heloise would conquer so reigning a passion; but you -were mistaken, Abelard, my weakness, when supported by grace, has not -hindered me from winning a complete victory. Restore me, then, to -your esteem; your own piety should solicit you to this. - -But what secret trouble rises in my soul--what unthought-of emotion -now rises to oppose the resolution I have formed to sigh no more for -Abelard? Just Heaven! have I not triumphed over my love? Unhappy -Heloise! as long as thou drawest a breath it is decreed thou must -love Abelard. Weep, unfortunate wretch, for thou never hadst a more -just occasion. I ought to die of grief; grace had overtaken me and I -had promised to be faithful to it, but now am I perjured once more, -and even grace is sacrificed to Abelard. This sacrilege fills up the -measure of my iniquity. After this how can I hope that God will open -to me the treasure of His mercy, for I have tired out His -forgiveness. I began to offend Him from the first moment I saw -Abelard; an unhappy sympathy engaged us both in a guilty love, and -God raised us up an enemy to separate us. I lament the misfortune -which lighted upon us and I adore the cause. Ah! I ought rather to -regard this misfortune as the gift of Heaven, which disapproved of -our engagement and parted us, and I ought to apply myself to -extirpate my passion. How much better it were to forget entirely the -object of it than to preserve a memory so fatal to my peace and -salvation? Great God! shall Abelard possess my thoughts for ever? Can -I never free myself from the chains of love? But perhaps I am -unreasonably afraid; virtue directs all my acts and they are all -subject to grace. Therefore fear not, Abelard; I have no longer 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 passion gave us, to awaken any guilty fondness you may -yet feel for me. I free you from all your oaths; forget the titles of -lover and husband and keep only that of father. I expect no more from -you than tender protestations and those letters so proper to feed the -flame of love. I demand nothing of you but spiritual advice and -wholesome discipline. The path of holiness, however thorny it be, -will yet appear agreeable to me if I may but walk in your footsteps. -You will always find me ready to follow you. I shall read with more -pleasure the letters in which you shall describe the advantages of -virtue than ever I did those in which you so artfully instilled the -poison of 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 do I blame you; but now you -have nothing to fear. This fortunate illness, with which Providence -has chastised me for my good, has done what all human efforts and -your cruelty in vain attempted. I see now the vanity of that -happiness we had set our hearts upon, as if it were eternal. What -fears, what distress have we not suffered for it! - -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 until fixed on Thee. What have I not suffered, -Abelard, whilst I kept alive in my retirement those fires which -ruined me in the world? I saw with hatred the walls that surrounded -me; the hours seemed as long as years. I repented a thousand times -that I had buried myself here. But since grace has opened my eyes all -the scene is changed; solitude looks charming, and the peace of the -place enters my very heart. In the satisfaction of doing my duty I -feel a delight above all that riches, pomp or sensuality could -afford. My quiet has indeed cost me dear, for I have bought it at the -price of my love; I have offered a violent sacrifice I thought beyond -my power. But if I have torn you from my heart, be not jealous; God, -who ought always to have possessed it, reigns there in your stead. Be -content with having a place in my mind which you shall never lose; I -shall always take a secret pleasure in thinking of you, and esteem it -a glory to obey those rules you shall give me. - - * * * * * - -This very moment I receive a letter from you; I will read it and -answer it immediately. You shall see by my promptitude in writing to -you that you are always dear to me. - -You very obligingly reproach me for delay in writing 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 tell me 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 love me you will moderate the -rigours 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 repetitions. You -desire us not to forget you in our prayers: ah! dear Abelard, you may -depend upon the zeal of this society; it is devoted to you and you -cannot justly fear its forgetfulness. You are our Father, and we are -your children; you are our guide, and we resign ourselves to your -direction with full assurance in your piety. You command; we obey; we -faithfully execute what you have prudently ordered. We impose no -penance on ourselves but what you recommend, lest we should rather -follow an indiscreet zeal than solid virtue. In a word, nothing is -thought right but what has Abelard's approbation. You tell me one -thing that perplexes me--that you have heard that some of our Sisters -are bad examples, and that they are generally not strict enough. -Ought this to seem strange to you who know how monasteries are filled -nowadays? Do fathers consult the inclination 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 show me the proper remedy -for them. I have not yet observed any looseness: 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 -that happened in the monasteries near Paris. - -You end your letter with a general deploring of your unhappiness and -wish for death to end a weary life. Is it possible so great a genius -as you cannot rise above your misfortunes? What would the world say -should they read the letters you send me? Would they consider the -noble motive of your retirement or not rather think you had shut -yourself up merely to lament your woes? What would your young -students say, who come so far to hear you and prefer your severe -lectures to the ease of a worldly life, if they should discover you -secretly a slave to your passions and the victim of those weaknesses -from which your rule secures them? This Abelard they so much admire, -this great leader, would lose his fame and become the sport of his -pupils. If these reasons are not sufficient to give you constancy in -your misfortune, cast your eyes upon me, and admire the resolution -with which I shut myself up at your request. I was young when we -separated, and (if I dare believe what you were always telling me) -worthy of any man's affections. If I had loved nothing in Abelard but -sensual pleasure, other 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 still 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 indulged, the caresses I -gave, would surely have comforted you. Had you seen me grow by -degrees indifferent to you, you might have had reason to despair, but -you never received greater tokens of my affection than after you felt -misfortune. - -Let me see no more in your letters, dear Abelard, such murmurs -against Fate; you are not the only one who has felt her blows and you -ought to forget her outrages. What a shame it is that a philosopher -cannot accept what might befall any man. Govern yourself by my -example; I was born with violent passions, I daily strive with tender -emotions, and glory in triumphing and subjecting them to reason. Must -a weak mind fortify one that is so much superior? But I am carried -away. Is it thus I write to my dear Abelard? He who practises all -those virtues he preaches? If you complain of Fortune, it is not so -much that you feel her strokes as that you try to show your enemies -how much to blame they are in attempting to hurt you. Leave them, -Abelard, to exhaust their malice, and continue to charm your -auditors. Discover those treasures of learning Heaven seems to have -reserved for you; your enemies, struck with the splendour of your -reasoning, will in the end 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; your greatest adversaries -confess you are ignorant of nothing the mind of man is capable of -knowing. - -My dear Husband (for the last time I use that title!), shall I never -see you again? Shall I never have the pleasure of embracing you -before death? What dost thou say, wretched Heloise? Dost thou know -what thou desirest? Couldst thou behold those brilliant eyes without -recalling the tender glances which have been so fatal to thee? -Couldst thou see that majestic air of Abelard without being jealous -of everyone who beholds so attractive a man? That mouth cannot be -looked upon without desire; in short, no woman can view the person of -Abelard without danger. Ask no more therefore to see Abelard; if the -memory of him has caused thee so much trouble, Heloise, what would -not his presence do? What desires will it not excite in thy soul? How -will it be possible to keep thy reason at the sight of so lovable a -man? - -I will own to you what makes the greatest pleasure in my retirement; -after having passed the day in thinking of you, full of the repressed -idea, I give myself up at night to sleep. Then it is that Heloise, -who dares not think of you by day, resigns herself with pleasure to -see and hear you. How my eyes gloat over you! Sometimes you tell me -stories of your secret troubles, and create in me a felt sorrow; -sometimes the rage of our enemies is forgotten and you press me to -you and I yield to you, and our souls, animated with the same -passion, are sensible of the same pleasures. But O! delightful dreams -and tender illusions, how soon do you vanish away! I awake and open -my eyes to find no Abelard: I stretch out my arms to embrace him and -he is not there; I cry, and he hears me not. What a fool I am to tell -my dreams to you who are insensible to these pleasures. But do you, -Abelard, never see Heloise in your sleep? How does she appear to you? -Do you entertain her with the same tender language as formerly, and -are you glad or sorry when you awake? Pardon me, Abelard, pardon a -mistaken lover. I must no longer expect from you that vivacity which -once marked your every action; no more must I require from you the -correspondence of desires. We have bound ourselves to severe -austerities and must follow them at all costs. Let us think of our -duties and our rules, and make good use of that necessity which keeps -us separate. You, Abelard, will happily finish your course; your -desires and ambitions will be no obstacle to your salvation. But -Heloise must weep, she must lament for ever without being certain -whether all her tears will avail for her salvation. - -I had liked to have ended my letter without telling you what happened -here a few days ago. A young nun, who had been forced to enter the -convent without a vocation therefor, is by a stratagem I know nothing -of escaped and fled to England with a gentleman. I have ordered all -the house to conceal the matter. Ah, Abelard! if you were near us -these things would not happen, for all the Sisters, charmed with -seeing and hearing you, would think of nothing but practising 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 in holiness. If your eyes were witnesses of our -actions they would be innocent. When we slipped you should lift us up -and establish us by your counsels; we should march with sure steps in -the rough path of virtue. I begin to perceive, Abelard, that I take -too much pleasure in writing to you; I ought to burn this letter. It -shows that I still feel a deep passion for you, though at the -beginning I tried to persuade you to the contrary. I am sensible of -waves both of grace and passion, and by turns yield to each. Have -pity, Abelard, on the condition to which you have brought me, and -make in some measure my last days as peaceful as my first have been -uneasy and disturbed. - - - - -LETTER V - -_Abelard to Heloise_ - - -Write no more to me, Heloise, write no more to me; 'tis time to end -communications which make our penances of nought avail. We retired -from the world to purify ourselves, and, by a conduct directly -contrary to Christian morality, we became odious to Jesus Christ. Let -us no more deceive ourselves with remembrance of our past pleasures; -we but make our lives troubled and spoil the sweets of solitude. Let -us make good use of our austerities and no longer preserve the -memories of our crimes amongst the severities of penance. Let a -mortification of body and mind, a strict fasting, continual solitude, -profound and holy meditations, and a sincere love of God succeed our -former irregularities. - -Let us try to carry religious perfection to its farthest point. It is -beautiful to find Christian minds so disengaged from 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 our -object. Be our efforts ever so great they will always come short of -attaining that exalted Divinity which even our apprehension cannot -reach. Let us act for God's glory independent of the creatures or -ourselves, paying no regard to our own desires or the opinions of -others. Were we in this temper of mind, Heloise, I would willingly -make my abode at the Paraclete, and by my earnest care for the house -I have founded 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, labour, meditate, and be -silent. - -And 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 the 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 you ought to -perform, and satisfy those doubts which through the weakness of your -reason might arise. I would be your master and father, and by a -marvellous talent I would become lively or slow, gentle or severe, -according to the different characters of those I should guide in the -painful path to Christian perfection. - -But whither does my vain imagination carry me! Ah, Heloise, how far -are we from such a happy temper? Your heart still burns with that -fatal fire you cannot extinguish, and mine is full of trouble and -unrest. Think not, Heloise, that I here enjoy a perfect peace; I will -for the last time open my heart to you;--I am not yet disengaged from -you, and though I fight against my excessive tenderness for you, in -spite of all my endeavours I remain but too sensible of your sorrows -and long to share in them. Your letters have indeed moved me; I could -not read with indifference characters written by that dear hand! I -sigh and weep, and all my reason is scarce sufficient to conceal my -weakness from my pupils. This, unhappy Heloise, is the miserable -condition of Abelard. The world, which is generally wrong in its -notions, thinks I am at peace, and imagining that I loved you only -for the gratification of the senses, have now forgot you. What a -mistake is this! People indeed were not wrong in saying that when we -separated it was shame and grief that made me abandon the world. It -was not, as you know, a sincere repentance for having offended God -which inspired me with a design for retiring. However, I consider our -misfortunes as a secret design of Providence to punish our sins; and -only look 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 that God Himself raised them up in order -to purify me. - -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 all suspicion of novelty. - -I should be happy if I had none to fear but my enemies, and no other -hindrance to my salvation but their calumny. But, Heloise, you make -me tremble, your letters declare to me that you are enslaved to human -love, and yet, if you cannot conquer it, you cannot be saved; and -what part would you have me play in this trial? 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 save to lament our sins and to gain -heaven; let us then resign ourselves to God with all our heart. - -I know everything is difficult in the beginning; but it is glorious -to courageously start a great action, and glory increases -proportionately as the difficulties are more considerable. We ought -on 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 a furnace. No one can continue long there unless he bear -worthily the yoke of the Lord. - -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 entreat you to think of me in your prayers. Endeavor 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 efforts prove -weak do not give way to despair, for that would be cowardice; -besides, I would have you know that you must necessarily take great -pains, for you strive to conquer a terrible enemy, to extinguish a -raging fire, to reduce to subjection your dearest affections. You -have to fight against your own desires, so be not 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, ‘The life of man is one long temptation’: the devil, who -never sleeps, walks continually around us in order to surprise us on -some unguarded side, and enters into our soul in order to destroy it. - -However perfect anyone may be, yet he may fall into temptations, and -perhaps into such as may be useful. Nor is it wonderful that man -should never be exempt from them, because he always hath in himself -their source; scarce are we delivered from one temptation when -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 of our own. - -Be constant, Heloise, and trust in God; then you shall fall into few -temptations: when they come stifle them at their birth--let them not -take root in your heart. ‘Apply remedies to a disease,’ said an -ancient, ‘at the beginning, for when it hath gained strength -medicines are of no avail’: temptations have their degrees, they are -at first mere thoughts and do not appear dangerous; the imagination -receives them without any fears; the pleasure grows; we dwell upon -it, and at last we yield to it. - -Do you now, Heloise, 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 yet these ardent aspirations, pray that you may be inspired -by them. I shall never cease to recommend you in my prayers and to -beseech God 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 to whom the rest of your days are -consecrated. Life upon this earth is misery; the very necessities to -which our bodies are subject here are matters of affliction to a -saint. ‘Lord,’ said the royal prophet, ‘deliver me from my -necessities.’ Many are wretched who do not know they are; and yet -they are more wretched who know their misery and yet cannot 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 too -late how much they have been to blame in loving such false good. -Truly pious persons are not thus mistaken; they are freed from all -sensual pleasures and raise their desires to Heaven. - -Begin, Heloise; put your design into action without delay; you have -yet time enough to work out your salvation. Love Christ, and despise -yourself for His sake; He will 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 -leave me and cleave to Him, you will be steadfast and safe. If you -force the Lord to forsake you, you will fall into trouble; but if you -are faithful to Him you shall find joy. Magdalen wept, thinking that -Jesus had forsaken her, but Martha said, ‘See, the Lord calls you.’ -Be diligent in your duty, obey faithfully the calls of grace, and -Jesus will be with you. Attend, Heloise, to some instructions I have -to give you: you are at the head of a society, and you know there is -a difference between those who lead a private life and those who are -charged with the conduct of others: the first need only labour for -their own sanctification, and in their round of duties are not -obliged to practise all the virtues in such an apparent manner: but -those who have the charge of others entrusted to them ought by their -example to encourage their followers to do all the good of which they -are capable. I beseech you to remember this truth, and so to follow -it that your whole life may be a perfect model of that of a religious -recluse. - -God heartily desires our salvation, and has made all the means of it -easy to us. In the Old Testament He has written in the tables of law -what He requires of us, that we might not be bewildered in seeking -after His will. In the New Testament He has written the law of grace -to the intent that it might ever be present in our hearts; so, -knowing the weakness and incapacity of our nature, He has given us -grace to perform His will. And, as if this were not enough, He has -raised up at all times, in all states of the Church, men who by their -exemplary life can excite others to their duty. To effect this He has -chosen persons of every age, sex and condition. Strive now to unite -in yourself all the virtues of these different examples. 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. - -‘The death of His saints,’ says the prophet, ‘is precious in the -sight of the Lord.’ Nor is it difficult to discover 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; second, -the continuation of their good works; and lastly, the triumph they -gain over the devil. - -A saint who has accustomed himself to submit to the will of God -yields to death without reluctance. He waits with joy (says Dr. -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 dreads the presence of the [1]offending -Judge; and having so often abused the means of grace he sees no way -to avoid the punishment of his sins. - -The saints have also this advantage over sinners, that having become -familiar with works of piety during their life they exercise them -without trouble, and having gained new strength against the devil -every time they overcame him, they will find themselves in a -condition at the hour of death to obtain that victory on which -depends all eternity, and the blessed union of their souls with their -Creator. - -I hope, Heloise, that after having deplored the irregularities of -your past life, you will ‘die the death of the righteous.’ Ah, how -few there are who make this end! And why? It is because there are so -few who love the Cross of Christ. Everyone wishes to be saved, but -few will use those means which religion prescribes. Yet can we be -saved by nothing but the Cross: why then refuse to bear it? Hath not -our Saviour bore 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 -suffered affliction, and our Saviour himself did not pass one hour of -His life without some sorrow. Hope not therefore to be exempt from -suffering: the Cross, Heloise, is always at hand, take care that you -do not receive it with regret, for by so doing you will make it more -heavy and you will be oppressed by it to no profit. On the contrary, -if you bear it with willing 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, Heloise, do you doubt? Is not your soul -ravished at so saving a command? Are you insensible to words so full -of kindness? Beware, Heloise, of refusing a Husband who demands you, -and who is more to be feared than any earthly 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, and 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 wilfully -destroyed yourself; go, wretch, and take the portion of the -reprobates.’ - -Oh, Heloise, prevent these terrible words, and avoid, by a holy life, -the punishment prepared for sinners. I dare not give you a -description of those dreadful torments which are the consequences of -a career of guilt. I am filled with horror when they offer themselves -to my imagination. And yet, Heloise, I can conceive nothing which can -reach the tortures of the damned; the fire which we see upon this -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 anyone sin who is persuaded of -this? My God! can we dare to offend Thee? Though the riches of Thy -mercy could not engage us to love Thee, the dread of being thrown -into such an abyss of misery should restrain us from doing anything -which might displease Thee. - -I question not, Heloise, 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 guiltily cannot but be hurtful, whatever advances we may -have made in the way 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 desirable 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 your reprobation -written in the judgment book, 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. - -Farewell, Heloise, this is the last advice of your dear Abelard; for -the last time let me persuade you to follow the 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 Abelard, -always present to your mind, be now changed into the image of Abelard -truly penitent; and may you shed as many tears for your salvation as -you have done for our misfortunes. - -[Footnote 1: Errata--offended] - - - - -TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE - - -The following printer's errors have been corrected: - -Added a heading “LETTER I” for the first letter - -Replaced “tranquility” with “tranquillity” (p. 28, 30 and 59) - -Inserted missing phrase “be the highest love” after “It will always” -(p. 53) - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The love letters of Abelard and Heloise, by -Peter Abelard and Heloise - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE LETTERS *** - -***** This file should be named 40227-0.txt or 40227-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/2/2/40227/ - -Produced by Michael Roe and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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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/license - - -Title: The love letters of Abelard and Heloise - -Author: Peter Abelard - Heloise - -Editor: Ralph Seymour - -Release Date: July 14, 2012 [EBook #40227] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE LETTERS *** - - - - -Produced by Michael Roe and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - -THE LOVE LETTERS OF ABELARD AND HELOISE - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE LOVE LETTERS OF ABELARD AND HELOISE - - -_Translated from the original latin and now reprinted from the -edition of 1722: together with a brief account of their lives and -work_ - -RALPH FLETCHER SEYMOUR·CHICAGO - - Copyright 1903 - by - Ralph Fletcher Seymour - - - - -THE STORY OF ABELARD AND HELOISE. - - -It sometimes happens that Love is little esteemed by those who choose -rather to think of other affairs, and in requital He strongly -manifests His power in unthought ways. Need is to think of Abelard -and Heloise: how now his treatises and works are memories only, and -how the love of her (who in lifetime received little comfort -therefor) has been crowned with the violet crown of Grecian Sappho -and the homage of all lovers. - -The world itself was learning a new love when these two met; was -beginning to heed the quiet call of the spirit of the Renaissance, -which, at its consummation, brought forth the glories of the -Quattrocento. - -It was among the stone-walled, rose-covered gardens and clustered -homes of ecclesiastics, who served the ancient Roman builded pile of -Notre Dame, that Abelard found Heloise. - -From his noble father's home in Brittany, Abelard, gifted and -ambitious, came to study with William of Champeaux in Paris. His -advancement was rapid, and time brought him the acknowledged -leadership of the Philosophic School of the city, a prestige which -received added lustre from his controversies with his later -instructor in theology, Anselm of Laon. - -His career at this time was brilliant. Adulation and flattery, added -to the respect given his great and genuine ability, made sweet a life -which we can imagine was in most respects to his liking. Among the -students who flocked to him came the beautiful maiden, Heloise, to -learn of philosophy. Her uncle Fulbert, living in retired ease near -Notre Dame, offered in exchange for such instruction both bed and -board; and Abelard, having already seen and resolved to win her, -undertook the contract. - -Many quiet hours these two spent on the green, river-watered isle, -studying old philosophies, and Time, swift and silent as the Seine, -sped on, until when days had changed to months they became aware of -the deeper knowledge of Love. Heloise responded wholly to this new -influence, and Abelard, forgetting his ambition, desired their -marriage. Yet as this would have injured his opportunities for -advancement in the Church Heloise steadfastly refused this formal -sanction of her passion. Their love becoming known in time to -Fulbert, his grief and anger were uncontrollable. In fear the two -fled to the country and there their child was born. Abelard still -urged marriage, and at last, outwearied with importunities, she -consented, only insisting that it be kept a secret. Such a course was -considered best to pacify her uncle, who, in fact, promised -reconciliation as a reward. Yet, upon its accomplishment he openly -declared the marriage. Unwilling that this be known lest the -knowledge hurt her lover, Heloise strenuously denied the truth. The -two had returned, confident of Fulbert's reaffirmed regard, and he, -now deeply troubled and revengeful, determined to inflict that -punishment and indignity on Abelard, which, in its accomplishment, -shocked even that ruder civilization to horror and to reprisal. - -The shamed and mortified victim, caring only for solitude in which to -hide and rest, retired into the wilderness; returning after a time to -take the vows of monasticism. Unwilling to leave his love where by -chance she could become another's, he demanded that she become a nun. -She yielded obedience, and, although but twenty-two years of age, -entered the convent of Argenteuil. - -Abelard's mind was still virile and, perhaps to his surprise, the -world again sought him out, anxious still to listen to his masterful -logic. But with his renewed influence came fierce persecution, and -the following years of life were filled with trials and sorrows. -Sixteen years passed after the lovers parted and then Heloise, -prioress of the Paraclete, found a letter of consolation, written by -Abelard to a friend, recounting his sad career. Her response is a -letter of passion and complaining, an equal to which it is hard to -find in all literature. To his cold and formal reply she wrote a -second, questioning and confused, and a third, constrained and -resigned. These three constitute the record of a soul vainly seeking -in spiritual consolation rest from love. - -Abelard, with little heart for love or ambition, still stubbornly -contested with his foes. On a journey to Rome, where he had appealed -from a judgment of heresy against his teachings, he, overweary, -turned aside to rest in the monastery of Cluni, in Burgundy, and -there died. Heloise begged his body for burial in the Paraclete. -Twenty years later, and at the same age as her lover, she, too, -passed to rest. - -It is said that he whose arms had one time yielded her a too sweet -comfort, raised them again to greet her as she came to rest beside -him in their narrow tomb. - -Love never yet was held by arms alone, nor its mysterious ministries -constrained to forms or qualities. Like water sweet in barren land it -lies within our lives, ever by its unsolved formula awakening us to -fuller freedom. - - - - -THE LOVE LETTERS OF ABELARD AND HELOISE - - -_Wherein are written how the scholar Peter Abelard forgot his -learning and became a lover, altho the price he paid was great: and -how the beautiful Heloise in desiring to acquire knowledge from -Abelard learned of all lessons the greatest, from the greatest master -of all, to wit, Love: and how she prized it most highly, altho it -brought her both shame and sorrow_ - - - - -LETTER I - -_Heloise to Abelard_ - - -_To her Lord, her Father, her Husband, her Brother; his Servant, his -Child, his Wife, his Sister, and to express all that is humble, -respectful and loving to her Abelard, Heloise writes this._ - -A consolatory letter of yours to a friend happened some days since to -fall into my hands; my knowledge of the writing and my love of the -hand gave me the curiosity to open it. In justification of the -liberty I took, I flattered myself I might claim a sovereign -privilege over everything which came from you. Nor was I scrupulous -to break through the rules of good breeding when I was to hear news -of Abelard. But how dear did my curiosity cost me! What disturbance -did it occasion, and how surprised I was 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 put my heart into such violent -motion that I thought it was too much to offer comfort to a friend -for a few slight disgraces, but 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. Though 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 always be present to my aching 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 pseudo 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 upon you opinions quite different from your meanings. In vain -you condemned those opinions; all was of no effect towards your -justification, 'twas 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 of 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 refrain, 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 I kept it; but it was demanded of me -too soon. - -I must confess I was much easier in my mind before I read your -letter. Surely all the misfortunes of lovers are conveyed to them -through the eyes: upon reading your letter I feel 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 then, -perhaps, your ashes will not be allowed to rest in peace!--let me -always meditate on your calamities, let me publish them through 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 passed evils; and are there more to be feared still? -Shall my Abelard never be mentioned without tears? Shall the dear -name never be 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 me, I beg of you, that little relief which you only can give. -Let me have a faithful account of all that concerns you; I would know -everything, be it ever so unfortunate. Perhaps by mingling my sighs -with yours I may make your sufferings less, for it is said that all -sorrows divided are made lighter. - -Tell me not by way of excuse you will spare me 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 chooses the side of the virtuous, and fortune is so -blind that in a crowd in which there is perhaps but one wise and -brave man it is not to be expected that 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 a happy -turn. I shall always have this, if you please, and this will always -be agreeable to me, that when I receive any letter from you I shall -know you still remember me. Seneca (with whose writings you made me -acquainted), though he was a Stoic, seemed to be so very sensible to -this kind of pleasure, that upon opening any letters from Lucilius he -imagined he felt the same delight as when they conversed together. - -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 us. It seems to me as if the farther -they are removed their pictures grow the more finished, and acquire a -greater resemblance; or 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 flat colour. I have your picture in my room; I never pass -it without stopping to look at it; and yet when you are present with -me I scarce ever cast my eyes on 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 tenderness and the -delicacy of speech, and sometimes even a boldness of expression -beyond it. - -We may write to each other; so innocent a pleasure is not denied 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 sign myself your wife. In spite of all our misfortunes -you may be what you please in your letter. Letters were first -invented for consoling 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 sacred thoughts; I shall -carry them always about with 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 upon 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 will not tell me that -you still love me; but that language ought to be so natural to you, -that I believe you cannot speak otherwise to me without violence to -yourself. And since by this melancholy relation to your friend you -have awakened all my sorrows, 'tis but reasonable you should allay -them by some tokens of your unchanging love. - -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 far greater. Charity is ingenious in finding out such pious -plans, 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 should use it. 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 always be a -pleasure to me to say that you only are the founder of this house, -'tis wholly your work. You, by inhabiting here, have given fame and -holiness to a place known before only for robberies and murders. You -have in a literal sense made the den of thieves into a house of -prayer. These cloisters owe nothing to public charities; our walls -were not raised by the usuries 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 only 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 temptation; though our walls and gates prohibit all -approaches, yet it is the outside only, the bark of the tree, that is -protected from injuries; the sap of the 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 changeable, the other is weak. To plant the Lord's -vineyard is a work of no little labour; but after it is planted it -will require great application and diligence to dress it. The Apostle -of the Gentiles, great labourer as he was, says he hath planted, -Apollos hath watered, but it is God that gives the increase. Paul had -planted the Gospel amongst the Corinthians, Apollos, his zealous -disciple, continued to cultivate it by frequent exhortations; and the -grace of God, which their constant prayers implored for that church, -made the work of both be fruitful. - -This ought to be an example for your conduct towards us. I know you -are not slothful, yet your labours are not directed towards 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 prevent 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 over 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 entreat you in the name of your -children? Is it possible I should fear obtaining anything of you when -I ask it in my own name? And must I use any other prayers than my own -in order to prevail upon you? The St. Austins, Tertullians and -Jeromes have written to the Eudoxias, 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 Scriptures; or Tertullian and preach mortification; or -St. Austin and explain to me the nature of grace? Why should I alone -not reap the advantage of 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 the least scandal satisfy me, why -will you not? I am not only engaged by my vows, but I have the fear -of my Uncle before me. There is nothing, then, that you need dread; -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 stay in it with devotion. You -have been the occasion of all my misfortunes, you therefore must be -the instrument of all my comfort. - -You cannot but remember (for lovers cannot forget) with what pleasure -I have passed 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 messengers. This detail perhaps surprises you, and -you are in pain for what may follow. But I am no longer ashamed that -my passion 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 quietly -and at ease. Nothing but virtue, joined to a love perfectly -disengaged from the senses, could have produced such effects. Vice -never inspires anything 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 notion; 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 so revenge myself on 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 both -mind and body loved 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. - -You cannot but be entirely persuaded of this by the extreme -unwillingness I showed to marry you, though 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 would perhaps 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 which 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 -protested that it was infinitely preferable to me to live with -Abelard as his mistress than with any other as Empress of the World. -I was more happy in obeying you than I should have been as lawful -spouse of the King of the Earth. Riches and pomp are not the charm of -love. True tenderness makes us separate the lover from all that is -external to him, and setting aside his position, fortune or -employments, consider him merely as himself. - -It is not love, but the desire of riches and position which makes a -woman run into the embraces of an indolent husband. Ambition, and 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 experience the pleasures of affectionate union, -nor to feel those subtle and charming joys when hearts long parted -are at last united. These martyrs of marriage pine always for larger -fortunes which they think they have missed. The wife sees husbands -richer than her own, and the husband wives better portioned than his. -Their mercenary vows occasion regret, and regret produces hatred. -Soon they part--or else desire to. This restless and tormenting -passion for gold punishes them for aiming at other advantages by love -than love itself. - -If there is anything that may properly be called happiness here -below, I am persuaded it is 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 merits. Their hearts are full and -leave no vacancy for any other passion; they enjoy perpetual -tranquillity because they enjoy content. - -If I could believe you as truly persuaded of my merit as I am of -yours, I might say there has been a time when we were such a pair. -Alas! how was it possible I should not be certain of your mind? If I -could ever have doubted it, the universal esteem would have made me -decide 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 everyone rejoice in having seen you? Even -women, breaking through the laws of decorum which custom had imposed -upon them, showed they felt more for you than mere esteem. I have -known some who have been profuse in their husbands' praises who have -yet envied me my happiness. But what could resist you? Your -reputation, which so much attracts the vanity of our sex, your air, -your manner, that light in your eyes which expresses the vivacity of -your mind, your conversation so easy and elegant that it gave -everything you said an agreeable turn; in short, everything spoke for -you! Very different from those mere scholars who with all their -learning have not the capacity to keep up an ordinary conversation, -and who with all their wit cannot win a woman who has much less share -of brains than themselves. - -With what ease did you compose verses! And yet those ingenious -trifles, which were but a recreation to you, are still the -entertainment and delight of persons of the best taste. The smallest -song, the least sketch of anything you made for me, had a thousand -beauties capable of making it last as long as there are 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 they themselves are capable of. - -What rivalries did your gallantries of this kind occasion me! How -many ladies lay 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 anything the advantage over them but -in being beloved by you. Can you believe me if I tell you, that -notwithstanding 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, that I might be more certain that I pleased you. - -But oh! where is that happy time? I now lament my lover, and of all -my joys have nothing but the painful memory that they are past. Now -learn, all you my rivals who once viewed my happiness with jealous -eyes, that he you once envied me can never more be 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 were a crime, 'tis a crime I am -yet fond of, and I have no other regret save that against my will I -must now be innocent. But what do I say? My misfortune was to have -cruel relatives whose malice destroyed the calm we enjoyed; had they -been reasonable 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 -Heloise then? What joy should I have had in defending my lover; I -would have guarded you from violence at the expense of my life. Oh! -whither does this excess of passion hurry me? Here love is shocked -and modesty deprives me of words. - -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 my 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 thought of pleasure which engaged you to me? And has not -my tenderness, by leaving you nothing to wish for, extinguished your -desires? Wretched Heloise! 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 a sad experience that it is -natural to avoid those to whom we have been too much obliged, and -that uncommon generosity causes neglect rather than gratitude. My -heart surrendered too soon to gain the esteem of the conqueror; you -took it without difficulty and throw it aside with ease. But -ungrateful as you are I am no consenting party to this, and though I -ought not to retain a wish of my own, yet I still preserve secretly -the desire to be loved by you. When I pronounced my sad vow I then -had about me your last letters in which you protested your whole -being wholly mine, and would never live but to love me. It is to you -therefore I have offered myself; you had my heart and I had yours; do -not demand anything back. You must bear with my passion as a thing -which of right belongs to you, and from which you can be no ways -disengaged. - -Alas! what folly it is to talk in this way! 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 One! 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 some -faint signs of a dying passion I would have favoured the deception. -But in vain do I flatter myself that you could be constant; you have -left no vestige of an excuse for you. 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 your -reputation; all I desire is such letters as the heart dictates, and -which the hand cannot transcribe fast enough. How did I deceive -myself with hopes that you would be wholly mine when I took the veil, -and engage myself to live for ever under your laws? For in being -professed I vowed no more than to be yours only, and I forced myself -voluntarily to a confinement which you desired for me. Death only -then can make me leave the cloister where you have placed me; and -then my ashes shall rest here and wait for yours in order to show to -the very last my obedience and devotion to you. - -Why should I conceal from you the secret of my call? You know it was -neither zeal nor devotion that brought me here. 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 a cruel -relation 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 -consequences of our love and your disgrace have made me put on the -habit of chastity, but I am not penitent of the past. Thus I strive -and labour in vain. Among those who are wedded to God I am wedded to -a man; among the heroic supporters of the Cross I am the slave of a -human desire; at the head of a religious community I am devoted to -Abelard alone. What a monster am I! Enlighten me, O Lord, for I know -not if my despair or Thy grace draws these words from me! I am, I -confess, a sinner, but one who, far from weeping for her sins, weeps -only for her lover; far from abhorring her crimes, longs only to add -to them; and who, with a weakness unbecoming my state, please myself -continually with the remembrance of past delights when it is -impossible to renew them. - -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 it is to fight for -duty against inclination. I know what obligations this veil lays upon -me, but I feel more strongly what power an old passion has over my -heart. I am conquered by my feelings; love troubles my mind and -disorders my will. Sometimes I am swayed by the sentiment of piety -which arises within me, and then 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 a 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 thoughts, and darkens -alike my reason and my religion. 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 my efforts but serve to bind them faster. Oh, for pity's sake -help a wretch to renounce her desires--her self--and if possible even -to renounce you! If you are a lover--a father, help a mistress, -comfort a child! These tender names must surely move you; yield -either to pity or to love. If you gratify my request I shall continue -a religious, and without longer profaning my calling. I am ready to -humble myself with you to the wonderful goodness of God, Who does all -things for our sanctification, Who by His grace purifies all that is -vicious and corrupt, and by the great riches of His mercy draws us -against our wishes, and by degrees opens our eyes to behold His -bounty which at first we could not perceive. - -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 somewhat hard that when we had both -engaged to consecrate ourselves to Heaven you should insist upon my -doing it first. ‘Does Abelard then,’ said I, ‘suspect that, like -Lot's wife, I shall look back?’ 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, -banish such ungenerous apprehensions? This distrust hurt me; 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 to 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 to follow him to the Seats of Holiness? I, who have not -refused to be the victim of pleasure in order to gratify him, can he -think I would refuse to be a sacrifice of honour when he desired it?’ -Has vice such charms to refined natures, that when once we have drunk -of the cup of sinners it is with such difficulty we accept the -chalice of saints? Or did you believe yourself to be more competent -to teach vice than virtue, or me more ready to learn the first than -the latter? No; this suspicion would be injurious to us both: Virtue -is too beautiful not to be embraced when you reveal her charms, and -Vice too hideous not to be abhorred when you display her deformities. -Nay, when you please, anything seems lovely to me, and nothing is -ugly when you are by. I am only weak when I am alone and unsupported -by you, and therefore it depends on you alone to make me such as you -desire. I wish to Heaven 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 happily -together you might have doubted whether pleasure or affection united -me more to you, but the place from whence I write to you must surely -have dissolved all doubt. Even here I love you as much as ever I did -in the world. If I had loved pleasures could I not have found means -to gratify myself? I was not more than twenty-two years old, and -there were other men left though I was deprived of Abelard. And yet I -buried myself alive in a nunnery, and triumphed over life at an age -capable of enjoying it to its full latitude. It is to you I sacrifice -these remains of a transitory beauty, these widowed nights and -tedious days; and since you cannot possess them I take them from you -to offer them to Heaven, and so make, alas! but a secondary oblation -of my heart, my days, my life! - -I am sensible I have dwelt too long on this subject; I ought to speak -less to you of your misfortunes and of my sufferings. 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 actions. -Now if you were this sort of creature 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 stript myself of everything, but -I find I neither have nor can renounce my Abelard. 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 turned me -to marble by changing my habit; my heart is not hardened by my -imprisonment; I am still sensible to what has touched me, though, -alas! I ought not to be! 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 pleasant if he show me their advantage. Retirement and -solitude will no longer seem terrible if I may know that I still have -a place in his memory. A heart which has loved as mine cannot soon be -indifferent. We fluctuate long between love and hatred before we can -arrive at tranquillity, and we always flatter ourselves with some -forlorn hope that we shall not be utterly forgotten. - -Yes, Abelard, I conjure you by the chains I bear here to ease the -weight of them, and make them as agreeable as I would they were to -me. Teach me the maxims of Divine Love; since you have forsaken me I -would 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 -works, how it purifies. When we were tossed on the ocean of the world -we could hear of nothing but your verses, which published everywhere -our joys and pleasures. Now we are in the haven of grace is it not -fit you should discourse to me of this new happiness, and teach me -everything that might heighten or improve it? Show 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 objects; let us leave our songs and sing hymns; let us lift up -our hearts to God and have no transports but for His glory! - -I expect this from you as a thing you cannot refuse me. God has a -peculiar right over the hearts of great men 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 and fidelity and constancy: -love me as your mistress, cherish me as your child, your sister, your -wife! Remember I still love you, and yet strive to avoid loving you. -What a terrible saying 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 desire it (would to Heaven I -could!), for ever adieu! - - - - -LETTER II - -_Abelard to Heloise_ - - -Could I have imagined that a letter not written to yourself would -fall into your hands, I had been more cautious not to have inserted -anything 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 to a loss he had sustained. If by -this well-meaning device I have disturbed you, I purpose now 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 secret -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. - -It is true, that in a sense of the afflictions which have befallen -us, and observing that no change of our condition could be expected; -that those prosperous days which had seduced us were now past, and -there remained nothing but to erase from our minds, by painful -endeavours, all marks and remembrances 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 thoughts yet run free. I -promise myself that I will forget you, and yet cannot think of it -without loving you. My love is not at all lessened by those -reflections I make in order to free myself. The silence I am -surrounded by 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 strive -to free myself; and that it is sufficient wisdom to conceal from all -but you how confused and weak I am. - -I remove 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 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 I should seem more -indifferent than you fare, and yet I am ashamed to discover my -trouble. 