 4. Letter IV Eloise to Abelard. To Abelard, her well-beloved in Christ Jesus. From Eloise, 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 ingenuous 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 Eloise 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 stocked 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 size, 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 born to the house of the pericleet, 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 moments 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 holy gods 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 hoped 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 with 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, hathst thou not persecuted me enough? Thou dost not give me any respite? Thou hast exhausted all thy vengeance upon me, and reserved nothing whereby thou mayest 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 preserved 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 favors, and then heaped me with the greatest afflictions. Ingenuous in tormenting me, she has made the memory of the joys I have lost an inexhaustible spring of tears. Love, which being poset 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, then 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 endeavored 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 full bear? 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. Harken, 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 saved that of including his enemies in his ruin. Solomon, that he might please women, foresook 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 Eloise 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 endeavored 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 defenses of disdain and honor, those enemies of pleasure which tyrannize over our sex made in me but a weak and unprofitable resistance. I sacrifice 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 endeavor to smother in my heart those desires to which the frailty of my nature gives birth. I will exercise on myself such torments as those you have to suffer from the rage of your enemies. I will endeavor 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 pitious 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. Oh 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 pity 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 doubt 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 endeavour 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, it is 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 not withstanding 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 fire 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 a virtue by outward appearances. For then the reprobate as well as the elect may lay claim to it. An artful imposter 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 readyer am I to believe the merit you attribute to me. I 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. Recording by Laura Koskinen. 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 Eloise forever. 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. Oh, celebrity and merit of that man who, in spite of his enemies, is the wonder of the age. Oh, enchanting pleasures to which Eloise 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 Eloise 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 is God alone that takes Eloise from you. Yes, my dear Abelard, he gives my mind that tranquility which of vivid remembrance of our misfortunes formally 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 Eloise, 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 Eloise 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 Eloise! As long as thou drawest a breath it is decreed thou must love Abelard. Weep, unfortunate wretch, for thou never haths'd 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 forever? 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 endeavor, 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 endeavored, 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 rigors 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. Aught this too 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 were 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 practices 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 splendor 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 Eloise? Thus 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 every one 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, Eloise, 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 Eloise, 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 oh, 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 Eloise 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 Eloise must weep. She must lament, for ever, without being certain whether 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 therefore, 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 practicing your rules and directions. The young nun had never formed so criminal a design as that of breaking her vows, had you been at our head to exhort us to live 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 days. I have been uneasy and disturbed. It is 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 know 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 two 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, Eloise, I would willingly make my abode at the pericleet, 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, Eloise, 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, Eloise, 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 Eloise 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 full but 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 calamity. But, Eloise, 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, safe 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. And 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. Endeavour with all your strength to be the pattern of a perfect Christian. It is difficult, I confess, but not impossible, and I expect this beautiful triumph from your teachable disposition. If your first 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 any one 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 hath always 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 Eloise, 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, Eloise, 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 Magdalene, wash our Saviour's feet with your tears? If you have not yet these ardent aspirations, pray that you might 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. Early pious persons are not thus mistaken. They are freed from all sensual pleasures, and raise their desires to heaven. Begin Eloise. 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 size 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. Magdalene wept, thinking that Jesus had forsaken her. But Martha said, See, the Lord calls you. Be diligent in your duty. Abay faithfully the calls of grace, and Jesus will be with you. Attend Eloise 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 practice 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 offended 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, Eloise, 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 a 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, Eloise, 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. Here, our Saviour, who says, My child, renounce yourself, take up your cross and follow me. Oh, Eloise, do you doubt? Is not your soul ravished, so saving a command? Are you insensible to words so full of kindness? Beware, Eloise, 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 succond my design. I endeavoured to save you, and you willfully destroyed yourself. Go, wretch, and take the portion of the reprobates. Oh, Eloise, 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, Eloise, 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, Eloise, but you will hear after reply 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 comfortable 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 Savior. You will not read your reprobation written in the judgment book, but you will hear your Savior say, Come, partake of my glory, and enjoy the eternal reward I have appointed for those virtues you have practised. Farewell, Eloise. 