ebook

 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.  Special rules,

set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to

copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to

protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project

Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you

charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you

do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the

rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose

such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and

research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do

practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is

subject to the trademark license, especially commercial

redistribution.

*** START: FULL LICENSE ***

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free

distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work

(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project

Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project

Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at

http://gutenberg.org/license).

Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm

electronic works

1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm

electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to

and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property

(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all

the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy

all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.

If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project

Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the

terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or

entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B.  "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark.  It may only be

used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who

agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few

things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works

even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See

paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project

Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement

and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic

works.  See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"

or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project

Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the

collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an

individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are

located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from

copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative

works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg

are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project

Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by

freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of

this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with

the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by

keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project

Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern

what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in

a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check

the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement

before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or

creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project

Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning

the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United

States.

1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate

access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently

whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the

phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project

Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,

copied or distributed:

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

1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived

from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is

posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied

and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees

or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work

with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the

work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1

through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the

Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or

1.E.9.

1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted

with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution

must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional

terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked

to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the

permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm

License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this

work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.

1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this

electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without

prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with

active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project

Gutenberg-tm License.

1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,

compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any

word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or

distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than

"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version

posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),

you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a

copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon

request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other

form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm

License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,

performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works

unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing

access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided

that

- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from

     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method

     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is

     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he

     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the

     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments

     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you

     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax

     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and

     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the

     address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to

     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies

     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he

     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm

     License.  You must require such a user to return or

     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium

     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of

     Project Gutenberg-tm works.

- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any

     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the

     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days

     of receipt of the work.

- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free

     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.

1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm

electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set

forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from

both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael

Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the

Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable

effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread

public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm

collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic

works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain

"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or

corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual

property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a

computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by

your equipment.

1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right

of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project

Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project

Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project

Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all

liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal

fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT

LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE

PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE

TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE

LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR

INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH

DAMAGE.

1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a

defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can

receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a

written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you

received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with

your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with

the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a

refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity

providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to

receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy

is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further

opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth

in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER

WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO

WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied

warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.

If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the

law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be

interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by

the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any

provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the

trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone

providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance

with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,

promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,

harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,

that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do

or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm

work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any

Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm

Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of

electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers

including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists

because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from

people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the

assistance they need, are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's

goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will

remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project

Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure

and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.

To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4

and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org.

Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive

Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit

501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the

state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal

Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification

number is 64-6221541.  Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at

http://pglaf.org/fundraising.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg

Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent

permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.

The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.

Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered

throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at

809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email

business@pglaf.org.  Email contact links and up to date contact

information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official

page at http://pglaf.org

For additional contact information:

     Dr. Gregory B. Newby

     Chief Executive and Director

     gbnewby@pglaf.org

Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg

Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide

spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of

increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be

freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest

array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations

($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt

status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating

charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United

States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a

considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up

with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations

where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To

SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any

particular state visit http://pglaf.org

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we

have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition

against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who

approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make

any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from

outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation

methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other

ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.

To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate

Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic

works.

Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm

concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared

with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project

Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed

editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.

unless a copyright notice is included.  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.