The love letters of Abelard and Heloise
The love letters of Abelard and HeloiseINTRODUCTIONLETTER I Abelard to PhilintusLETTER II Heloise to AbelardLETTER III Abelard to HeloiseLETTER IV Heloise to AbelardLETTER V Heloise to AbelardLETTER VI Abelard to HeloiseAPPENDIX POPE'S 'ELOÏSA TO ABELARD'Copyright
The love letters of Abelard and Heloise
anonymous
INTRODUCTION
The letters of Abelard and Heloise were written in Latin about the
year 1128, and were first published in Paris in 1616. The 'Letters'
appeared first in England in 1728 in their original Latin, but
thereafter translations were numerous, the anonymous one given here
being published in 1722. It is rather a paraphrase than a
translation, but by its swiftness and sympathy best gives the
spirit of the original. The story of these illustrious lovers is
told in their correspondence, but the outline of their lives is
briefly this:--Abelard, Professor of Logic and Canon of Notre Dame,
the most celebrated man of his day, being thirty-seven years of age
and having so far lived the life intellectual and scorned the
passions, meets Heloise, a beautiful and learned woman of nineteen,
and falls desperately in love--as only the late lover can. Reason
and religion are thrown to the winds; he would marry her, but she
loves with a devotion as mad as his, and marriage would arrest his
advancement in the Church, so she refuses yet gives him all. Her
child is born, and then Abelard insists on a secret marriage, but
in her unselfish infatuation she denies she is a wife and glories
in the title of mistress. Fulbert, her uncle and guardian, is
furious; with hired assistance he breaks into Abelard's chamber and
brutally mutilates and shames him. Abelard cannot bear the
degradation; he has not the courage to face his students, he has
not the control to stay near Heloise; he resolves to turn
monk.
But, manlike, he first demands that Heloise turn nun, in order that
no other may know the attractions he has enjoyed. Heloise willingly
consents; she being then twenty-two and he forty years of age. Ten
years after, in her convent, a letter of Abelard's falls into her
hands; she learns he has not found content, she knows she has not.
She writes to Abelard betraying all the pent-up passion of those
years of restraint; he replies in a letter alternating between
religion and regret--not accepting the inevitable, not daring to
break free. Other four letters pass, each less passionate than the
previous, and then the silence falls once more. Abelard died in
1142 at the age of sixty-three, and twenty years later Heloise died
and was buried beside him. Subsequently their remains were removed
to Père Lachaise, where their tomb can now be seen. And Abelard,
the great leader and logician, his treatises are forgotten, his
fame as a philosopher is dead--only his love letters live. And
Heloise, the beautiful and the learned, who stands second to Sapho,
is known merely as an example of the passionate devotion of woman.
So they remain to us, the typical lovers; he with man's mania to
master, she with woman's one desire to submit. No love letters that
have ever been written but have contained phrases common to one
another and to be found here; but no love letters that have ever
been published have equalled these in the old passionate tale of
the struggle to forget--to sink the love of the human in the love
of the divine.
LETTER I Abelard to Philintus
THE last time we were together, Philintus, you gave me a melancholy
account of your misfortunes; I was sensibly touched with the
relation, and like a true friend bore a share in your griefs. What
did I not say to stop your tears? I laid before you all the reasons
philosophy could furnish, which I thought might anyways soften the
strokes of fortune. But all these endeavours have proved useless;
grief, I perceive, has wholly seized your spirits, and your
prudence, far from assisting, seems to have forsaken you. But my
skilful friendship has found out an expedient to relieve you.
Attend to me a moment, hear but the story of my misfortunes, and
yours, Philintus, will be nothing as compared with those of the
loving and unhappy Abelard. Observe, I beseech you, at what expense
I endeavour to serve you; and think this no small mark of my
affection; for I am going to present you with the relation of such
particulars as it is impossible for me to recollect without
piercing my heart with the most sensible affliction. You know the
place where I was born, but not, perhaps, that I was born with
those complexional faults which strangers charge upon our
nation--an extreme lightness of temper, and great inconstancy. I
frankly own it, and shall be as free to acquaint you with those
good qualities which were observed in me. I had a natural vivacity
and aptness for all the polite arts. My father was a gentleman and
a man of good parts; he loved the wars, but differed in his
sentiments from many who follow that profession. He thought it no
praise to be illiterate, but in the camp he knew how to converse at
the same time with the Muses and Bellona. He was the same in the
management of his family, and took equal care to form his children
to the study of polite learning as to their military exercises. As
I was his eldest, and consequently his favourite son, he took more
than ordinary care of my education. I had a natural genius for
study, and made extraordinary progress in it. Smitten with the love
of books, and the praises which on all sides were bestowed upon me,
I aspired to no other reputation than that of learning. To my
brothers I leave the glory of battles and the pomp of triumphs;
nay, more, I yielded them up my birthright and patrimony. I knew
necessity was the great spur to study, and was afraid I should not
merit the title of learned if I distinguished myself from others by
nothing but a more plentiful fortune. Of all the sciences logic was
the most to my taste. Such were the arms I chose to profess.