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 of serving two masters which afflicts your heart -affect mine too? You see the confusion I am in, how I blame myself -and how I suffer. Religion commands me to pursue virtue since I have -nothing to hope for from love. But love still preserves its dominion -over my fancies 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 these regions of death and silence; it -is very seldom that what ought to be is truly followed here and that -God only is loved and served. Had I known this before I had -instructed you better. You call me your master; it is true you were -entrusted 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 my enemy and revenged himself on me. If -now having lost the power of satisfying my passion I had also lost -that of loving you, I should have some consolation. My enemies would -have given me that tranquillity which Origen purchased with a crime. -How miserable am I! I find myself much more guilty in my thoughts of -you, even amidst my tears, than in possessing you when I was in full -liberty. I continually think of you; I continually call to mind your -tenderness. In this condition, O Lord! if I run to prostrate myself -before your altar, if I beseech you to pity me, why does not the pure -flame of the Spirit consume the sacrifice that is offered? Cannot -this habit of penitence which I wear interest Heaven to treat me more -favourably? But Heaven 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 grace. We deceive men, -but nothing is hid from God. - -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 with 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. We commonly die to the -affections of those 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 rest in my memory without -troubling my mind; that Brittany and the sea would suggest other -thoughts; that my fasts and studies would by degrees delete you from -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, as you describe yourself in your veil, appears to me and -confounds all my resolutions. - -What means have I not used! I have armed my hands against myself; I -have exhausted my strength in constant exercises; I comment upon St. -Paul; I contend 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; -allow me to be indifferent. I envy their happiness who have never -loved; how quiet and easy are they! But the tide of pleasure 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 procure me in their stead both merit and -repose. Why use your 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? -What efforts, what relapses, what agitations do we undergo! And how -long are we lost in this confusion, unable to exert our reason, to -possess our souls, or to rule our affections? - -What a troublesome employment is love! And how valuable is virtue -even upon consideration of our own ease! Recollect your -extravagancies of passion, guess at my distractions; number up our -cares, our griefs; throw these things out of the account and let love -have all the remaining tenderness 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 save by extraordinary efforts; it has so powerful an -advocate 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 should 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. It is -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 tried to make a defence, love was soon -the master. God, in order to punish me, forsook me. You are no longer -of the world; you have renounced it: I am a religious devoted to -solitude; shall we not take advantage of our condition? Would you -destroy my piety in its infant state? Would you have me forsake the -abbey 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 should I violate them? Suffer me to seek ease in my duty: -though difficult it is to procure it. 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 alike pierced with your sorrows and my 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 show more firmness of mind I -might provoke 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 in love-songs and verses, ought not the dark -cells of this house at least to conceal that same weakness under an -appearance of piety? Alas! I am still the same! Or if I avoid the -evil, I cannot do the good. Duty, reason and decency, which upon -other occasions have some power over me, are here useless. The Gospel -is a language I do not understand when it opposes my passion. Those -vows I have taken before the altar are feeble when opposed to -thoughts of you. Amidst so many voices which bid me do my duty, I -hear and obey nothing but the secret cry of a desperate passion. Void -of all relish for virtue, without 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 to correct -myself. I feel a perpetual strife between inclination and duty. I -find myself a distracted lover, unquiet in the midst of silence, and -restless in the midst of peace. How shameful is such a condition! - -Regard me no more, I entreat you, as a founder or any great -personage; your praises ill agree with my many weaknesses. I am a -miserable sinner, prostrate before my Judge, and with my face pressed -to the earth I mix my tears with the earth. Can you see me in this -posture and solicit me to love you? Come, if you think fit, and in -your holy habit thrust yourself between my God and me, and be a wall -of separation. Come and force from me those sighs and thoughts and -vows I owe to Him alone. Assist the evil spirits and be the -instrument of their malice. What cannot you induce a heart to do -whose weakness you so perfectly know? Nay, withdraw yourself and -contribute to my salvation. Suffer me to avoid destruction, I entreat -you by our former tender affection and by our now common misfortune. -It will always be the highest love to show none; I here release you -from 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 indeed be a religious and you a -perfect example of an abbess. - -Make yourself amends by so glorious a choice; make your virtue a -spectacle worthy of 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 light a rate that you should not turn it to the best -advantage? Since you have permitted yourself to be abused by false -doctrine and criminal instruction, 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 instil vice than to -teach 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 -enchanting a sweetness, and we are naturally so much inclined to -taste it, that it needs only to 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 -to you first. I willingly submit to these accusations. I cannot -enough admire the readiness you showed to accept the religious habit; -bear therefore with courage the Cross you so resolutely took up. -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 ‘Fly!’. - -You entreat 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 our misfortunes. -The Church is jealous of its honour, and commands that her children -should be induced to the practice of virtue by virtuous means. When -we approach God in a blameless manner then we may with boldness -invite others to Him. But to forget Heloise, to see her no more, is -what Heaven demands of Abelard; and to expect nothing from Abelard, -to forget him even as an idea, is what Heaven enjoins on Heloise. To -forget, in the case of love, is the most necessary penance, 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 we have adored, and adoring the God whom we -have neglected. This may appear harsh, but it must be done if we -would be saved. - -To make it more easy consider 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. When I saw -myself oppressed by my misfortune I was furiously jealous, and -regarded all men as my rivals. Love has more of distrust than -assurance. I was apprehensive of many things because of my many -defects, and being tormented with fear because of my own example I -imagined your heart so accustomed to love that it could not be long -without entering on a new engagement. Jealousy can easily believe the -most terrible things. I was desirous to make it impossible for me to -doubt you. I was very urgent to persuade you that propriety demanded -your withdrawal from the eyes of the world; that modesty and our -friendship required it; and that your own safety obliged it. After -such a revenge taken on me you could expect to be secure nowhere but -in a convent. - -I will do you justice, you were very easily persuaded. My jealousy -secretly rejoiced in 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 in order to -keep it out of the power of other 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 with those convents I held in -the highest esteem. What a comfort I felt in seeing you shut up. I -was now at ease and took a satisfaction in considering that you -continued no longer in the world after my disgrace, and that you -would return to it no more. - -But still I was doubtful. I imagined women were incapable of -steadfast resolutions unless they were forced by the necessity of -vows. I wanted those vows, and Heaven itself for your security, that -I might no longer distrust you. Ye holy mansions and impenetrable -retreats! from what innumerable apprehensions have ye freed me? -Religion and piety keep a strict guard round your grates and walls. -What a haven of rest this is to a jealous mind! And with what -impatience did I endeavour after 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 -the great loss I was 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 alike bribed -and concealed from you, at my directions, all their scruples and -disgusts. I omitted nothing, either little or great; and if you had -escaped my snares I myself would not have retired; I was resolved to -follow you everywhere. The shadow of myself would always have pursued -your steps and continually have occasioned either your confusion or -your fear, which would have been a sensible gratification to me. - -But, thanks to Heaven, you resolved to take the vows. I accompanied -you to the foot of the altar, and while you stretched out your hand -to touch the sacred cloth I heard you distinctly pronounce those -fatal words that for ever separated you from man. Till then I thought -your youth and beauty would foil my design and force your return to -the world. Might not a small temptation have changed you? Is it -possible to renounce oneself entirely at the age of two-and-twenty? -At an age which claims the utmost liberty could you think the world -no longer worth your regard? How much did I wrong you, and what -weakness did I impute to you? You were in my imagination both light -and inconstant. Would not a woman at the noise of the flames and the -fall of Sodom involuntarily look back in pity on some person? I -watched your eyes, your every movement, your air; I trembled at -everything. You may call such self-interested conduct treachery, -perfidy, murder. A love so like to hatred should provoke the utmost -contempt and anger. - -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, I imagined I could love you no more. I thought -it time to leave off giving you marks of my affection, and I -considered that by your Holy Espousals you were now the peculiar care -of Heaven, and no longer a charge on me as my 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 even -dared to pray to Him to take you away from my eyes. But it was not a -time to make rash prayers, and my faith did not warrant them being -heard. Necessity and despair were at the root of my proceedings, and -thus I offered an insult to Heaven rather than a sacrifice. God -rejected my offering and my prayer, and continued my punishment by -suffering me to continue my love. Thus I bear alike the guilt of your -vows and of the passion that preceded them, and must be tormented all -the days of my life. - -If God spoke to your heart as to that of a religious whose innocence -had first asked him for favours, I should have matter of comfort; but -to see both of us the victims of a guilty love, to see this love -insult us in our very habits and spoil our devotions, 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 poison and a drunkenness till we are illuminated by Grace; -in the meantime it is an evil we doat on. When we are under such a -mistake, the knowledge of our misery is the first step towards -amendment. Who does not know that 'tis for the glory of God to find -no other reason in man for His mercy than man's very weakness? When -He has shown us this weakness and we have bewailed it, He is ready to -put forth His Omnipotence and assist us. Let us say for our comfort -that what we suffer is one of those terrible temptations which have -sometimes disturbed the vocations of the most holy. - -God can grant 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 more than six months -before you wrote me a letter, nor during all that time did I receive -a message from you. I admired this silence, which I durst not blame, -but could not imitate. I wrote to you, and you returned me no answer: -your heart was then shut, but this garden 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 are too deeply in love to free ourselves. Our follies have -penetrated into the sacred places; our amours have been a scandal to -the whole kingdom. They are read and admired; love which produced -them has caused them to be described. We shall be a consolation to -the failings of youth for ever; those who offend after us will think -themselves less guilty. We are criminals whose repentance is late; -oh, let it be sincere! Let us repair as far as is possible the evils -we have done, and let France, which has been the witness of our -crimes, be amazed at our repentance. Let us confound all who would -imitate our guilt; let us take the side of God against ourselves, and -by so doing prevent His judgment. Our former lapses require tears, -shame and sorrow to expiate them. Let us offer up these sacrifices -from our hearts, let us blush and let us weep. If in these feeble -beginnings, O Lord, our hearts are not entirely Thine, let them at -least feel that they ought to be so. - -Deliver yourself, Heloise, from the shameful remains of a passion -which has taken too deep root. Remember that the least thought for -any other than God is an 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 you will be -true to the habit which covers you by an inward retirement. Fear God, -that you may be delivered from your frailties; love Him that you may -advance in virtue. Be not restless in the cloister for it is the -peace of saints. Embrace your bands, they are the chains of Christ -Jesus; He will lighten them and bear them with you, if you will but -accept them with humility. - -Without growing severe to a passion that still 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 -should importune you, fly to the foot of the Cross and there beg for -mercy--there are wounds open for healing; lament them 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 the earthly passion that still burns in the -heart of a religious. If during your abode in the world your soul has -acquired a habit of loving, feel it now no more save for Jesus -Christ. Repent of all the moments of your life which you have wasted -in the world and on pleasure; demand them of me, 'tis a robbery of -which I am guilty; take courage and boldly reproach me with it. - -I have been indeed your master, but it was only to teach sin. You -call me your father; before I had any claim to the title, I deserved -that of parricide. I am your brother, but it is the affinity of sin -that brings me that distinction. I am called your husband, but it is -after a public scandal. If you have abused the sanctity of so many -holy terms in the superscription of your letter to do me honour and -flatter your own passion, blot them out and replace them with those -of murderer, villain and enemy, who has conspired against your -honour, troubled your quiet, and betrayed your innocence. You would -have perished through my means but for an extraordinary act of grace -which, that you might be saved, has thrown me down in the middle of -my course. - -This is the thought you ought to have of a fugitive who desires to -deprive you of the hope of ever seeing him again. 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 -wandering heart still eternally seeks you, and is filled with anguish -at having lost you, in spite of all the powers of my reason. In the -meantime, though I should be so cowardly as to retract what you have -read, do not suffer me to offer myself to your thoughts save in this -last fashion. Remember my last worldly endeavours were to seduce your -heart; you perished by my means and I with you: the same waves -swallowed us up. We waited for death with indifference, and the same -death had carried us headlong to the same punishments. But Providence -warded off the blow, and our shipwreck has thrown us into a haven. -There are some whom God saves by suffering. Let my salvation be the -fruit of your prayers; let me owe it to your tears and your exemplary -holiness. Though my heart, Lord, be filled with the love of Thy -creature, Thy hand can, when it pleases, empty me of all love save -for Thee. To love Heloise truly is to leave her to that quiet which -retirement and virtue afford. I have resolved it: this letter shall -be my last fault. Adieu. 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, for it will be too -late; weep rather for me now and extinguish the fire which burns me. -You shall see me in order that your piety may be strengthened by -horror of this carcase, and my death be eloquent to tell you what you -brave when you love a man. I hope you will be willing, when you have -finished this mortal life, to be buried near me. Your cold ashes need -then fear nothing, and my tomb shall be the more rich and renowned. - - - - -LETTER III - -_Heloise to Abelard_ - - -_To Abelard her well-beloved in Christ Jesus, from Heloise his -well-beloved in the same Christ Jesus._ - -I read the letter I received from you with great 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 Heloise before that of -Abelard? What means this cruel and unjust distinction? It was your -name only--the name of a father and a husband--which my eager eyes -sought for. I did not look for my own, which I would if possible -forget, for it is the cause of all your misfortunes. The rules of -decorum, and your position as master and director over me, opposed -that ceremony in addressing me; and love commanded you to banish it: -alas! you know all this but too well! - -Did you address me thus before cruel fortune had ruined my happiness? -I see your heart has forsaken 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. Can you have the cruelty to abandon me? The fear of this -stabs my heart; the fearful presages you make at the end of your -letter, those terrible images you draw of your death, quite distract -me. Cruel Abelard! you ought to have stopped my tears and you make -them flow. You ought to have quelled the turmoil of my heart and you -throw me into greater disorder. - -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 -dread of causing my immediate 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, severe as it has been to me, is not -so insensible as to permit me to live one moment after you. Life -without Abelard were an insupportable punishment, and death a most -exquisite happiness if by that means I could be united to him. If -Heaven but hearken to my continual cry, your days will be prolonged -and you will bury me. - -Is it not your part to prepare me by powerful exhortation against -that great crisis which shakes the most resolute and stable minds? Is -it not your part to receive my last sighs, superintend my funeral, -and give an account of my acts and my 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 vows? We expect those 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 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 me no more such terrible things; for we are already -sufficiently miserable, nor need to have our sorrows aggravated. Our -life here is but a languishing death; would you hasten it? Our -present disgraces are sufficient to employ our thoughts continually, -and shall we seek in the future new reasons for fear? How void of -reason are men, said Seneca, to make distant evils present by -reflections, and to take pains before death to lose all the joys of -life. - -When you have finished your course here below, you said that it is -your desire that your body be borne to the House of the Paraclete, to -the intent that being always before my eyes you may be ever present -in my mind. Can you think that the traces you have drawn on my heart -can ever be worn out, or that any length of time can obliterate the -memory we hold 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, for so heavy a misfortune would leave me no moment's quiet. -Can my feeble reason resist such powerful assaults? When I am -distracted and raving (if I dare say it) even against Heaven itself, -I shall not soften it by my cries, but rather provoke it by my -reproaches. How should I pray or how bear up against my grief? I -should be more eager to follow you than to pay you the sad ceremonies -of a funeral. It is for you, for Abelard, that I have resolved to -live, and if you are ravished from me I can make no use of my -miserable days. Alas! what lamentations should I make if Heaven, by a -cruel pity, preserved me for that moment? When I but think of this -last separation I feel all the pangs of death; what should 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. - -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 both night and -day? 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? What have I hope for -after the loss of you? What can confine me to earth when death shall -have taken away from me all that was dear on 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 dare not -flatter myself even with the hope that I shall ever see you again. -This is the greatest of my afflictions. - -Merciless Fortune! hadst 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 to fear from thy anger. But what use to longer arm thyself -against me? The wounds I have already received leave no room for -others, unless thou desirest to kill me. Or dost thou fear amidst the -numerous torments heaped on me, dost thou fear that such a final -stroke would deliver me from all other ills? Therefore thou -preservest me from death in order to make me die daily. - -Dear Abelard, pity my despair! Was ever any being 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 the more terrible fall. -Nothing could be compared to my pleasures, and now nothing can equal -my misery. My joys once raised the envy of my rivals, my present -wretchedness calls forth the compassion of all that see me. My -Fortune has been always in extremes; she has loaded me with the -greatest favours and then heaped me with the greatest afflictions; -ingenious in tormenting me, she has made the memory of the joys I -have lost an inexhaustible spring of tears. Love, which being possest -was her most delightful gift, on being taken away is an untold -sorrow. In short, her malice has entirely succeeded, and I find my -present afflictions proportionately bitter as the transports which -charmed me were sweet. - -But what aggravates my sufferings yet more is, that we began to be -miserable at a time when we seemed the least to deserve it. While we -gave ourselves up to the enjoyment of a guilty love nothing opposed -our pleasures; but scarcely had we retrenched our passion and taken -refuge in matrimony, than the wrath of Heaven fell on us with all its -weight. And how barbarous was your punishment! Ah! what right had a -cruel Uncle over us? We were joined to each other even before the -altar, and this should have protected us from the rage of our -enemies. Besides, we were separated; you were busy with your lectures -and instructed a learned audience in mysteries which the greatest -geniuses before you could not 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. At this very juncture punishment fell upon us, and you -who were least guilty became the object of the whole vengeance of a -barbarous man. But why should I rave at Fulbert? I, wretched I, have -ruined you, and have been the cause of all your misfortunes. How -dangerous it is for a great man to suffer himself to be moved by our -sex! He ought from his infancy to be inured to insensibility of heart -against all our charms. ‘Hearken, my son’ (said formerly the wisest -of men), ‘attend and keep my instructions; if a beautiful woman by -her looks endeavour to entice thee, permit not thyself to be overcome -by a corrupt inclination; reject the poison she offers, and follow -not the paths she directs. Her house is the gate of destruction and -death.’ I have long examined things, and have found that death is -less dangerous than beauty. It is the shipwreck of liberty, a fatal -snare, from which it is impossible ever to get free. It was a woman -who threw down the first man from the glorious position in which -Heaven had placed him; she, who was created to partake of his -happiness, was the sole cause of his ruin. How bright had been the -glory of Samson if his heart had been proof against the charms of -Delilah, as against the weapons of the Philistines. A woman disarmed -and betrayed he who had been a conqueror of armies. He saw himself -delivered into the hands of his enemies; he was deprived of his eyes, -those inlets of love into the soul; distracted and despairing he died -without any consolation save that of including his enemies in his -ruin. Solomon, that he might please women, forsook pleasing God; that -king whose wisdom princes came from all parts to admire, he whom God -had chosen to build the temple, abandoned the worship of the very -altars he had raised, and proceeded to such a pitch of folly as even -to burn incense to idols. Job had no enemy more cruel than his wife; -what temptations did he not bear? The evil spirit who had declared -himself his persecutor employed a woman as an instrument to shake his -constancy. And the same evil spirit made Heloise an instrument to -ruin Abelard. All the poor comfort I have is that I am not the -voluntary cause of your misfortunes. I have not betrayed you; but my -constancy and love have been destructive to you. If I have committed -a crime in loving you so constantly I cannot repent it. I have -endeavoured to please you even at the expense of my virtue, and -therefore deserve the pains I feel. As soon as I was persuaded of -your love I delayed scarce a moment in yielding to your -protestations; to be beloved by Abelard was in my esteem so great a -glory, and I so impatiently desired it, not to believe in it -immediately. I aimed 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 tyrannise 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 -famous and learned person of the age. If any consideration had been -able to stop me, it would have been without doubt my love. I feared -lest having nothing further to offer you your passion might become -languid, and you might seek for new pleasures in another conquest. -But it was easy for you to cure me of a suspicion so opposite to my -own inclination. I ought to have foreseen other more certain evils, -and to have considered that the idea of lost enjoyments would be the -trouble of my whole life. - -How happy should I be could I wash out with my tears the memory of -those pleasures which I yet think of with delight. At least I will -try by strong endeavour to smother in my heart those desires to which -the frailty of my nature gives birth, and I will exercise on myself -such torments as those you have to suffer from the rage of your -enemies. I will endeavour by this means to satisfy you at least, if I -cannot appease an angry God. For to show you to what a deplorable -condition I am reduced, and how far my repentance is from being -complete, I dare even accuse Heaven at this moment of cruelty for -delivering you over to the snares prepared for you. My repinings can -only kindle divine wrath, when I should be seeking for mercy. - -In order to expiate a crime it is not sufficient to bear the -punishment; whatever we suffer is of no avail if the passion still -continues and the heart is filled with the same desire. It is an easy -matter to confess a weakness, and inflict on ourselves some -punishment, but it needs perfect power over our nature to extinguish -the memory of pleasures, which by a loved habitude have gained -possession of our minds. How many persons do we see who make an -outward confession of their faults, yet, far from being in distress -about them, take a new pleasure in relating them. Contrition of the -heart ought to accompany the confession of the mouth, yet this very -rarely happens. I, who have experienced so many pleasures in loving -you, feel, in spite of myself, that I cannot repent them, nor forbear -through memory to enjoy them over again. Whatever efforts I use, on -whatever side I turn, the sweet thought still pursues me, and every -object brings to my mind what it is my duty to forget. During the -quiet night, when my heart ought to be still in that sleep which -suspends the greatest cares, I cannot avoid the illusions of my -heart. I dream I am still with my dear Abelard. I see him, I speak to -him and hear him answer. Charmed with each other we forsake our -studies and give ourselves up to love. Sometimes too I seem to -struggle with your enemies; I oppose their fury, I break into piteous -cries, and in a moment I awake in tears. Even into holy places before -the altar I carry the memory of our love, and far from lamenting for -having been seduced by pleasures, I sigh for having lost them. - -I remember (for nothing is forgot by lovers) the time and place in -which you first declared your passion and swore you would love me -till death. Your words, your oaths, are deeply graven in my heart. My -stammering speech betrays to all the disorder of my mind; my sighs -discover me, and your name is ever on my lips. O Lord! when I am thus -afflicted why dost not Thou pity my weakness and strengthen me with -Thy grace? You are happy, Abelard, in that grace is given 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 deal -heavily with you, sought only to help you; He was a Father chastising -and not an Enemy revenging--a wise Physician putting you to some pain -in order to preserve your life. I am a thousand times more to be -pitied than you, for I have still a thousand passions to fight. I -must resist those fires which love kindles in a young heart. Our sex -is nothing but weakness, and I have the greater difficulty in -defending myself because the enemy that attacks me pleases me; I doat -on the danger which threatens; how then can I avoid yielding? - -In the midst of these struggles I try at least to conceal my weakness -from those you have entrusted to my care. All who are about me admire -my virtue, but could their eyes penetrate into my heart what would -they not discover? My passions there are in rebellion; I preside over -others but cannot rule myself. I have a false covering, and this -seeming virtue is a real vice. Men judge me praiseworthy, but I am -guilty before God; from His all-seeing eye nothing is hid, and He -views through all their windings the secrets of the heart. I cannot -escape His discovery. And yet it means great effort to me merely to -maintain this appearance of virtue, so surely 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 those feeble ones who are under my rule. With my heart full of the -love of man, I teach them at least to love only God. Charmed with the -pomp of worldly pleasures, I endeavor to show them that they are all -vanity and deceit. I have just strength enough to conceal from them -my longings, and I look upon that as a great effect of grace. If it -is not enough to make me embrace virtue, 'tis enough to keep me from -committing sin. - -And yet it is in vain to try and separate these two things: they must -be guilty who are not righteous, 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 to offend a man than to provoke God, and I -study less to please Him than to please you. Yes, it was your command -only, and not a sincere vocation, which sent me into these cloisters; -I sought to give you ease and not to sanctify myself. How unhappy am -I! I tear myself from all that pleases me; I bury myself alive; I -exercise myself with the most rigid fastings and all those severities -the cruel laws impose on us; I feed myself with tears and sorrows; -and notwithstanding this I merit nothing by my penance. My false -piety has long deceived you as well as others; you have thought me at -peace when I was more disturbed than ever. You persuaded yourself I -was wholly devoted to my duty, yet I had no business but love. Under -this mistake you desire my prayers--alas! I need yours! Do not -presume upon my virtue and my care; I am wavering, fix me by your -advice; I am feeble, sustain and guide me by your counsel. - -What occasion had you to praise me? Praise is often hurtful for those -on whom it is bestowed: a secret vanity springs up in the heart, -blinds us, and conceals from us the wounds that are half healed. A -seducer flatters us, and at the same time destroys us. A sincere -friend disguises nothing from us, and far 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 -anything 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 reprobate as well as the -elect may lay claim to it. An artful impostor may by his address gain -more admiration than is given to the zeal of a saint. - -The heart of man is a labyrinth whose windings are very difficult to -discover. The praises you give me are the more dangerous because I -love the person who bestows them. The more I desire to please you the -readier am I to believe the merit you attribute to me. Ah! think -rather how to nerve my weakness by wholesome remonstrances! Be rather -fearful than confident of my salvation; say our virtue is founded -upon weakness, and that they only will be crowned who have fought -with the greatest difficulties. But I seek not the crown which is the -reward of victory--I am content if I can avoid danger. It is easier -to keep out of the way than to win a battle. There are several -degrees in glory, and I am not ambitious of the highest; I leave them -to those of greater courage who have often been victorious. I seek -not to conquer for fear I should be overcome; happiness enough for me -to escape shipwreck and at last reach port. Heaven commands me to -renounce my fatal passion for you, but oh! my heart will never be -able to consent to it. Adieu. - - - - -LETTER IV - -_Heloise to Abelard_ - - -Dear Abelard,--You expect, perhaps, that I should accuse you of -negligence. You have not answered my last letter, and, thanks to -Heaven, in the condition I am now in it is a relief to me that you -show so much insensibility for the passion which I betrayed. At last, -Abelard, you have lost Heloise for ever. Notwithstanding all the -oaths I made to think of nothing but you, and to be entertained by -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 be no -more my happiness! Dear image of Abelard! thou wilt no longer follow -me, no longer shall I remember thee. O celebrity and merit of that -man who, in spite of his enemies, is the wonder of the age! O -enchanting pleasures to which Heloise resigned herself--you, you have -been my tormentors! I confess my inconstancy, Abelard, without a -blush; let my infidelity teach the world that there is no depending -on the promises of women--we are all subject to change. This troubles -you, Abelard; this news without surprises you; you never imagined -Heloise could be inconstant. She was prejudiced by such a strong -inclination towards you that you cannot conceive how Time could alter -it. But be undeceived, I am going to disclose to you my falseness, -though, instead of reproaching me, I persuade myself you will shed -tears of joy. When I tell you what Rival hath ravished my heart from -you, you will praise my inconstancy, and pray this Rival to fix it. -By this you will know that 'tis God alone that takes Heloise from -you. Yes, my dear Abelard, He gives my mind that tranquillity which a -vivid remembrance of our misfortunes formerly forbade. Just Heaven! -what other rival could take me from you? Could you imagine it -possible for a mere human to blot you from my heart? Could you think -me guilty of sacrificing the virtuous and learned Abelard to any -other but God? No, I believe you have done me justice on this point. -I doubt not you are eager to learn what means God used to accomplish -so great an end? I will tell you, that you may 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, grew criminal in my eyes. My memory represented -faithfully to me all the past actions of my life, and I confess to -you pain for our love was the only pain I felt. Death, which till -then I had only viewed from a distance, now presented itself to me as -it appears to sinners. I began to dread the wrath of God now I was -near experiencing it, and I repented that I had not better used the -means of Grace. Those tender letters I wrote to you, those fond -conversations I have had with you, give me as much pain now as they -had formerly given pleasure. ‘Ah, miserable Heloise!’ I said, ‘if it -is a crime to give oneself up to such transports, and if, after this -life is ended, punishment certainly follows them, why didst thou not -resist such dangerous temptations? Think on the tortures prepared for -thee, consider with terror the store of torments, and recollect, at -the same time, those pleasures which thy deluded soul thought so -entrancing. Ah! dost thou not despair for having rioted in such false -pleasures?’ In short, Abelard, imagine all the remorse of mind I -suffered, and you will not be astonished at my change. - -Solitude is insupportable to the uneasy mind; its troubles increase -in the midst of silence, and retirement heightens them. Since I have -been shut up in these walls I have done nothing but weep our -misfortunes. This cloister has resounded with my cries, and, like a -wretch condemned to eternal slavery, I have worn out my days with -grief. Instead of fulfilling God's merciful design towards me I have -offended against Him; I have looked upon this sacred refuge as a -frightful prison, and have borne with unwillingness the yoke of the -Lord. Instead of purifying myself with a life of penitence I have -confirmed my condemnation. What a fatal mistake! But Abelard, I have -torn off the bandage which blinded me, and, if I dare rely upon my -own feelings, I have now made myself worthy of your esteem. You are -to me no more the loving Abelard who constantly sought private -conversations with me by deceiving the vigilance of our observers. -Our misfortunes gave you a horror of vice, and you instantly -consecrated the rest of your days to virtue, and seemed to submit -willingly to the necessity. I indeed, more tender than you, and more -sensible to pleasure, bore misfortune with extreme impatience, and -you have heard my exclaimings against your enemies. You have seen my -resentment in my late letters; it was this, doubtless, which deprived -me of the esteem of my Abelard. You were alarmed at my repinings, -and, if the truth be told, despaired of my salvation. You could not -foresee that Heloise would conquer so reigning a passion; but you -were mistaken, Abelard, my weakness, when supported by grace, has not -hindered me from winning a complete victory. Restore me, then, to -your esteem; your own piety should solicit you to this. - -But what secret trouble rises in my soul--what unthought-of emotion -now rises to oppose the resolution I have formed to sigh no more for -Abelard? Just Heaven! have I not triumphed over my love? Unhappy -Heloise! as long as thou drawest a breath it is decreed thou must -love Abelard. Weep, unfortunate wretch, for thou never hadst a more -just occasion. I ought to die of grief; grace had overtaken me and I -had promised to be faithful to it, but now am I perjured once more, -and even grace is sacrificed to Abelard. This sacrilege fills up the -measure of my iniquity. After this how can I hope that God will open -to me the treasure of His mercy, for I have tired out His -forgiveness. I began to offend Him from the first moment I saw -Abelard; an unhappy sympathy engaged us both in a guilty love, and -God raised us up an enemy to separate us. I lament the misfortune -which lighted upon us and I adore the cause. Ah! I ought rather to -regard this misfortune as the gift of Heaven, which disapproved of -our engagement and parted us, and I ought to apply myself to -extirpate my passion. How much better it were to forget entirely the -object of it than to preserve a memory so fatal to my peace and -salvation? Great God! shall Abelard possess my thoughts for ever? Can -I never free myself from the chains of love? But perhaps I am -unreasonably afraid; virtue directs all my acts and they are all -subject to grace. Therefore fear not, Abelard; I have no longer 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 passion gave us, to awaken any guilty fondness you may -yet feel for me. I free you from all your oaths; forget the titles of -lover and husband and keep only that of father. I expect no more from -you than tender protestations and those letters so proper to feed the -flame of love. I demand nothing of you but spiritual advice and -wholesome discipline. The path of holiness, however thorny it be, -will yet appear agreeable to me if I may but walk in your footsteps. -You will always find me ready to follow you. I shall read with more -pleasure the letters in which you shall describe the advantages of -virtue than ever I did those in which you so artfully instilled the -poison of 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 do I blame you; but now you -have nothing to fear. This fortunate illness, with which Providence -has chastised me for my good, has done what all human efforts and -your cruelty in vain attempted. I see now the vanity of that -happiness we had set our hearts upon, as if it were eternal. What -fears, what distress have we not suffered for it! - -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 until fixed on Thee. What have I not suffered, -Abelard, whilst I kept alive in my retirement those fires which -ruined me in the world? I saw with hatred the walls that surrounded -me; the hours seemed as long as years. I repented a thousand times -that I had buried myself here. But since grace has opened my eyes all -the scene is changed; solitude looks charming, and the peace of the -place enters my very heart. In the satisfaction of doing my duty I -feel a delight above all that riches, pomp or sensuality could -afford. My quiet has indeed cost me dear, for I have bought it at the -price of my love; I have offered a violent sacrifice I thought beyond -my power. But if I have torn you from my heart, be not jealous; God, -who ought always to have possessed it, reigns there in your stead. Be -content with having a place in my mind which you shall never lose; I -shall always take a secret pleasure in thinking of you, and esteem it -a glory to obey those rules you shall give me. - - * * * * * - -This very moment I receive a letter from you; I will read it and -answer it immediately. You shall see by my promptitude in writing to -you that you are always dear to me. - -You very obligingly reproach me for delay in writing 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 tell me 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 love me you will moderate the -rigours 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 repetitions. You -desire us not to forget you in our prayers: ah! dear Abelard, you may -depend upon the zeal of this society; it is devoted to you and you -cannot justly fear its forgetfulness. You are our Father, and we are -your children; you are our guide, and we resign ourselves to your -direction with full assurance in your piety. You command; we obey; we -faithfully execute what you have prudently ordered. We impose no -penance on ourselves but what you recommend, lest we should rather -follow an indiscreet zeal than solid virtue. In a word, nothing is -thought right but what has Abelard's approbation. You tell me one -thing that perplexes me--that you have heard that some of our Sisters -are bad examples, and that they are generally not strict enough. -Ought this to seem strange to you who know how monasteries are filled -nowadays? Do fathers consult the inclination 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 show me the proper remedy -for them. I have not yet observed any looseness: 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 -that happened in the monasteries near Paris. - -You end your letter with a general deploring of your unhappiness and -wish for death to end a weary life. Is it possible so great a genius -as you cannot rise above your misfortunes? What would the world say -should they read the letters you send me? Would they consider the -noble motive of your retirement or not rather think you had shut -yourself up merely to lament your woes? What would your young -students say, who come so far to hear you and prefer your severe -lectures to the ease of a worldly life, if they should discover you -secretly a slave to your passions and the victim of those weaknesses -from which your rule secures them? This Abelard they so much admire, -this great leader, would lose his fame and become the sport of his -pupils. If these reasons are not sufficient to give you constancy in -your misfortune, cast your eyes upon me, and admire the resolution -with which I shut myself up at your request. I was young when we -separated, and (if I dare believe what you were always telling me) -worthy of any man's affections. If I had loved nothing in Abelard but -sensual pleasure, other 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 still 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 indulged, the caresses I -gave, would surely have comforted you. Had you seen me grow by -degrees indifferent to you, you might have had reason to despair, but -you never received greater tokens of my affection than after you felt -misfortune. - -Let me see no more in your letters, dear Abelard, such murmurs -against Fate; you are not the only one who has felt her blows and you -ought to forget her outrages. What a shame it is that a philosopher -cannot accept what might befall any man. Govern yourself by my -example; I was born with violent passions, I daily strive with tender -emotions, and glory in triumphing and subjecting them to reason. Must -a weak mind fortify one that is so much superior? But I am carried -away. Is it thus I write to my dear Abelard? He who practises all -those virtues he preaches? If you complain of Fortune, it is not so -much that you feel her strokes as that you try to show your enemies -how much to blame they are in attempting to hurt you. Leave them, -Abelard, to exhaust their malice, and continue to charm your -auditors. Discover those treasures of learning Heaven seems to have -reserved for you; your enemies, struck with the splendour of your -reasoning, will in the end 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; your greatest adversaries -confess you are ignorant of nothing the mind of man is capable of -knowing. - -My dear Husband (for the last time I use that title!), shall I never -see you again? Shall I never have the pleasure of embracing you -before death? What dost thou say, wretched Heloise? Dost thou know -what thou desirest? Couldst thou behold those brilliant eyes without -recalling the tender glances which have been so fatal to thee? -Couldst thou see that majestic air of Abelard without being jealous -of everyone who beholds so attractive a man? That mouth cannot be -looked upon without desire; in short, no woman can view the person of -Abelard without danger. Ask no more therefore to see Abelard; if the -memory of him has caused thee so much trouble, Heloise, what would -not his presence do? What desires will it not excite in thy soul? How -will it be possible to keep thy reason at the sight of so lovable a -man? - -I will own to you what makes the greatest pleasure in my retirement; -after having passed the day in thinking of you, full of the repressed -idea, I give myself up at night to sleep. Then it is that Heloise, -who dares not think of you by day, resigns herself with pleasure to -see and hear you. How my eyes gloat over you! Sometimes you tell me -stories of your secret troubles, and create in me a felt sorrow; -sometimes the rage of our enemies is forgotten and you press me to -you and I yield to you, and our souls, animated with the same -passion, are sensible of the same pleasures. But O! delightful dreams -and tender illusions, how soon do you vanish away! I awake and open -my eyes to find no Abelard: I stretch out my arms to embrace him and -he is not there; I cry, and he hears me not. What a fool I am to tell -my dreams to you who are insensible to these pleasures. But do you, -Abelard, never see Heloise in your sleep? How does she appear to you? -Do you entertain her with the same tender language as formerly, and -are you glad or sorry when you awake? Pardon me, Abelard, pardon a -mistaken lover. I must no longer expect from you that vivacity which -once marked your every action; no more must I require from you the -correspondence of desires. We have bound ourselves to severe -austerities and must follow them at all costs. Let us think of our -duties and our rules, and make good use of that necessity which keeps -us separate. You, Abelard, will happily finish your course; your -desires and ambitions will be no obstacle to your salvation. But -Heloise must weep, she must lament for ever without being certain -whether all her tears will avail for her salvation. - -I had liked to have ended my letter without telling you what happened -here a few days ago. A young nun, who had been forced to enter the -convent without a vocation therefor, is by a stratagem I know nothing -of escaped and fled to England with a gentleman. I have ordered all -the house to conceal the matter. Ah, Abelard! if you were near us -these things would not happen, for all the Sisters, charmed with -seeing and hearing you, would think of nothing but practising 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 in holiness. If your eyes were witnesses of our -actions they would be innocent. When we slipped you should lift us up -and establish us by your counsels; we should march with sure steps in -the rough path of virtue. I begin to perceive, Abelard, that I take -too much pleasure in writing to you; I ought to burn this letter. It -shows that I still feel a deep passion for you, though at the -beginning I tried to persuade you to the contrary. I am sensible of -waves both of grace and passion, and by turns yield to each. Have -pity, Abelard, on the condition to which you have brought me, and -make in some measure my last days as peaceful as my first have been -uneasy and disturbed. - - - - -LETTER V - -_Abelard to Heloise_ - - -Write no more to me, Heloise, write no more to me; 'tis time to end -communications which make our penances of nought avail. We retired -from the world to purify ourselves, and, by a conduct directly -contrary to Christian morality, we became odious to Jesus Christ. Let -us no more deceive ourselves with remembrance of our past pleasures; -we but make our lives troubled and spoil the sweets of solitude. Let -us make good use of our austerities and no longer preserve the -memories of our crimes amongst the severities of penance. Let a -mortification of body and mind, a strict fasting, continual solitude, -profound and holy meditations, and a sincere love of God succeed our -former irregularities. - -Let us try to carry religious perfection to its farthest point. It is -beautiful to find Christian minds so disengaged from 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 our -object. Be our efforts ever so great they will always come short of -attaining that exalted Divinity which even our apprehension cannot -reach. Let us act for God's glory independent of the creatures or -ourselves, paying no regard to our own desires or the opinions of -others. Were we in this temper of mind, Heloise, I would willingly -make my abode at the Paraclete, and by my earnest care for the house -I have founded 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, labour, meditate, and be -silent. - -And 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 the 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 you ought to -perform, and satisfy those doubts which through the weakness of your -reason might arise. I would be your master and father, and by a -marvellous talent I would become lively or slow, gentle or severe, -according to the different characters of those I should guide in the -painful path to Christian perfection. - -But whither does my vain imagination carry me! Ah, Heloise, how far -are we from such a happy temper? Your heart still burns with that -fatal fire you cannot extinguish, and mine is full of trouble and -unrest. Think not, Heloise, that I here enjoy a perfect peace; I will -for the last time open my heart to you;--I am not yet disengaged from -you, and though I fight against my excessive tenderness for you, in -spite of all my endeavours I remain but too sensible of your sorrows -and long to share in them. Your letters have indeed moved me; I could -not read with indifference characters written by that dear hand! I -sigh and weep, and all my reason is scarce sufficient to conceal my -weakness from my pupils. This, unhappy Heloise, is the miserable -condition of Abelard. The world, which is generally wrong in its -notions, thinks I am at peace, and imagining that I loved you only -for the gratification of the senses, have now forgot you. What a -mistake is this! People indeed were not wrong in saying that when we -separated it was shame and grief that made me abandon the world. It -was not, as you know, a sincere repentance for having offended God -which inspired me with a design for retiring. However, I consider our -misfortunes as a secret design of Providence to punish our sins; and -only look 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 that God Himself raised them up in order -to purify me. - -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 all suspicion of novelty. - -I should be happy if I had none to fear but my enemies, and no other -hindrance to my salvation but their calumny. But, Heloise, you make -me tremble, your letters declare to me that you are enslaved to human -love, and yet, if you cannot conquer it, you cannot be saved; and -what part would you have me play in this trial? 