Furnished with the weapons of reasoning I took pleasure in going to
public disputations to win trophies; and wherever I heard that this
art flourished, I ranged, like another Alexander, from province to
province, to seek new adversaries with whom I might try my
strength. The ambition I had to become formidable in logic led me
at last to Paris, the centre of politeness, and where the science I
was so smitten with had usually been in the greatest perfection. I
put myself under the direction of one Champeaux, a professor who
had acquired the character of the most skilful philosopher of his
age, but by negative excellencies only as being the least ignorant!
He received me with great demonstrations of kindness, but I was not
so happy as to please him long; for I was too knowing in the
subjects he discoursed upon, and I often confuted his notions.
Frequently in our disputations I pushed a good argument so home
that all his subtlety was not able to elude its force. It was
impossible he should see himself surpassed by his scholar without
resentment. It is sometimes dangerous to have too much merit. Envy
increased against me in proportion to my reputation. My enemies
endeavoured to interrupt my progress, but their malice only
provoked my courage. Measuring my abilities by the jealousy I had
raised, I thought I had no further need for Champeaux's lectures,
but rather that I was sufficiently qualified to read to others. I
stood for a post which was vacant at Melun.
My master used all his artifice to defeat my hopes, but in vain;
and on this occasion I triumphed over his cunning as before I had
done over his learning. My lectures were always crowded, and my
beginnings so fortunate, that I entirely obscured the renown of my
famous master. Flushed with these happy conquests, I removed to
Corbeil to attack the masters there, and so establish my character
of the ablest logician. The rush of travelling threw me into a
dangerous distemper, and not being able to recover my health, my
physicians, who perhaps were in league with Champeaux, advised me
to remove to my native air. Thus I voluntarily banished myself for
some years. I leave you to imagine whether my absence was not
regretted by the better sort. At length I recovered my health, when
I received news that my greatest adversary had taken the habit of a
monk; you may think it was an act of penitence for having
persecuted me; quite the contrary, ’twas ambition; he resolved to
raise himself to some church dignity, therefore fell into the
beaten track and took on him the garb of feigned austerity; for
this is the easiest and shortest way to the highest ecclesiastical
dignities. His wishes were successful and he obtained a bishopric;
yet did he not quit Paris and the care of his schools: he went to
his diocese to gather in his revenues, but returned and passed the
rest of his time in reading lectures to those few pupils which
followed him. After this I often engaged with him, and may reply to
you as Ajax did to the Greeks:-- 'If you demand the fortune of that
day When stak’d on this right hand your honours lay, If I did not
oblige the foe to yield, Yet did I never basely quit the
field.'
About this time my father, Beranger, who to the age of sixty had
lived very agreeably, retired from the world and shut himself up in
a cloister, where he offered up to Heaven the languid remains of a
life he could make no further use of. My mother, who was yet young,
took the same resolution. She turned a Religious, but did not
entirely abandon the satisfactions of life; her friends were
continually at the grate, and the monastery, when one has an
inclination to make it so, is exceedingly charming and pleasant. I
was present when my mother was professed. At my return I resolved
to study divinity, and inquired for a director in that study. I was
recommended to one Anselm, the very oracle of his time, but, to
give you my own opinion, one more venerable for his age and his
wrinkles than for his genius or learning. If you consulted him upon
any difficulty, the sure consequence was to be much more uncertain
in the point. They who only saw him admired him, but those who
reasoned with him were extremely dissatisfied. He was a great
master of words and talked much, but meant nothing. His discourse
was a fire, which, instead of enlightening, obscured everything
with its smoke; a tree beautified with variety of leaves and
branches, but barren of fruit. I came to him with a desire to
learn, but found him like the fig tree in the Gospel, or the old
oak to which Lucan compares Pompey. I continued not long underneath
his shadow. I took for my guides the primitive Fathers and boldly
launched into the ocean of the Holy Scriptures.
In a short time I had made such progress that others chose me for
their director. The number of my scholars was incredible, and the
gratuities I received from them were proportionate to the great
reputation I had acquired. Now I found myself safe in the harbour,
the storms were passed, and the rage of my enemies had spent itself
without effect. Happy had I known to make a right use of this calm!