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 save to lament our sins and to gain -heaven; let us then resign ourselves to God with all our heart. - -I know everything is difficult in the beginning; but it is glorious -to courageously start a great action, and glory increases -proportionately as the difficulties are more considerable. We ought -on 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 a furnace. No one can continue long there unless he bear -worthily the yoke of the Lord. - -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 entreat you to think of me in your prayers. Endeavor 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 efforts prove -weak do not give way to despair, for that would be cowardice; -besides, I would have you know that you must necessarily take great -pains, for you strive to conquer a terrible enemy, to extinguish a -raging fire, to reduce to subjection your dearest affections. You -have to fight against your own desires, so be not 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, ‘The life of man is one long temptation’: the devil, who -never sleeps, walks continually around us in order to surprise us on -some unguarded side, and enters into our soul in order to destroy it. - -However perfect anyone may be, yet he may fall into temptations, and -perhaps into such as may be useful. Nor is it wonderful that man -should never be exempt from them, because he always hath in himself -their source; scarce are we delivered from one temptation when -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 of our own. - -Be constant, Heloise, and trust in God; then you shall fall into few -temptations: when they come stifle them at their birth--let them not -take root in your heart. ‘Apply remedies to a disease,’ said an -ancient, ‘at the beginning, for when it hath gained strength -medicines are of no avail’: temptations have their degrees, they are -at first mere thoughts and do not appear dangerous; the imagination -receives them without any fears; the pleasure grows; we dwell upon -it, and at last we yield to it. - -Do you now, Heloise, 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 yet these ardent aspirations, pray that you may be inspired -by them. I shall never cease to recommend you in my prayers and to -beseech God 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 to whom the rest of your days are -consecrated. Life upon this earth is misery; the very necessities to -which our bodies are subject here are matters of affliction to a -saint. ‘Lord,’ said the royal prophet, ‘deliver me from my -necessities.’ Many are wretched who do not know they are; and yet -they are more wretched who know their misery and yet cannot 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 too -late how much they have been to blame in loving such false good. -Truly pious persons are not thus mistaken; they are freed from all -sensual pleasures and raise their desires to Heaven. - -Begin, Heloise; put your design into action without delay; you have -yet time enough to work out your salvation. Love Christ, and despise -yourself for His sake; He will 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 -leave me and cleave to Him, you will be steadfast and safe. If you -force the Lord to forsake you, you will fall into trouble; but if you -are faithful to Him you shall find joy. Magdalen wept, thinking that -Jesus had forsaken her, but Martha said, ‘See, the Lord calls you.’ -Be diligent in your duty, obey faithfully the calls of grace, and -Jesus will be with you. Attend, Heloise, to some instructions I have -to give you: you are at the head of a society, and you know there is -a difference between those who lead a private life and those who are -charged with the conduct of others: the first need only labour for -their own sanctification, and in their round of duties are not -obliged to practise all the virtues in such an apparent manner: but -those who have the charge of others entrusted to them ought by their -example to encourage their followers to do all the good of which they -are capable. I beseech you to remember this truth, and so to follow -it that your whole life may be a perfect model of that of a religious -recluse. - -God heartily desires our salvation, and has made all the means of it -easy to us. In the Old Testament He has written in the tables of law -what He requires of us, that we might not be bewildered in seeking -after His will. In the New Testament He has written the law of grace -to the intent that it might ever be present in our hearts; so, -knowing the weakness and incapacity of our nature, He has given us -grace to perform His will. And, as if this were not enough, He has -raised up at all times, in all states of the Church, men who by their -exemplary life can excite others to their duty. To effect this He has -chosen persons of every age, sex and condition. Strive now to unite -in yourself all the virtues of these different examples. 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. - -‘The death of His saints,’ says the prophet, ‘is precious in the -sight of the Lord.’ Nor is it difficult to discover 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; second, -the continuation of their good works; and lastly, the triumph they -gain over the devil. - -A saint who has accustomed himself to submit to the will of God -yields to death without reluctance. He waits with joy (says Dr. -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 dreads the presence of the [1]offending -Judge; and having so often abused the means of grace he sees no way -to avoid the punishment of his sins. - -The saints have also this advantage over sinners, that having become -familiar with works of piety during their life they exercise them -without trouble, and having gained new strength against the devil -every time they overcame him, they will find themselves in a -condition at the hour of death to obtain that victory on which -depends all eternity, and the blessed union of their souls with their -Creator. - -I hope, Heloise, that after having deplored the irregularities of -your past life, you will ‘die the death of the righteous.’ Ah, how -few there are who make this end! And why? It is because there are so -few who love the Cross of Christ. Everyone wishes to be saved, but -few will use those means which religion prescribes. Yet can we be -saved by nothing but the Cross: why then refuse to bear it? Hath not -our Saviour bore 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 -suffered affliction, and our Saviour himself did not pass one hour of -His life without some sorrow. Hope not therefore to be exempt from -suffering: the Cross, Heloise, is always at hand, take care that you -do not receive it with regret, for by so doing you will make it more -heavy and you will be oppressed by it to no profit. On the contrary, -if you bear it with willing 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, Heloise, do you doubt? Is not your soul -ravished at so saving a command? Are you insensible to words so full -of kindness? Beware, Heloise, of refusing a Husband who demands you, -and who is more to be feared than any earthly 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, and 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 wilfully -destroyed yourself; go, wretch, and take the portion of the -reprobates.’ - -Oh, Heloise, prevent these terrible words, and avoid, by a holy life, -the punishment prepared for sinners. I dare not give you a -description of those dreadful torments which are the consequences of -a career of guilt. I am filled with horror when they offer themselves -to my imagination. And yet, Heloise, I can conceive nothing which can -reach the tortures of the damned; the fire which we see upon this -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 anyone sin who is persuaded of -this? My God! can we dare to offend Thee? Though the riches of Thy -mercy could not engage us to love Thee, the dread of being thrown -into such an abyss of misery should restrain us from doing anything -which might displease Thee. - -I question not, Heloise, 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 guiltily cannot but be hurtful, whatever advances we may -have made in the way 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 desirable 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 your reprobation -written in the judgment book, 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. - -Farewell, Heloise, this is the last advice of your dear Abelard; for -the last time let me persuade you to follow the 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 Abelard, -always present to your mind, be now changed into the image of Abelard -truly penitent; and may you shed as many tears for your salvation as -you have done for our misfortunes. - -[Footnote 1: Errata--offended] - - - - -TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE - - -The following printer's errors have been corrected: - -Added a heading “LETTER I” for the first letter - -Replaced “tranquility” with “tranquillity” (p. 28, 30 and 59) - -Inserted missing phrase “be the highest love” after “It will always” -(p. 53) - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The love letters of Abelard and Heloise, by -Peter Abelard and Heloise - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE LETTERS *** - -***** This file should be named 40227-8.txt or 40227-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/2/2/40227/ - -Produced by Michael Roe and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily -keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. - - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: - - http://www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/40227-8.zip b/old/40227-8.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index f395fd3..0000000 --- a/old/40227-8.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/40227-h.zip b/old/40227-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 27216cf..0000000 --- a/old/40227-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/40227.txt b/old/40227.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 190a768..0000000 --- a/old/40227.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2444 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The love letters of Abelard and Heloise, by -Peter Abelard and Heloise - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. 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/license - - -Title: The love letters of Abelard and Heloise - -Author: Peter Abelard - Heloise - -Editor: Ralph Seymour - -Release Date: July 14, 2012 [EBook #40227] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE LETTERS *** - - - - -Produced by Michael Roe and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - -THE LOVE LETTERS OF ABELARD AND HELOISE - -[Illustration] - - - - -THE LOVE LETTERS OF ABELARD AND HELOISE - - -_Translated from the original latin and now reprinted from the -edition of 1722: together with a brief account of their lives and -work_ - -RALPH FLETCHER SEYMOURA.CHICAGO - - Copyright 1903 - by - Ralph Fletcher Seymour - - - - -THE STORY OF ABELARD AND HELOISE. - - -It sometimes happens that Love is little esteemed by those who choose -rather to think of other affairs, and in requital He strongly -manifests His power in unthought ways. Need is to think of Abelard -and Heloise: how now his treatises and works are memories only, and -how the love of her (who in lifetime received little comfort -therefor) has been crowned with the violet crown of Grecian Sappho -and the homage of all lovers. - -The world itself was learning a new love when these two met; was -beginning to heed the quiet call of the spirit of the Renaissance, -which, at its consummation, brought forth the glories of the -Quattrocento. - -It was among the stone-walled, rose-covered gardens and clustered -homes of ecclesiastics, who served the ancient Roman builded pile of -Notre Dame, that Abelard found Heloise. - -From his noble father's home in Brittany, Abelard, gifted and -ambitious, came to study with William of Champeaux in Paris. His -advancement was rapid, and time brought him the acknowledged -leadership of the Philosophic School of the city, a prestige which -received added lustre from his controversies with his later -instructor in theology, Anselm of Laon. - -His career at this time was brilliant. Adulation and flattery, added -to the respect given his great and genuine ability, made sweet a life -which we can imagine was in most respects to his liking. Among the -students who flocked to him came the beautiful maiden, Heloise, to -learn of philosophy. Her uncle Fulbert, living in retired ease near -Notre Dame, offered in exchange for such instruction both bed and -board; and Abelard, having already seen and resolved to win her, -undertook the contract. - -Many quiet hours these two spent on the green, river-watered isle, -studying old philosophies, and Time, swift and silent as the Seine, -sped on, until when days had changed to months they became aware of -the deeper knowledge of Love. Heloise responded wholly to this new -influence, and Abelard, forgetting his ambition, desired their -marriage. Yet as this would have injured his opportunities for -advancement in the Church Heloise steadfastly refused this formal -sanction of her passion. Their love becoming known in time to -Fulbert, his grief and anger were uncontrollable. In fear the two -fled to the country and there their child was born. Abelard still -urged marriage, and at last, outwearied with importunities, she -consented, only insisting that it be kept a secret. Such a course was -considered best to pacify her uncle, who, in fact, promised -reconciliation as a reward. Yet, upon its accomplishment he openly -declared the marriage. Unwilling that this be known lest the -knowledge hurt her lover, Heloise strenuously denied the truth. The -two had returned, confident of Fulbert's reaffirmed regard, and he, -now deeply troubled and revengeful, determined to inflict that -punishment and indignity on Abelard, which, in its accomplishment, -shocked even that ruder civilization to horror and to reprisal. - -The shamed and mortified victim, caring only for solitude in which to -hide and rest, retired into the wilderness; returning after a time to -take the vows of monasticism. Unwilling to leave his love where by -chance she could become another's, he demanded that she become a nun. -She yielded obedience, and, although but twenty-two years of age, -entered the convent of Argenteuil. - -Abelard's mind was still virile and, perhaps to his surprise, the -world again sought him out, anxious still to listen to his masterful -logic. But with his renewed influence came fierce persecution, and -the following years of life were filled with trials and sorrows. -Sixteen years passed after the lovers parted and then Heloise, -prioress of the Paraclete, found a letter of consolation, written by -Abelard to a friend, recounting his sad career. Her response is a -letter of passion and complaining, an equal to which it is hard to -find in all literature. To his cold and formal reply she wrote a -second, questioning and confused, and a third, constrained and -resigned. These three constitute the record of a soul vainly seeking -in spiritual consolation rest from love. - -Abelard, with little heart for love or ambition, still stubbornly -contested with his foes. On a journey to Rome, where he had appealed -from a judgment of heresy against his teachings, he, overweary, -turned aside to rest in the monastery of Cluni, in Burgundy, and -there died. Heloise begged his body for burial in the Paraclete. -Twenty years later, and at the same age as her lover, she, too, -passed to rest. - -It is said that he whose arms had one time yielded her a too sweet -comfort, raised them again to greet her as she came to rest beside -him in their narrow tomb. - -Love never yet was held by arms alone, nor its mysterious ministries -constrained to forms or qualities. Like water sweet in barren land it -lies within our lives, ever by its unsolved formula awakening us to -fuller freedom. - - - - -THE LOVE LETTERS OF ABELARD AND HELOISE - - -_Wherein are written how the scholar Peter Abelard forgot his -learning and became a lover, altho the price he paid was great: and -how the beautiful Heloise in desiring to acquire knowledge from -Abelard learned of all lessons the greatest, from the greatest master -of all, to wit, Love: and how she prized it most highly, altho it -brought her both shame and sorrow_ - - - - -LETTER I - -_Heloise to Abelard_ - - -_To her Lord, her Father, her Husband, her Brother; his Servant, his -Child, his Wife, his Sister, and to express all that is humble, -respectful and loving to her Abelard, Heloise writes this._ - -A consolatory letter of yours to a friend happened some days since to -fall into my hands; my knowledge of the writing and my love of the -hand gave me the curiosity to open it. In justification of the -liberty I took, I flattered myself I might claim a sovereign -privilege over everything which came from you. Nor was I scrupulous -to break through the rules of good breeding when I was to hear news -of Abelard. But how dear did my curiosity cost me! What disturbance -did it occasion, and how surprised I was 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 put my heart into such violent -motion that I thought it was too much to offer comfort to a friend -for a few slight disgraces, but 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. Though 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 always be present to my aching 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 pseudo 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 upon you opinions quite different from your meanings. In vain -you condemned those opinions; all was of no effect towards your -justification, 'twas 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 of 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 refrain, 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 I kept it; but it was demanded of me -too soon. - -I must confess I was much easier in my mind before I read your -letter. Surely all the misfortunes of lovers are conveyed to them -through the eyes: upon reading your letter I feel 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 then, -perhaps, your ashes will not be allowed to rest in peace!--let me -always meditate on your calamities, let me publish them through 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 passed evils; and are there more to be feared still? -Shall my Abelard never be mentioned without tears? Shall the dear -name never be 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 me, I beg of you, that little relief which you only can give. -Let me have a faithful account of all that concerns you; I would know -everything, be it ever so unfortunate. Perhaps by mingling my sighs -with yours I may make your sufferings less, for it is said that all -sorrows divided are made lighter. - -Tell me not by way of excuse you will spare me 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 chooses the side of the virtuous, and fortune is so -blind that in a crowd in which there is perhaps but one wise and -brave man it is not to be expected that 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 a happy -turn. I shall always have this, if you please, and this will always -be agreeable to me, that when I receive any letter from you I shall -know you still remember me. Seneca (with whose writings you made me -acquainted), though he was a Stoic, seemed to be so very sensible to -this kind of pleasure, that upon opening any letters from Lucilius he -imagined he felt the same delight as when they conversed together. - -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 us. It seems to me as if the farther -they are removed their pictures grow the more finished, and acquire a -greater resemblance; or 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 flat colour. I have your picture in my room; I never pass -it without stopping to look at it; and yet when you are present with -me I scarce ever cast my eyes on 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 tenderness and the -delicacy of speech, and sometimes even a boldness of expression -beyond it. - -We may write to each other; so innocent a pleasure is not denied 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 sign myself your wife. In spite of all our misfortunes -you may be what you please in your letter. Letters were first -invented for consoling 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 sacred thoughts; I shall -carry them always about with 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 upon 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 will not tell me that -you still love me; but that language ought to be so natural to you, -that I believe you cannot speak otherwise to me without violence to -yourself. And since by this melancholy relation to your friend you -have awakened all my sorrows, 'tis but reasonable you should allay -them by some tokens of your unchanging love. - -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 far greater. Charity is ingenious in finding out such pious -plans, 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 should use it. 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 always be a -pleasure to me to say that you only are the founder of this house, -'tis wholly your work. You, by inhabiting here, have given fame and -holiness to a place known before only for robberies and murders. You -have in a literal sense made the den of thieves into a house of -prayer. These cloisters owe nothing to public charities; our walls -were not raised by the usuries 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 only 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 temptation; though our walls and gates prohibit all -approaches, yet it is the outside only, the bark of the tree, that is -protected from injuries; the sap of the 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 changeable, the other is weak. To plant the Lord's -vineyard is a work of no little labour; but after it is planted it -will require great application and diligence to dress it. The Apostle -of the Gentiles, great labourer as he was, says he hath planted, -Apollos hath watered, but it is God that gives the increase. Paul had -planted the Gospel amongst the Corinthians, Apollos, his zealous -disciple, continued to cultivate it by frequent exhortations; and the -grace of God, which their constant prayers implored for that church, -made the work of both be fruitful. - -This ought to be an example for your conduct towards us. I know you -are not slothful, yet your labours are not directed towards 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 prevent 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 over 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 entreat you in the name of your -children? Is it possible I should fear obtaining anything of you when -I ask it in my own name? And must I use any other prayers than my own -in order to prevail upon you? The St. Austins, Tertullians and -Jeromes have written to the Eudoxias, 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 Scriptures; or Tertullian and preach mortification; or -St. Austin and explain to me the nature of grace? Why should I alone -not reap the advantage of 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 the least scandal satisfy me, why -will you not? I am not only engaged by my vows, but I have the fear -of my Uncle before me. There is nothing, then, that you need dread; -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 stay in it with devotion. You -have been the occasion of all my misfortunes, you therefore must be -the instrument of all my comfort. - -You cannot but remember (for lovers cannot forget) with what pleasure -I have passed 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 messengers. This detail perhaps surprises you, and -you are in pain for what may follow. But I am no longer ashamed that -my passion 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 quietly -and at ease. Nothing but virtue, joined to a love perfectly -disengaged from the senses, could have produced such effects. Vice -never inspires anything 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 notion; 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 so revenge myself on 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 both -mind and body loved 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. - -You cannot but be entirely persuaded of this by the extreme -unwillingness I showed to marry you, though 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 would perhaps 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 which 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 -protested that it was infinitely preferable to me to live with -Abelard as his mistress than with any other as Empress of the World. -I was more happy in obeying you than I should have been as lawful -spouse of the King of the Earth. Riches and pomp are not the charm of -love. True tenderness makes us separate the lover from all that is -external to him, and setting aside his position, fortune or -employments, consider him merely as himself. - -It is not love, but the desire of riches and position which makes a -woman run into the embraces of an indolent husband. Ambition, and 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 experience the pleasures of affectionate union, -nor to feel those subtle and charming joys when hearts long parted -are at last united. These martyrs of marriage pine always for larger -fortunes which they think they have missed. The wife sees husbands -richer than her own, and the husband wives better portioned than his. -Their mercenary vows occasion regret, and regret produces hatred. -Soon they part--or else desire to. This restless and tormenting -passion for gold punishes them for aiming at other advantages by love -than love itself. - -If there is anything that may properly be called happiness here -below, I am persuaded it is 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 merits. Their hearts are full and -leave no vacancy for any other passion; they enjoy perpetual -tranquillity because they enjoy content. - -If I could believe you as truly persuaded of my merit as I am of -yours, I might say there has been a time when we were such a pair. -Alas! how was it possible I should not be certain of your mind? If I -could ever have doubted it, the universal esteem would have made me -decide 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 everyone rejoice in having seen you? Even -women, breaking through the laws of decorum which custom had imposed -upon them, showed they felt more for you than mere esteem. I have -known some who have been profuse in their husbands' praises who have -yet envied me my happiness. But what could resist you? Your -reputation, which so much attracts the vanity of our sex, your air, -your manner, that light in your eyes which expresses the vivacity of -your mind, your conversation so easy and elegant that it gave -everything you said an agreeable turn; in short, everything spoke for -you! Very different from those mere scholars who with all their -learning have not the capacity to keep up an ordinary conversation, -and who with all their wit cannot win a woman who has much less share -of brains than themselves. - -With what ease did you compose verses! And yet those ingenious -trifles, which were but a recreation to you, are still the -entertainment and delight of persons of the best taste. The smallest -song, the least sketch of anything you made for me, had a thousand -beauties capable of making it last as long as there are 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 they themselves are capable of. - -What rivalries did your gallantries of this kind occasion me! How -many ladies lay 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 anything the advantage over them but -in being beloved by you. Can you believe me if I tell you, that -notwithstanding 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, that I might be more certain that I pleased you. - -But oh! where is that happy time? I now lament my lover, and of all -my joys have nothing but the painful memory that they are past. Now -learn, all you my rivals who once viewed my happiness with jealous -eyes, that he you once envied me can never more be 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 were a crime, 'tis a crime I am -yet fond of, and I have no other regret save that against my will I -must now be innocent. But what do I say? My misfortune was to have -cruel relatives whose malice destroyed the calm we enjoyed; had they -been reasonable 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 -Heloise then? What joy should I have had in defending my lover; I -would have guarded you from violence at the expense of my life. Oh! -whither does this excess of passion hurry me? Here love is shocked -and modesty deprives me of words. - -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 my 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 thought of pleasure which engaged you to me? And has not -my tenderness, by leaving you nothing to wish for, extinguished your -desires? Wretched Heloise! 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 a sad experience that it is -natural to avoid those to whom we have been too much obliged, and -that uncommon generosity causes neglect rather than gratitude. My -heart surrendered too soon to gain the esteem of the conqueror; you -took it without difficulty and throw it aside with ease. But -ungrateful as you are I am no consenting party to this, and though I -ought not to retain a wish of my own, yet I still preserve secretly -the desire to be loved by you. When I pronounced my sad vow I then -had about me your last letters in which you protested your whole -being wholly mine, and would never live but to love me. It is to you -therefore I have offered myself; you had my heart and I had yours; do -not demand anything back. You must bear with my passion as a thing -which of right belongs to you, and from which you can be no ways -disengaged. - -Alas! what folly it is to talk in this way! 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 One! 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 some -faint signs of a dying passion I would have favoured the deception. -But in vain do I flatter myself that you could be constant; you have -left no vestige of an excuse for you. 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 your -reputation; all I desire is such letters as the heart dictates, and -which the hand cannot transcribe fast enough. How did I deceive -myself with hopes that you would be wholly mine when I took the veil, -and engage myself to live for ever under your laws? For in being -professed I vowed no more than to be yours only, and I forced myself -voluntarily to a confinement which you desired for me. Death only -then can make me leave the cloister where you have placed me; and -then my ashes shall rest here and wait for yours in order to show to -the very last my obedience and devotion to you. - -Why should I conceal from you the secret of my call? You know it was -neither zeal nor devotion that brought me here. 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 a cruel -relation 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 -consequences of our love and your disgrace have made me put on the -habit of chastity, but I am not penitent of the past. Thus I strive -and labour in vain. Among those who are wedded to God I am wedded to -a man; among the heroic supporters of the Cross I am the slave of a -human desire; at the head of a religious community I am devoted to -Abelard alone. What a monster am I! Enlighten me, O Lord, for I know -not if my despair or Thy grace draws these words from me! I am, I -confess, a sinner, but one who, far from weeping for her sins, weeps -only for her lover; far from abhorring her crimes, longs only to add -to them; and who, with a weakness unbecoming my state, please myself -continually with the remembrance of past delights when it is -impossible to renew them. - -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 it is to fight for -duty against inclination. I know what obligations this veil lays upon -me, but I feel more strongly what power an old passion has over my -heart. I am conquered by my feelings; love troubles my mind and -disorders my will. Sometimes I am swayed by the sentiment of piety -which arises within me, and then 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 a 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 thoughts, and darkens -alike my reason and my religion. 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 my efforts but serve to bind them faster. Oh, for pity's sake -help a wretch to renounce her desires--her self--and if possible even -to renounce you! If you are a lover--a father, help a mistress, -comfort a child! These tender names must surely move you; yield -either to pity or to love. If you gratify my request I shall continue -a religious, and without longer profaning my calling. I am ready to -humble myself with you to the wonderful goodness of God, Who does all -things for our sanctification, Who by His grace purifies all that is -vicious and corrupt, and by the great riches of His mercy draws us -against our wishes, and by degrees opens our eyes to behold His -bounty which at first we could not perceive. - -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 somewhat hard that when we had both -engaged to consecrate ourselves to Heaven you should insist upon my -doing it first. 'Does Abelard then,aEuro(TM) said I, 'suspect that, like -Lot's wife, I shall look back?aEuro(TM) 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, -banish such ungenerous apprehensions? This distrust hurt me; 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 to 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 to follow him to the Seats of Holiness? I, who have not -refused to be the victim of pleasure in order to gratify him, can he -think I would refuse to be a sacrifice of honour when he desired it?aEuro(TM) -Has vice such charms to refined natures, that when once we have drunk -of the cup of sinners it is with such difficulty we accept the -chalice of saints? Or did you believe yourself to be more competent -to teach vice than virtue, or me more ready to learn the first than -the latter? No; this suspicion would be injurious to us both: Virtue -is too beautiful not to be embraced when you reveal her charms, and -Vice too hideous not to be abhorred when you display her deformities. -Nay, when you please, anything seems lovely to me, and nothing is -ugly when you are by. I am only weak when I am alone and unsupported -by you, and therefore it depends on you alone to make me such as you -desire. I wish to Heaven 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 happily -together you might have doubted whether pleasure or affection united -me more to you, but the place from whence I write to you must surely -have dissolved all doubt. Even here I love you as much as ever I did -in the world. If I had loved pleasures could I not have found means -to gratify myself? I was not more than twenty-two years old, and -there were other men left though I was deprived of Abelard. And yet I -buried myself alive in a nunnery, and triumphed over life at an age -capable of enjoying it to its full latitude. It is to you I sacrifice -these remains of a transitory beauty, these widowed nights and -tedious days; and since you cannot possess them I take them from you -to offer them to Heaven, and so make, alas! but a secondary oblation -of my heart, my days, my life! - -I am sensible I have dwelt too long on this subject; I ought to speak -less to you of your misfortunes and of my sufferings. 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 actions. -Now if you were this sort of creature 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 stript myself of everything, but -I find I neither have nor can renounce my Abelard. 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 turned me -to marble by changing my habit; my heart is not hardened by my -imprisonment; I am still sensible to what has touched me, though, -alas! I ought not to be! 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 pleasant if he show me their advantage. Retirement and -solitude will no longer seem terrible if I may know that I still have -a place in his memory. A heart which has loved as mine cannot soon be -indifferent. We fluctuate long between love and hatred before we can -arrive at tranquillity, and we always flatter ourselves with some -forlorn hope that we shall not be utterly forgotten. - -Yes, Abelard, I conjure you by the chains I bear here to ease the -weight of them, and make them as agreeable as I would they were to -me. Teach me the maxims of Divine Love; since you have forsaken me I -would 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 -works, how it purifies. When we were tossed on the ocean of the world -we could hear of nothing but your verses, which published everywhere -our joys and pleasures. Now we are in the haven of grace is it not -fit you should discourse to me of this new happiness, and teach me -everything that might heighten or improve it? Show 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 objects; let us leave our songs and sing hymns; let us lift up -our hearts to God and have no transports but for His glory! - -I expect this from you as a thing you cannot refuse me. God has a -peculiar right over the hearts of great men 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 and fidelity and constancy: -love me as your mistress, cherish me as your child, your sister, your -wife! Remember I still love you, and yet strive to avoid loving you. -What a terrible saying 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 desire it (would to Heaven I -could!), for ever adieu! - - - - -LETTER II - -_Abelard to Heloise_ - - -Could I have imagined that a letter not written to yourself would -fall into your hands, I had been more cautious not to have inserted -anything 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 to a loss he had sustained. If by -this well-meaning device I have disturbed you, I purpose now 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 secret -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. - -It is true, that in a sense of the afflictions which have befallen -us, and observing that no change of our condition could be expected; -that those prosperous days which had seduced us were now past, and -there remained nothing but to erase from our minds, by painful -endeavours, all marks and remembrances 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 thoughts yet run free. I -promise myself that I will forget you, and yet cannot think of it -without loving you. My love is not at all lessened by those -reflections I make in order to free myself. The silence I am -surrounded by 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 strive -to free myself; and that it is sufficient wisdom to conceal from all -but you how confused and weak I am. - -I remove 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 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 I should seem more -indifferent than you fare, and yet I am ashamed to discover my -trouble. 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 of serving two masters which afflicts your heart -affect mine too? You see the confusion I am in, how I blame myself -and how I suffer. Religion commands me to pursue virtue since I have -nothing to hope for from love. But love still preserves its dominion -over my fancies 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 these regions of death and silence; it -is very seldom that what ought to be is truly followed here and that -God only is loved and served. Had I known this before I had -instructed you better. You call me your master; it is true you were -entrusted 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 my enemy and revenged himself on me. If -now having lost the power of satisfying my passion I had also lost -that of loving you, I should have some consolation. My enemies would -have given me that tranquillity which Origen purchased with a crime. -How miserable am I! I find myself much more guilty in my thoughts of -you, even amidst my tears, than in possessing you when I was in full -liberty. I continually think of you; I continually call to mind your -tenderness. In this condition, O Lord! if I run to prostrate myself -before your altar, if I beseech you to pity me, why does not the pure -flame of the Spirit consume the sacrifice that is offered? Cannot -this habit of penitence which I wear interest Heaven to treat me more -favourably? But Heaven 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 grace. We deceive men, -but nothing is hid from God. - -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 with 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. We commonly die to the -affections of those 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 rest in my memory without -troubling my mind; that Brittany and the sea would suggest other -thoughts; that my fasts and studies would by degrees delete you from -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, as you describe yourself in your veil, appears to me and -confounds all my resolutions. - -What means have I not used! I have armed my hands against myself; I -have exhausted my strength in constant exercises; I comment upon St. -Paul; I contend 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; -allow me to be indifferent. I envy their happiness who have never -loved; how quiet and easy are they! But the tide of pleasure 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 procure me in their stead both merit and -repose. Why use your 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? -What efforts, what relapses, what agitations do we undergo! And how -long are we lost in this confusion, unable to exert our reason, to -possess our souls, or to rule our affections? - -What a troublesome employment is love! And how valuable is virtue -even upon consideration of our own ease! Recollect your -extravagancies of passion, guess at my distractions; number up our -cares, our griefs; throw these things out of the account and let love -have all the remaining tenderness 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 save by extraordinary efforts; it has so powerful an -advocate 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 should 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. It is -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 tried to make a defence, love was soon -the master. God, in order to punish me, forsook me. You are no longer -of the world; you have renounced it: I am a religious devoted to -solitude; shall we not take advantage of our condition? Would you -destroy my piety in its infant state? Would you have me forsake the -abbey 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 should I violate them? Suffer me to seek ease in my duty: -though difficult it is to procure it. 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 alike pierced with your sorrows and my 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 show more firmness of mind I -might provoke 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 in love-songs and verses, ought not the dark -cells of this house at least to conceal that same weakness under an -appearance of piety? Alas! I am still the same! Or if I avoid the -evil, I cannot do the good. Duty, reason and decency, which upon -other occasions have some power over me, are here useless. The Gospel -is a language I do not understand when it opposes my passion. Those -vows I have taken before the altar are feeble when opposed to -thoughts of you. Amidst so many voices which bid me do my duty, I -hear and obey nothing but the secret cry of a desperate passion. Void -of all relish for virtue, without 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 to correct -myself. I feel a perpetual strife between inclination and duty. I -find myself a distracted lover, unquiet in the midst of silence, and -restless in the midst of peace. How shameful is such a condition! - -Regard me no more, I entreat you, as a founder or any great -personage; your praises ill agree with my many weaknesses. I am a -miserable sinner, prostrate before my Judge, and with my face pressed -to the earth I mix my tears with the earth. Can you see me in this -posture and solicit me to love you? Come, if you think fit, and in -your holy habit thrust yourself between my God and me, and be a wall -of separation. Come and force from me those sighs and thoughts and -vows I owe to Him alone. Assist the evil spirits and be the -instrument of their malice. What cannot you induce a heart to do -whose weakness you so perfectly know? Nay, withdraw yourself and -contribute to my salvation. Suffer me to avoid destruction, I entreat -you by our former tender affection and by our now common misfortune. -It will always be the highest love to show none; I here release you -from 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 indeed be a religious and you a -perfect example of an abbess. - -Make yourself amends by so glorious a choice; make your virtue a -spectacle worthy of 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 light a rate that you should not turn it to the best -advantage? Since you have permitted yourself to be abused by false -doctrine and criminal instruction, 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 instil vice than to -teach 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 -enchanting a sweetness, and we are naturally so much inclined to -taste it, that it needs only to 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 -to you first. I willingly submit to these accusations. I cannot -enough admire the readiness you showed to accept the religious habit; -bear therefore with courage the Cross you so resolutely took up. -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 'Fly!aEuro(TM). - -You entreat 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 our misfortunes. -The Church is jealous of its honour, and commands that her children -should be induced to the practice of virtue by virtuous means. When -we approach God in a blameless manner then we may with boldness -invite others to Him. But to forget Heloise, to see her no more, is -what Heaven demands of Abelard; and to expect nothing from Abelard, -to forget him even as an idea, is what Heaven enjoins on Heloise. To -forget, in the case of love, is the most necessary penance, 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 we have adored, and adoring the God whom we -have neglected. This may appear harsh, but it must be done if we -would be saved. - -To make it more easy consider 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. When I saw -myself oppressed by my misfortune I was furiously jealous, and -regarded all men as my rivals. Love has more of distrust than -assurance. I was apprehensive of many things because of my many -defects, and being tormented with fear because of my own example I -imagined your heart so accustomed to love that it could not be long -without entering on a new engagement. Jealousy can easily believe the -most terrible things. I was desirous to make it impossible for me to -doubt you. I was very urgent to persuade you that propriety demanded -your withdrawal from the eyes of the world; that modesty and our -friendship required it; and that your own safety obliged it. After -such a revenge taken on me you could expect to be secure nowhere but -in a convent. - -I will do you justice, you were very easily persuaded. My jealousy -secretly rejoiced in 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 in order to -keep it out of the power of other 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 with those convents I held in -the highest esteem. What a comfort I felt in seeing you shut up. I -was now at ease and took a satisfaction in considering that you -continued no longer in the world after my disgrace, and that you -would return to it no more. - -But still I was doubtful. I imagined women were incapable of -steadfast resolutions unless they were forced by the necessity of -vows. I wanted those vows, and Heaven itself for your security, that -I might no longer distrust you. Ye holy mansions and impenetrable -retreats! from what innumerable apprehensions have ye freed me? -Religion and piety keep a strict guard round your grates and walls. -What a haven of rest this is to a jealous mind! And with what -impatience did I endeavour after 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 -the great loss I was 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 alike bribed -and concealed from you, at my directions, all their scruples and -disgusts. I omitted nothing, either little or great; and if you had -escaped my snares I myself would not have retired; I was resolved to -follow you everywhere. The shadow of myself would always have pursued -your steps and continually have occasioned either your confusion or -your fear, which would have been a sensible gratification to me. - -But, thanks to Heaven, you resolved to take the vows. I accompanied -you to the foot of the altar, and while you stretched out your hand -to touch the sacred cloth I heard you distinctly pronounce those -fatal words that for ever separated you from man. Till then I thought -your youth and beauty would foil my design and force your return to -the world. Might not a small temptation have changed you? Is it -possible to renounce oneself entirely at the age of two-and-twenty? -At an age which claims the utmost liberty could you think the world -no longer worth your regard? How much did I wrong you, and what -weakness did I impute to you? You were in my imagination both light -and inconstant. Would not a woman at the noise of the flames and the -fall of Sodom involuntarily look back in pity on some person? I -watched your eyes, your every movement, your air; I trembled at -everything. You may call such self-interested conduct treachery, -perfidy, murder. A love so like to hatred should provoke the utmost -contempt and anger. - -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, I imagined I could love you no more. I thought -it time to leave off giving you marks of my affection, and I -considered that by your Holy Espousals you were now the peculiar care -of Heaven, and no longer a charge on me as my 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 