But when the mind is most easy ’tis most exposed to love, and even
security is here the most dangerous state. And now, my friend, I am
going to expose to you all my weaknesses. All men, I believe, are
under a necessity of paying tribute at some time or other to Love,
and it is vain to strive to avoid it. I was a philosopher, yet this
tyrant of the mind triumphed over all my wisdom; his darts were of
greater force than all my reasonings, and with a sweet constraint
he led me wherever he pleased. Heaven, amidst an abundance of
blessings with which I was intoxicated, threw in a heavy
affliction. I became a most signal example of its vengeance, and
the more unhappy because, having deprived me of the means of
accomplishing satisfaction, it left me to the fury of my criminal
desires. I will tell you, my dear friend, the particulars of my
story, and leave you to judge whether I deserved so severe a
correction. I had always an aversion for those light women whom
’tis a reproach to pursue; I was ambitious in my choice, and wished
to find some obstacles, that I might surmount them with the greater
glory and pleasure.
There was in Paris a young creature (ah, Philintus!) formed in a
prodigality of nature to show mankind a finished composition; dear
Heloise, the reputed niece of one Fulbert, a canon. Her wit and her
beauty would have stirred the dullest and most insensible heart,
and her education was equally admirable. Heloise was the mistress
of the most polite arts. You may easily imagine that this did not a
little help to captivate me; I saw her, I loved her, I resolved to
make her love me. The thirst of glory cooled immediately in my
heart, and all my passions were lost in this new one. I thought of
nothing but Heloise; everything brought her image to my mind. I was
pensive and restless, and my passion was so violent as to admit of
no restraint. I was always vain and presumptive; I flattered myself
already with the most bewitching hopes. My reputation had spread
itself everywhere, and could a virtuous lady resist a man who had
confounded all the learned of the age? I was young--could she show
an insensibility to those vows which my heart never formed for any
but herself? My person was advantageous enough, and by my dress no
one would have suspected me for a doctor; and dress, you know, is
not a little engaging with women. Besides, I had wit enough to
write a billet-doux, and hoped, if ever she permitted my absent
self to entertain her, she would read with pleasure those
breathings of my heart. Filled with these notions I thought of
nothing but the means to speak to her. Lovers either find or make
all things easy.
By the offices of common friends I gained the acquaintance of
Fulbert; and can you believe it, Philintus, he allowed me the
privilege of his table, and an apartment in his house? I paid him,
indeed, a considerable sum, for persons of his character do nothing
without money. But what would I not have given! You, my friend,
know what love is; imagine then what a pleasure it must have been
to a heart so inflamed as mine to be always so near the dear object
of desire! I would not have exchanged my happy condition for that
of the greatest monarch upon earth. I saw Heloise, I spoke to
her--each action, each confused look told her the trouble of my
soul. And she, on the other side, gave me ground to hope for
everything from her generosity. Fulbert desired me to instruct her
in philosophy; by this means I found opportunities of being in
private with her, and yet I was surely of all men the most timorous
in declaring my passion. As I was with her one day alone, 'Charming
Heloise,' said I, blushing, 'if you know yourself you will not be
surprised with the passion you have inspired me with. Uncommon as
it is, I can express it but with the common terms--I love you,
adorable Heloise! Till now I thought philosophy made us masters of
all our passions, and that it was a refuge from the storms in which
weak mortals are tossed and shipwrecked; but you have destroyed my
security and broken this philosophic courage. I have despised
riches; honour and its pageantries could never wake a weak thought
in me, beauty alone has stirred my soul; happy if she who raised
this passion kindly receives this declaration; but if it is an
offence?--' 'No,' replied Heloise, 'she must be very ignorant of
your merit who can be offended at your passion.
But for my own repose I wish either that you had not made this
declaration, or that I were at liberty not to suspect your
sincerity.' 'Ah, divine Heloise, said I, flinging myself at her
feet, 'I swear by yourself--' I was going on to convince her of the
truth of my passion, but heard a noise, and it was Fulbert: there
was no avoiding it, I had to do violence to my desire and change
the discourse to some other subject. After this I found frequent
opportunities to free Heloise from those suspicions which the
general insincerity of men had raised in her; and she too much
desired that what I said might be true not to believe it. Thus
there was a most happy understanding between us. The same house,
the same love, united our persons and our desires. How many soft
moments did we pass together! We took all opportunities to express
to each other our mutual affection, and were ingenious in
contriving incidents which might give us a plausible occasion of
meeting. Pyramus and Thisbe's discovery of the crack in the wall
was but a slight representation of our love and its sagacity. In
the dead of night, when Fulbert and his domestics were in a sound
sleep, we improved the time proper with the sweets of love; not
contenting ourselves, like those unfortunate lovers, with giving
insipid kisses to a wall, we made use of all the moments of our
charming interviews. In the place where we met we had no lions to
fear, and the study of philosophy served us for a blind.