even -dared to pray to Him to take you away from my eyes. But it was not a -time to make rash prayers, and my faith did not warrant them being -heard. Necessity and despair were at the root of my proceedings, and -thus I offered an insult to Heaven rather than a sacrifice. God -rejected my offering and my prayer, and continued my punishment by -suffering me to continue my love. Thus I bear alike the guilt of your -vows and of the passion that preceded them, and must be tormented all -the days of my life. - -If God spoke to your heart as to that of a religious whose innocence -had first asked him for favours, I should have matter of comfort; but -to see both of us the victims of a guilty love, to see this love -insult us in our very habits and spoil our devotions, 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 poison and a drunkenness till we are illuminated by Grace; -in the meantime it is an evil we doat on. When we are under such a -mistake, the knowledge of our misery is the first step towards -amendment. Who does not know that 'tis for the glory of God to find -no other reason in man for His mercy than man's very weakness? When -He has shown us this weakness and we have bewailed it, He is ready to -put forth His Omnipotence and assist us. Let us say for our comfort -that what we suffer is one of those terrible temptations which have -sometimes disturbed the vocations of the most holy. - -God can grant 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 more than six months -before you wrote me a letter, nor during all that time did I receive -a message from you. I admired this silence, which I durst not blame, -but could not imitate. I wrote to you, and you returned me no answer: -your heart was then shut, but this garden 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 are too deeply in love to free ourselves. Our follies have -penetrated into the sacred places; our amours have been a scandal to -the whole kingdom. They are read and admired; love which produced -them has caused them to be described. We shall be a consolation to -the failings of youth for ever; those who offend after us will think -themselves less guilty. We are criminals whose repentance is late; -oh, let it be sincere! Let us repair as far as is possible the evils -we have done, and let France, which has been the witness of our -crimes, be amazed at our repentance. Let us confound all who would -imitate our guilt; let us take the side of God against ourselves, and -by so doing prevent His judgment. Our former lapses require tears, -shame and sorrow to expiate them. Let us offer up these sacrifices -from our hearts, let us blush and let us weep. If in these feeble -beginnings, O Lord, our hearts are not entirely Thine, let them at -least feel that they ought to be so. - -Deliver yourself, Heloise, from the shameful remains of a passion -which has taken too deep root. Remember that the least thought for -any other than God is an 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 you will be -true to the habit which covers you by an inward retirement. Fear God, -that you may be delivered from your frailties; love Him that you may -advance in virtue. Be not restless in the cloister for it is the -peace of saints. Embrace your bands, they are the chains of Christ -Jesus; He will lighten them and bear them with you, if you will but -accept them with humility. - -Without growing severe to a passion that still 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 -should importune you, fly to the foot of the Cross and there beg for -mercy--there are wounds open for healing; lament them 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 the earthly passion that still burns in the -heart of a religious. If during your abode in the world your soul has -acquired a habit of loving, feel it now no more save for Jesus -Christ. Repent of all the moments of your life which you have wasted -in the world and on pleasure; demand them of me, 'tis a robbery of -which I am guilty; take courage and boldly reproach me with it. - -I have been indeed your master, but it was only to teach sin. You -call me your father; before I had any claim to the title, I deserved -that of parricide. I am your brother, but it is the affinity of sin -that brings me that distinction. I am called your husband, but it is -after a public scandal. If you have abused the sanctity of so many -holy terms in the superscription of your letter to do me honour and -flatter your own passion, blot them out and replace them with those -of murderer, villain and enemy, who has conspired against your -honour, troubled your quiet, and betrayed your innocence. You would -have perished through my means but for an extraordinary act of grace -which, that you might be saved, has thrown me down in the middle of -my course. - -This is the thought you ought to have of a fugitive who desires to -deprive you of the hope of ever seeing him again. 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 -wandering heart still eternally seeks you, and is filled with anguish -at having lost you, in spite of all the powers of my reason. In the -meantime, though I should be so cowardly as to retract what you have -read, do not suffer me to offer myself to your thoughts save in this -last fashion. Remember my last worldly endeavours were to seduce your -heart; you perished by my means and I with you: the same waves -swallowed us up. We waited for death with indifference, and the same -death had carried us headlong to the same punishments. But Providence -warded off the blow, and our shipwreck has thrown us into a haven. -There are some whom God saves by suffering. Let my salvation be the -fruit of your prayers; let me owe it to your tears and your exemplary -holiness. Though my heart, Lord, be filled with the love of Thy -creature, Thy hand can, when it pleases, empty me of all love save -for Thee. To love Heloise truly is to leave her to that quiet which -retirement and virtue afford. I have resolved it: this letter shall -be my last fault. Adieu. 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, for it will be too -late; weep rather for me now and extinguish the fire which burns me. -You shall see me in order that your piety may be strengthened by -horror of this carcase, and my death be eloquent to tell you what you -brave when you love a man. I hope you will be willing, when you have -finished this mortal life, to be buried near me. Your cold ashes need -then fear nothing, and my tomb shall be the more rich and renowned. - - - - -LETTER III - -_Heloise to Abelard_ - - -_To Abelard her well-beloved in Christ Jesus, from Heloise his -well-beloved in the same Christ Jesus._ - -I read the letter I received from you with great 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 Heloise before that of -Abelard? What means this cruel and unjust distinction? It was your -name only--the name of a father and a husband--which my eager eyes -sought for. I did not look for my own, which I would if possible -forget, for it is the cause of all your misfortunes. The rules of -decorum, and your position as master and director over me, opposed -that ceremony in addressing me; and love commanded you to banish it: -alas! you know all this but too well! - -Did you address me thus before cruel fortune had ruined my happiness? -I see your heart has forsaken 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. Can you have the cruelty to abandon me? The fear of this -stabs my heart; the fearful presages you make at the end of your -letter, those terrible images you draw of your death, quite distract -me. Cruel Abelard! you ought to have stopped my tears and you make -them flow. You ought to have quelled the turmoil of my heart and you -throw me into greater disorder. - -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 -dread of causing my immediate 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, severe as it has been to me, is not -so insensible as to permit me to live one moment after you. Life -without Abelard were an insupportable punishment, and death a most -exquisite happiness if by that means I could be united to him. If -Heaven but hearken to my continual cry, your days will be prolonged -and you will bury me. - -Is it not your part to prepare me by powerful exhortation against -that great crisis which shakes the most resolute and stable minds? Is -it not your part to receive my last sighs, superintend my funeral, -and give an account of my acts and my 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 vows? We expect those 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 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 me no more such terrible things; for we are already -sufficiently miserable, nor need to have our sorrows aggravated. Our -life here is but a languishing death; would you hasten it? Our -present disgraces are sufficient to employ our thoughts continually, -and shall we seek in the future new reasons for fear? How void of -reason are men, said Seneca, to make distant evils present by -reflections, and to take pains before death to lose all the joys of -life. - -When you have finished your course here below, you said that it is -your desire that your body be borne to the House of the Paraclete, to -the intent that being always before my eyes you may be ever present -in my mind. Can you think that the traces you have drawn on my heart -can ever be worn out, or that any length of time can obliterate the -memory we hold 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, for so heavy a misfortune would leave me no moment's quiet. -Can my feeble reason resist such powerful assaults? When I am -distracted and raving (if I dare say it) even against Heaven itself, -I shall not soften it by my cries, but rather provoke it by my -reproaches. How should I pray or how bear up against my grief? I -should be more eager to follow you than to pay you the sad ceremonies -of a funeral. It is for you, for Abelard, that I have resolved to -live, and if you are ravished from me I can make no use of my -miserable days. Alas! what lamentations should I make if Heaven, by a -cruel pity, preserved me for that moment? When I but think of this -last separation I feel all the pangs of death; what should 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. - -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 both night and -day? 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? What have I hope for -after the loss of you? What can confine me to earth when death shall -have taken away from me all that was dear on 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 dare not -flatter myself even with the hope that I shall ever see you again. -This is the greatest of my afflictions. - -Merciless Fortune! hadst 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 to fear from thy anger. But what use to longer arm thyself -against me? The wounds I have already received leave no room for -others, unless thou desirest to kill me. Or dost thou fear amidst the -numerous torments heaped on me, dost thou fear that such a final -stroke would deliver me from all other ills? Therefore thou -preservest me from death in order to make me die daily. - -Dear Abelard, pity my despair! Was ever any being 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 the more terrible fall. -Nothing could be compared to my pleasures, and now nothing can equal -my misery. My joys once raised the envy of my rivals, my present -wretchedness calls forth the compassion of all that see me. My -Fortune has been always in extremes; she has loaded me with the -greatest favours and then heaped me with the greatest afflictions; -ingenious in tormenting me, she has made the memory of the joys I -have lost an inexhaustible spring of tears. Love, which being possest -was her most delightful gift, on being taken away is an untold -sorrow. In short, her malice has entirely succeeded, and I find my -present afflictions proportionately bitter as the transports which -charmed me were sweet. - -But what aggravates my sufferings yet more is, that we began to be -miserable at a time when we seemed the least to deserve it. While we -gave ourselves up to the enjoyment of a guilty love nothing opposed -our pleasures; but scarcely had we retrenched our passion and taken -refuge in matrimony, than the wrath of Heaven fell on us with all its -weight. And how barbarous was your punishment! Ah! what right had a -cruel Uncle over us? We were joined to each other even before the -altar, and this should have protected us from the rage of our -enemies. Besides, we were separated; you were busy with your lectures -and instructed a learned audience in mysteries which the greatest -geniuses before you could not 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. At this very juncture punishment fell upon us, and you -who were least guilty became the object of the whole vengeance of a -barbarous man. But why should I rave at Fulbert? I, wretched I, have -ruined you, and have been the cause of all your misfortunes. How -dangerous it is for a great man to suffer himself to be moved by our -sex! He ought from his infancy to be inured to insensibility of heart -against all our charms. 'Hearken, my sonaEuro(TM) (said formerly the wisest -of men), 'attend and keep my instructions; if a beautiful woman by -her looks endeavour to entice thee, permit not thyself to be overcome -by a corrupt inclination; reject the poison she offers, and follow -not the paths she directs. Her house is the gate of destruction and -death.aEuro(TM) I have long examined things, and have found that death is -less dangerous than beauty. It is the shipwreck of liberty, a fatal -snare, from which it is impossible ever to get free. It was a woman -who threw down the first man from the glorious position in which -Heaven had placed him; she, who was created to partake of his -happiness, was the sole cause of his ruin. How bright had been the -glory of Samson if his heart had been proof against the charms of -Delilah, as against the weapons of the Philistines. A woman disarmed -and betrayed he who had been a conqueror of armies. He saw himself -delivered into the hands of his enemies; he was deprived of his eyes, -those inlets of love into the soul; distracted and despairing he died -without any consolation save that of including his enemies in his -ruin. Solomon, that he might please women, forsook pleasing God; that -king whose wisdom princes came from all parts to admire, he whom God -had chosen to build the temple, abandoned the worship of the very -altars he had raised, and proceeded to such a pitch of folly as even -to burn incense to idols. Job had no enemy more cruel than his wife; -what temptations did he not bear? The evil spirit who had declared -himself his persecutor employed a woman as an instrument to shake his -constancy. And the same evil spirit made Heloise an instrument to -ruin Abelard. All the poor comfort I have is that I am not the -voluntary cause of your misfortunes. I have not betrayed you; but my -constancy and love have been destructive to you. If I have committed -a crime in loving you so constantly I cannot repent it. I have -endeavoured to please you even at the expense of my virtue, and -therefore deserve the pains I feel. As soon as I was persuaded of -your love I delayed scarce a moment in yielding to your -protestations; to be beloved by Abelard was in my esteem so great a -glory, and I so impatiently desired it, not to believe in it -immediately. I aimed 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 tyrannise 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 -famous and learned person of the age. If any consideration had been -able to stop me, it would have been without doubt my love. I feared -lest having nothing further to offer you your passion might become -languid, and you might seek for new pleasures in another conquest. -But it was easy for you to cure me of a suspicion so opposite to my -own inclination. I ought to have foreseen other more certain evils, -and to have considered that the idea of lost enjoyments would be the -trouble of my whole life. - -How happy should I be could I wash out with my tears the memory of -those pleasures which I yet think of with delight. At least I will -try by strong endeavour to smother in my heart those desires to which -the frailty of my nature gives birth, and I will exercise on myself -such torments as those you have to suffer from the rage of your -enemies. I will endeavour by this means to satisfy you at least, if I -cannot appease an angry God. For to show you to what a deplorable -condition I am reduced, and how far my repentance is from being -complete, I dare even accuse Heaven at this moment of cruelty for -delivering you over to the snares prepared for you. My repinings can -only kindle divine wrath, when I should be seeking for mercy. - -In order to expiate a crime it is not sufficient to bear the -punishment; whatever we suffer is of no avail if the passion still -continues and the heart is filled with the same desire. It is an easy -matter to confess a weakness, and inflict on ourselves some -punishment, but it needs perfect power over our nature to extinguish -the memory of pleasures, which by a loved habitude have gained -possession of our minds. How many persons do we see who make an -outward confession of their faults, yet, far from being in distress -about them, take a new pleasure in relating them. Contrition of the -heart ought to accompany the confession of the mouth, yet this very -rarely happens. I, who have experienced so many pleasures in loving -you, feel, in spite of myself, that I cannot repent them, nor forbear -through memory to enjoy them over again. Whatever efforts I use, on -whatever side I turn, the sweet thought still pursues me, and every -object brings to my mind what it is my duty to forget. During the -quiet night, when my heart ought to be still in that sleep which -suspends the greatest cares, I cannot avoid the illusions of my -heart. I dream I am still with my dear Abelard. I see him, I speak to -him and hear him answer. Charmed with each other we forsake our -studies and give ourselves up to love. Sometimes too I seem to -struggle with your enemies; I oppose their fury, I break into piteous -cries, and in a moment I awake in tears. Even into holy places before -the altar I carry the memory of our love, and far from lamenting for -having been seduced by pleasures, I sigh for having lost them. - -I remember (for nothing is forgot by lovers) the time and place in -which you first declared your passion and swore you would love me -till death. Your words, your oaths, are deeply graven in my heart. My -stammering speech betrays to all the disorder of my mind; my sighs -discover me, and your name is ever on my lips. O Lord! when I am thus -afflicted why dost not Thou pity my weakness and strengthen me with -Thy grace? You are happy, Abelard, in that grace is given 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 deal -heavily with you, sought only to help you; He was a Father chastising -and not an Enemy revenging--a wise Physician putting you to some pain -in order to preserve your life. I am a thousand times more to be -pitied than you, for I have still a thousand passions to fight. I -must resist those fires which love kindles in a young heart. Our sex -is nothing but weakness, and I have the greater difficulty in -defending myself because the enemy that attacks me pleases me; I doat -on the danger which threatens; how then can I avoid yielding? - -In the midst of these struggles I try at least to conceal my weakness -from those you have entrusted to my care. All who are about me admire -my virtue, but could their eyes penetrate into my heart what would -they not discover? My passions there are in rebellion; I preside over -others but cannot rule myself. I have a false covering, and this -seeming virtue is a real vice. Men judge me praiseworthy, but I am -guilty before God; from His all-seeing eye nothing is hid, and He -views through all their windings the secrets of the heart. I cannot -escape His discovery. And yet it means great effort to me merely to -maintain this appearance of virtue, so surely 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 those feeble ones who are under my rule. With my heart full of the -love of man, I teach them at least to love only God. Charmed with the -pomp of worldly pleasures, I endeavor to show them that they are all -vanity and deceit. I have just strength enough to conceal from them -my longings, and I look upon that as a great effect of grace. If it -is not enough to make me embrace virtue, 'tis enough to keep me from -committing sin. - -And yet it is in vain to try and separate these two things: they must -be guilty who are not righteous, 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 to offend a man than to provoke God, and I -study less to please Him than to please you. Yes, it was your command -only, and not a sincere vocation, which sent me into these cloisters; -I sought to give you ease and not to sanctify myself. How unhappy am -I! I tear myself from all that pleases me; I bury myself alive; I -exercise myself with the most rigid fastings and all those severities -the cruel laws impose on us; I feed myself with tears and sorrows; -and notwithstanding this I merit nothing by my penance. My false -piety has long deceived you as well as others; you have thought me at -peace when I was more disturbed than ever. You persuaded yourself I -was wholly devoted to my duty, yet I had no business but love. Under -this mistake you desire my prayers--alas! I need yours! Do not -presume upon my virtue and my care; I am wavering, fix me by your -advice; I am feeble, sustain and guide me by your counsel. - -What occasion had you to praise me? Praise is often hurtful for those -on whom it is bestowed: a secret vanity springs up in the heart, -blinds us, and conceals from us the wounds that are half healed. A -seducer flatters us, and at the same time destroys us. A sincere -friend disguises nothing from us, and far 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 -anything 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 reprobate as well as the -elect may lay claim to it. An artful impostor may by his address gain -more admiration than is given to the zeal of a saint. - -The heart of man is a labyrinth whose windings are very difficult to -discover. The praises you give me are the more dangerous because I -love the person who bestows them. The more I desire to please you the -readier am I to believe the merit you attribute to me. Ah! think -rather how to nerve my weakness by wholesome remonstrances! Be rather -fearful than confident of my salvation; say our virtue is founded -upon weakness, and that they only will be crowned who have fought -with the greatest difficulties. But I seek not the crown which is the -reward of victory--I am content if I can avoid danger. It is easier -to keep out of the way than to win a battle. There are several -degrees in glory, and I am not ambitious of the highest; I leave them -to those of greater courage who have often been victorious. I seek -not to conquer for fear I should be overcome; happiness enough for me -to escape shipwreck and at last reach port. Heaven commands me to -renounce my fatal passion for you, but oh! my heart will never be -able to consent to it. Adieu. - - - - -LETTER IV - -_Heloise to Abelard_ - - -Dear Abelard,--You expect, perhaps, that I should accuse you of -negligence. You have not answered my last letter, and, thanks to -Heaven, in the condition I am now in it is a relief to me that you -show so much insensibility for the passion which I betrayed. At last, -Abelard, you have lost Heloise for ever. Notwithstanding all the -oaths I made to think of nothing but you, and to be entertained by -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 be no -more my happiness! Dear image of Abelard! thou wilt no longer follow -me, no longer shall I remember thee. O celebrity and merit of that -man who, in spite of his enemies, is the wonder of the age! O -enchanting pleasures to which Heloise resigned herself--you, you have -been my tormentors! I confess my inconstancy, Abelard, without a -blush; let my infidelity teach the world that there is no depending -on the promises of women--we are all subject to change. This troubles -you, Abelard; this news without surprises you; you never imagined -Heloise could be inconstant. She was prejudiced by such a strong -inclination towards you that you cannot conceive how Time could alter -it. But be undeceived, I am going to disclose to you my falseness, -though, instead of reproaching me, I persuade myself you will shed -tears of joy. When I tell you what Rival hath ravished my heart from -you, you will praise my inconstancy, and pray this Rival to fix it. -By this you will know that 'tis God alone that takes Heloise from -you. Yes, my dear Abelard, He gives my mind that tranquillity which a -vivid remembrance of our misfortunes formerly forbade. Just Heaven! -what other rival could take me from you? Could you imagine it -possible for a mere human to blot you from my heart? Could you think -me guilty of sacrificing the virtuous and learned Abelard to any -other but God? No, I believe you have done me justice on this point. -I doubt not you are eager to learn what means God used to accomplish -so great an end? I will tell you, that you may 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, grew criminal in my eyes. My memory represented -faithfully to me all the past actions of my life, and I confess to -you pain for our love was the only pain I felt. Death, which till -then I had only viewed from a distance, now presented itself to me as -it appears to sinners. I began to dread the wrath of God now I was -near experiencing it, and I repented that I had not better used the -means of Grace. Those tender letters I wrote to you, those fond -conversations I have had with you, give me as much pain now as they -had formerly given pleasure. 'Ah, miserable Heloise!aEuro(TM) I said, 'if it -is a crime to give oneself up to such transports, and if, after this -life is ended, punishment certainly follows them, why didst thou not -resist such dangerous temptations? Think on the tortures prepared for -thee, consider with terror the store of torments, and recollect, at -the same time, those pleasures which thy deluded soul thought so -entrancing. Ah! dost thou not despair for having rioted in such false -pleasures?aEuro(TM) In short, Abelard, imagine all the remorse of mind I -suffered, and you will not be astonished at my change. - -Solitude is insupportable to the uneasy mind; its troubles increase -in the midst of silence, and retirement heightens them. Since I have -been shut up in these walls I have done nothing but weep our -misfortunes. This cloister has resounded with my cries, and, like a -wretch condemned to eternal slavery, I have worn out my days with -grief. Instead of fulfilling God's merciful design towards me I have -offended against Him; I have looked upon this sacred refuge as a -frightful prison, and have borne with unwillingness the yoke of the -Lord. Instead of purifying myself with a life of penitence I have -confirmed my condemnation. What a fatal mistake! But Abelard, I have -torn off the bandage which blinded me, and, if I dare rely upon my -own feelings, I have now made myself worthy of your esteem. You are -to me no more the loving Abelard who constantly sought private -conversations with me by deceiving the vigilance of our observers. -Our misfortunes gave you a horror of vice, and you instantly -consecrated the rest of your days to virtue, and seemed to submit -willingly to the necessity. I indeed, more tender than you, and more -sensible to pleasure, bore misfortune with extreme impatience, and -you have heard my exclaimings against your enemies. You have seen my -resentment in my late letters; it was this, doubtless, which deprived -me of the esteem of my Abelard. You were alarmed at my repinings, -and, if the truth be told, despaired of my salvation. You could not -foresee that Heloise would conquer so reigning a passion; but you -were mistaken, Abelard, my weakness, when supported by grace, has not -hindered me from winning a complete victory. Restore me, then, to -your esteem; your own piety should solicit you to this. - -But what secret trouble rises in my soul--what unthought-of emotion -now rises to oppose the resolution I have formed to sigh no more for -Abelard? Just Heaven! have I not triumphed over my love? Unhappy -Heloise! as long as thou drawest a breath it is decreed thou must -love Abelard. Weep, unfortunate wretch, for thou never hadst a more -just occasion. I ought to die of grief; grace had overtaken me and I -had promised to be faithful to it, but now am I perjured once more, -and even grace is sacrificed to Abelard. This sacrilege fills up the -measure of my iniquity. After this how can I hope that God will open -to me the treasure of His mercy, for I have tired out His -forgiveness. I began to offend Him from the first moment I saw -Abelard; an unhappy sympathy engaged us both in a guilty love, and -God raised us up an enemy to separate us. I lament the misfortune -which lighted upon us and I adore the cause. Ah! I ought rather to -regard this misfortune as the gift of Heaven, which disapproved of -our engagement and parted us, and I ought to apply myself to -extirpate my passion. How much better it were to forget entirely the -object of it than to preserve a memory so fatal to my peace and -salvation? Great God! shall Abelard possess my thoughts for ever? Can -I never free myself from the chains of love? But perhaps I am -unreasonably afraid; virtue directs all my acts and they are all -subject to grace. Therefore fear not, Abelard; I have no longer 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 passion gave us, to awaken any guilty fondness you may -yet feel for me. I free you from all your oaths; forget the titles of -lover and husband and keep only that of father. I expect no more from -you than tender protestations and those letters so proper to feed the -flame of love. I demand nothing of you but spiritual advice and -wholesome discipline. The path of holiness, however thorny it be, -will yet appear agreeable to me if I may but walk in your footsteps. -You will always find me ready to follow you. I shall read with more -pleasure the letters in which you shall describe the advantages of -virtue than ever I did those in which you so artfully instilled the -poison of 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 do I blame you; but now you -have nothing to fear. This fortunate illness, with which Providence -has chastised me for my good, has done what all human efforts and -your cruelty in vain attempted. I see now the vanity of that -happiness we had set our hearts upon, as if it were eternal. What -fears, what distress have we not suffered for it! - -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 until fixed on Thee. What have I not suffered, -Abelard, whilst I kept alive in my retirement those fires which -ruined me in the world? I saw with hatred the walls that surrounded -me; the hours seemed as long as years. I repented a thousand times -that I had buried myself here. But since grace has opened my eyes all -the scene is changed; solitude looks charming, and the peace of the -place enters my very heart. In the satisfaction of doing my duty I -feel a delight above all that riches, pomp or sensuality could -afford. My quiet has indeed cost me dear, for I have bought it at the -price of my love; I have offered a violent sacrifice I thought beyond -my power. But if I have torn you from my heart, be not jealous; God, -who ought always to have possessed it, reigns there in your stead. Be -content with having a place in my mind which you shall never lose; I -shall always take a secret pleasure in thinking of you, and esteem it -a glory to obey those rules you shall give me. - - * * * * * - -This very moment I receive a letter from you; I will read it and -answer it immediately. You shall see by my promptitude in writing to -you that you are always dear to me. - -You very obligingly reproach me for delay in writing 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 tell me 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 love me you will moderate the -rigours 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 repetitions. You -desire us not to forget you in our prayers: ah! dear Abelard, you may -depend upon the zeal of this society; it is devoted to you and you -cannot justly fear its forgetfulness. You are our Father, and we are -your children; you are our guide, and we resign ourselves to your -direction with full assurance in your piety. You command; we obey; we -faithfully execute what you have prudently ordered. We impose no -penance on ourselves but what you recommend, lest we should rather -follow an indiscreet zeal than solid virtue. In a word, nothing is -thought right but what has Abelard's approbation. You tell me one -thing that perplexes me--that you have heard that some of our Sisters -are bad examples, and that they are generally not strict enough. -Ought this to seem strange to you who know how monasteries are filled -nowadays? Do fathers consult the inclination 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 show me the proper remedy -for them. I have not yet observed any looseness: 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 -that happened in the monasteries near Paris. - -You end your letter with a general deploring of your unhappiness and -wish for death to end a weary life. Is it possible so great a genius -as you cannot rise above your misfortunes? What would the world say -should they read the letters you send me? Would they consider the -noble motive of your retirement or not rather think you had shut -yourself up merely to lament your woes? What would your young -students say, who come so far to hear you and prefer your severe -lectures to the ease of a worldly life, if they should discover you -secretly a slave to your passions and the victim of those weaknesses -from which your rule secures them? This Abelard they so much admire, -this great leader, would lose his fame and become the sport of his -pupils. If these reasons are not sufficient to give you constancy in -your misfortune, cast your eyes upon me, and admire the resolution -with which I shut myself up at your request. I was young when we -separated, and (if I dare believe what you were always telling me) -worthy of any man's affections. If I had loved nothing in Abelard but -sensual pleasure, other 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 still 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 indulged, the caresses I -gave, would surely have comforted you. Had you seen me grow by -degrees indifferent to you, you might have had reason to despair, but -you never received greater tokens of my affection than after you felt -misfortune. - -Let me see no more in your letters, dear Abelard, such murmurs -against Fate; you are not the only one who has felt her blows and you -ought to forget her outrages. What a shame it is that a philosopher -cannot accept what might befall any man. Govern yourself by my -example; I was born with violent passions, I daily strive with tender -emotions, and glory in triumphing and subjecting them to reason. Must -a weak mind fortify one that is so much superior? But I am carried -away. Is it thus I write to my dear Abelard? He who practises all -those virtues he preaches? If you complain of Fortune, it is not so -much that you feel her strokes as that you try to show your enemies -how much to blame they are in attempting to hurt you. Leave them, -Abelard, to exhaust their malice, and continue to charm your -auditors. Discover those treasures of learning Heaven seems to have -reserved for you; your enemies, struck with the splendour of your -reasoning, will in the end 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; your greatest adversaries -confess you are ignorant of nothing the mind of man is capable of -knowing. - -My dear Husband (for the last time I use that title!), shall I never -see you again? Shall I never have the pleasure of embracing you -before death? What dost thou say, wretched Heloise? Dost thou know -what thou desirest? Couldst thou behold those brilliant eyes without -recalling the tender glances which have been so fatal to thee? -Couldst thou see that majestic air of Abelard without being jealous -of everyone who beholds so attractive a man? That mouth cannot be -looked upon without desire; in short, no woman can view the person of -Abelard without danger. Ask no more therefore to see Abelard; if the -memory of him has caused thee so much trouble, Heloise, what would -not his presence do? What desires will it not excite in thy soul? How -will it be possible to keep thy reason at the sight of so lovable a -man? - -I will own to you what makes the greatest pleasure in my retirement; -after having passed the day in thinking of you, full of the repressed -idea, I give myself up at night to sleep. Then it is that Heloise, -who dares not think of you by day, resigns herself with pleasure to -see and hear you. How my eyes gloat over you! Sometimes you tell me -stories of your secret troubles, and create in me a felt sorrow; -sometimes the rage of our enemies is forgotten and you press me to -you and I yield to you, and our souls, animated with the same -passion, are sensible of the same pleasures. But O! delightful dreams -and tender illusions, how soon do you vanish away! I awake and open -my eyes to find no Abelard: I stretch out my arms to embrace him and -he is not there; I cry, and he hears me not. What a fool I am to tell -my dreams to you who are insensible to these pleasures. But do you, -Abelard, never see Heloise in your sleep? How does she appear to you? -Do you entertain her with the same tender language as formerly, and -are you glad or sorry when you awake? Pardon me, Abelard, pardon a -mistaken lover. I must no longer expect from you that vivacity which -once marked your every action; no more must I require from you the -correspondence of desires. We have bound ourselves to severe -austerities and must follow them at all costs. Let us think of our -duties and our rules, and make good use of that necessity which keeps -us separate. You, Abelard, will happily finish your course; your -desires and ambitions will be no obstacle to your salvation. But -Heloise must weep, she must lament for ever without being certain -whether all her tears will avail for her salvation. - -I had liked to have ended my letter without telling you what happened -here a few days ago. A young nun, who had been forced to enter the -convent without a vocation therefor, is by a stratagem I know nothing -of escaped and fled to England with a gentleman. I have ordered all -the house to conceal the matter. Ah, Abelard! if you were near us -these things would not happen, for all the Sisters, charmed with -seeing and hearing you, would think of nothing but practising 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 in holiness. If your eyes were witnesses of our -actions they would be innocent. When we slipped you should lift us up -and establish us by your counsels; we should march with sure steps in -the rough path of virtue. I begin to perceive, Abelard, that I take -too much pleasure in writing to you; I ought to burn this letter. It -shows that I still feel a deep passion for you, though at the -beginning I tried to persuade you to the contrary. I am sensible of -waves both of grace and passion, and by turns yield to each. Have -pity, Abelard, on the condition to which you have brought me, and -make in some measure my last days as peaceful as my first have been -uneasy and disturbed. - - - - -LETTER V - -_Abelard to Heloise_ - - -Write no more to me, Heloise, write no more to me; 'tis time to end -communications which make our penances of nought avail. We retired -from the world to purify ourselves, and, by a conduct directly -contrary to Christian morality, we became odious to Jesus Christ. Let -us no more deceive ourselves with remembrance of our past pleasures; -we but make our lives troubled and spoil the sweets of solitude. Let -us make good use of our austerities and no longer preserve the -memories of our crimes amongst the severities of penance. Let a -mortification of body and mind, a strict fasting, continual solitude, -profound and holy meditations, and a sincere love of God succeed our -former irregularities. - -Let us try to carry religious perfection to its farthest point. It is -beautiful to find Christian minds so disengaged from 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 our -object. Be our efforts ever so great they will always come short of -attaining that exalted Divinity which even our apprehension cannot -reach. Let us act for God's glory independent of the creatures or -ourselves, paying no regard to our own desires or the opinions of -others. Were we in this temper of mind, Heloise, I would willingly -make my abode at the Paraclete, and by my earnest care for the house -I have founded 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, labour, meditate, and be -silent. - -And 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 the 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 you ought to -perform, and satisfy those doubts which through the weakness of your -reason might arise. I would be your master and father, and by a -marvellous talent I would become lively or slow, gentle or severe, -according to the different characters of those I should guide in the -painful path to Christian perfection. - -But whither does my vain imagination carry me! Ah, Heloise, how far -are we from such a happy temper? Your heart still burns with that -fatal fire you cannot extinguish, and mine is full of trouble and -unrest. Think not, Heloise, that I here enjoy a perfect peace; I will -for the last time open my heart to you;--I am not yet disengaged from -you, and though I fight against my excessive tenderness for you, in -spite of all my endeavours I remain but too sensible of your sorrows -and long to share in them. Your letters have indeed moved me; I could -not read with indifference characters written by that dear hand! I -sigh and weep, and all my reason is scarce sufficient to conceal my -weakness from my pupils. This, unhappy Heloise, is the miserable -condition of Abelard. The world, which is generally wrong in its -notions, thinks I am at peace, and imagining that I loved you only -for the gratification of the senses, have now forgot you. What a -mistake is this! People indeed were not wrong in saying that when we -separated it was shame and grief that made me abandon the world. It -was not, as you know, a sincere repentance for having offended God -which inspired me with a design for retiring. However, I consider our -misfortunes as a secret design of Providence to punish our sins; and -only look 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 that God Himself raised them up in order -to purify me. - -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 all suspicion of novelty. - -I should be happy if I had none to fear but my enemies, and no other -hindrance to my salvation but their calumny. But, Heloise, you make -me tremble, your letters declare to me that you are enslaved to human -love, and yet, if you cannot conquer it, you cannot be saved; and -what part would you have me play in this trial? 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 save to lament our sins and to gain -heaven; let us then resign ourselves to God with all our heart. - -I know everything is difficult in the beginning; but it is glorious -to courageously start a great action, and glory increases -proportionately as the difficulties are more considerable. We ought -on 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 a furnace. No one can continue long there unless he bear -worthily the yoke of the Lord. - -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 entreat you to think of me in your prayers. Endeavor 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 efforts prove -weak do not give way to despair, for that would be cowardice; -besides, I would have you know that you must necessarily take great -pains, for you strive to conquer a terrible enemy, to extinguish a -raging fire, to reduce to subjection your dearest affections. You -have to fight against your own desires, so be not 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, 'The life of man is one long temptationaEuro(TM): the devil, who -never sleeps, walks continually around us in order to surprise us on -some unguarded side, and enters into our soul in order to destroy it. - -However perfect anyone may be, yet he may fall into temptations, and -perhaps into such as may be useful. Nor is it wonderful that man -should never be exempt from them, because he always hath in himself -their source; scarce are we delivered from one temptation when -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 of our own. - -Be constant, Heloise, and trust in God; then you shall fall into few -temptations: when they come stifle them at their birth--let them not -take root in your heart. 'Apply remedies to a disease,aEuro(TM) said an -ancient, 'at the beginning, for when it hath gained strength -medicines are of no availaEuro(TM): temptations have their degrees, they are -at first mere thoughts and do not appear dangerous; the imagination -receives them without any fears; the pleasure grows; we dwell upon -it, and at last we yield to it. - -Do you now, Heloise, 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 yet these ardent aspirations, pray that you may be inspired -by them. I shall never cease to recommend you in my prayers and to -beseech God 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 to whom the rest of your days are -consecrated. Life upon this earth is misery; the very necessities to -which our bodies are subject here are matters of affliction to a -saint. 'Lord,aEuro(TM) said the royal prophet, 'deliver me from my -necessities.aEuro(TM) Many are wretched who do not know they are; and yet -they are more wretched who know their misery and yet cannot 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 too -late how much they have been to blame in loving such false good. -Truly pious persons are not thus mistaken; they are freed from all -sensual pleasures and raise their desires to Heaven. - -Begin, Heloise; put your design into action without delay; you have -yet time enough to work out your salvation. Love Christ, and despise -yourself for His sake; He will 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 -leave me and cleave to Him, you will be steadfast and safe. If you -force the Lord to forsake you, you will fall into trouble; but if you -are faithful to Him you shall find joy. Magdalen wept, thinking that -Jesus had forsaken her, but Martha said, 'See, the Lord calls you.aEuro(TM) -Be diligent in your duty, obey faithfully the calls of grace, and -Jesus will be with you. Attend, Heloise, to some instructions I have -to give you: you are at the head of a society, and you know there is -a difference between those who lead a private life and those who are -charged with the conduct of others: the first need only labour for -their own sanctification, and in their round of duties are not -obliged to practise all the virtues in such an apparent manner: but -those who have the charge of others entrusted to them ought by their -example to encourage their followers to do all the good of which they -are capable. I beseech you to remember this truth, and so to follow -it that your whole life may be a perfect model of that of a religious -recluse. - -God heartily desires our salvation, and has made all the means of it -easy to us. In the Old Testament He has written in the tables of law -what He requires of us, that we might not be bewildered in seeking -after His will. In the New Testament He has written the law of grace -to the intent that it might ever be present in our hearts; so, -knowing the weakness and incapacity of our nature, He has given us -grace to perform His will. And, as if this were not enough, He has -raised up at all times, in all states of the Church, men who by their -exemplary life can excite others to their duty. To effect this He has -chosen persons of every age, sex and condition. Strive now to unite -in yourself all the virtues of these different examples. 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. - -'The death of His saints,aEuro(TM) says the prophet, 'is precious in the -sight of the Lord.aEuro(TM) Nor is it difficult to discover 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; second, -the continuation of their good works; and lastly, the triumph they -gain over the devil. - -A saint who has accustomed himself to submit to the will of God -yields to death without reluctance. He waits with joy (says Dr. -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 dreads the presence of the [1]offending -Judge; and having so often abused the means of grace he sees no way -to avoid the punishment of his sins. - -The saints have also this advantage over sinners, that having become -familiar with works of piety during their life they exercise them -without trouble, and having gained new strength against the devil -every time they overcame him, they will find themselves in a -condition at the hour of death to obtain that victory on which -depends all eternity, and the blessed union of their souls with their -Creator. - -I hope, Heloise, that after having deplored the irregularities of -your past life, you will 'die the death of the righteous.aEuro(TM) Ah, how -few there are who make this end! And why? It is because there are so -few who love the Cross of Christ. Everyone wishes to be saved, but -few will use those means which religion prescribes. Yet can we be -saved by nothing but the Cross: why then refuse to bear it? Hath not -our Saviour bore 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 -suffered affliction, and our Saviour himself did not pass one hour of -His life without some sorrow. Hope not therefore to be exempt from -suffering: the Cross, Heloise, is always at hand, take care that you -do not receive it with regret, for by so doing you will make it more -heavy and you will be oppressed by it to no profit. On the contrary, -if you bear it with willing 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.aEuro(TM) Oh, Heloise, do you doubt? Is not your soul -ravished at so saving a command? Are you insensible to words so full -of kindness? Beware, Heloise, of refusing a Husband who demands you, -and who is more to be feared than any earthly 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, and 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 wilfully -destroyed yourself; go, wretch, and take the portion of the -reprobates.aEuro(TM) - -Oh, Heloise, prevent these terrible words, and avoid, by a holy life, -the punishment prepared for sinners. I dare not give you a -description of those dreadful torments which are the consequences of -a career of guilt. I am filled with horror when they offer themselves -to my imagination. And yet, Heloise, I can conceive nothing which can -reach the tortures of the damned; the fire which we see upon this -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 anyone sin who is persuaded of -this? My God! can we dare to offend Thee? Though the riches of Thy -mercy could not engage us to love Thee, the dread of being thrown -into such an abyss of misery should restrain us from doing anything -which might displease Thee. - -I question not, Heloise, 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 guiltily cannot but be hurtful, whatever advances we may -have made in the way 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 desirable 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 your reprobation -written in the judgment book, 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. - -Farewell, Heloise, this is the last advice of your dear Abelard; for -the last time let me persuade you to follow the 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 Abelard, -always present to your mind, be now changed into the image of Abelard -truly penitent; and may you shed as many tears for your salvation as -you have done for our misfortunes. - -[Footnote 1: Errata--offended] - - - - -TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE - - -The following printer's errors have been corrected: - -Added a heading "LETTER I" for the first letter - -Replaced "tranquility" with "tranquillity" (p. 28, 30 and 59) - -Inserted missing phrase "be the highest love" after "It will always" -(p. 53) - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The love letters of Abelard and Heloise, by -Peter Abelard and Heloise - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVE LETTERS *** - -***** This file should be named 40227.txt or 40227.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/0/2/2/40227/ - -Produced by Michael Roe and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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