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. End of Letters 6 Appendix of the Love Letters of Abelard and Eloise This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Icy Jumbo The Love Letters of Abelard and Eloise translated anonymously. Appendix Pope's Eloisa to Abelard This epistle was published by Alexander Pope in 1717 and is given here because through it alone has the tragedy of the unfortunate lovers been so far known to the mass of the English public. The epistle is marvelously exact in its rendering of many of the phrases of Eloise, and is an apt example of how rhyming couplets can turn into trite commonplaces, the most marvellous expressions of human passion that literature contains. In these deep solitudes and awful cells where heavenly pensive contemplation dwells, and ever musing melancholy rains, what means this tumult in a vestal's veins? Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat? Why feels my heart its long forgotten heat? Yet, yet I love. From Abelard it came, and Eloise yet must kiss the name. Dear fatal name, rest ever unrevealed, nor past these lips in holy silence sealed. Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, where mixed with gods his loved idea lies. Oh, write it not, my hand, the name appears already written. Wash it out, my tears. In vain lost Eloise a weeps and prays. Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys. Relentless walls whose darksome round contains repentant sighs and voluntary pains. Ye rugged rock which holy knees have worn, ye grots and caverns shagged with horrid thorn, shrines where their vigils pale-eyed virgins keep, and pitying saints whose statues learn to weep. Though cold like you, unmoved and silent grown, I have not yet forgot myself to stone. All is not heavens, while Abelard has part. Still rebel nature holds out half my heart, nor prayers, nor fasts, its stubborn pulse restrain, nor tears for ages taught to flow in vain. Soon as thy letters trembling I enclose, that well-known name awakens all my words. Oh, name for ever sad, for ever dear, still breathed in sighs, still ushered with a tear. I tremble too, where ere my own I find, some dire misfortune follows close behind. Line after line my gushing eyes are afloat, led through a sad variety of woe. Now warm in love, now withering in my bloom, lost in a convent's solitary gloom. There stern religion quenched th' unwilling flame, there died the best of passions, love and fame. Yet write, oh, write me all, that I may join griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine. Nor foes, nor fortune, take this power away, and is my Abelard less kind than they. Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare. Love but demands what else were shed in prayer. No happier task these faded eyes pursue, to read and weep, is all they now can do. Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief. Ah, more than share it, give me all thy grief. Heaven first taught letters for some wretches' aid, some banished lover, or some captive maid. They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires, warm from the soul and faithful to its fires. The virgin's wish, without her fears in part, excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart, speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, and waft sigh from indus to the pole. Thou knowest how guiltless first I met thy flame, when love approached me under friendship's name. My fancy formed thee of angelic kind, some emanation of th' albutious mind. Those smiling eyes, atempering every ray, shone sweetly lambent with celestial day. Guiltless I gazed, heaven listened while you sung, and truth divine came mended from that tongue. From lips like those what precept failed to move. Too soon they taught me, towards no sin to love, back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran, nor wished an angel whom I'd loved a man, dim and remote the joys of saints I see, nor envy them that heaven I lose for thee. How oft, when pressed to marriage, have I said, curse on all laws, but those which love has made. Love, free as air, at sight of human ties, spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies. Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame, august her deed, and sacred be her flame. Before true passion all those views remove, fame, wealth and honour. What are you to love? The jealous God, when we profane his fires, those restless passions in revenge inspire, and bids them make mistaken mortals groan, who seek in love for ought but love alone. Should at my feet the world's great master fall, himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn him all. Not Caesar's empress would I dain to prove. No, make me mistress to the man I love. If there be yet another name more free, more fond than mistress, make me that to thee. Oh happy state, when souls each other draw, when love is liberty, and nature law. All then is full, possessing and possessed, no craving void left aching in the breast. Even thought meets thought, air from the lips it part, and each warm wish springs mutual from the heart. This sure is bliss, if bliss on earth there be. And once the lot of Abelard and me. Alas, how changed, what sudden horrors rise, a naked lover bound and bleeding lies. Where, where was Eloise? Her voice, her hand, her poignard had opposed the dire command. Barbarians stay, that bloody stroke restrain, the crime was common, common be the pain. I can no more, by shame, by rage suppressed, let tears and burning blushes speak the rest. Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day, when victims at John Alters foot we lay? Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell, when warm in youth I bat the world farewell? As with cold lips I kissed the sacred veil, the shrines all trembled, and the lamps grew pale. Hen scarce believed the conquest it surveyed, and saints with wonder heard the vows I made. Yet then, to those dread Alters, as I drew, not on the cross my eyes were fixed, but you, not grace or zeal, love only was my call. And if I lose thy love I lose my all. Come, with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe. Those still at least are left thee to bestow. Still, on thy breast in hammered, let me lie, still drink delicious poison from thy eye. Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be pressed, give all thou canst, and let me dream the rest. Ah, no, instruct me other joys to prize, with other beauties charm my partial eyes, full in my view set all the brighter bowed, and make my soul quit Abelard for God. Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care, plants of thy hand, and children of thy prayer. From the false world in early youth they fled, by thee to mountains, wilds and deserts led. You raised these hallowed walls, the desert smiled, and paradise was opened in the wild. No weeping orphan saw his father's stores, our shrines radiate, or emblaze the floors. No silver saints, by dying mice has given, he abribed the rage of ill-requited heaven. But such plain roofs as piety could raise, and only vocal, with the makers' praise. In these lone walls, their days eternal bound, these moss-grown domes, with spirey turrets crowned, where awful arches make a noonday night, and the dim windows shed a solemn light. Thy eyes diffused a reconciling ray, and gleams of glory brightened all the day. But now no face divine contentment wears, tis all blank sadness, or continual tears. See how the force of others' prayers I try, a pious fraud of amorous charity. But why should I on others' prayers depend? Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend! Ah, let thy handmade sister, daughter move, and all those tender names in one thy love. The darksome pines that o'er yon rocks reclined, wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind. The wandering streams that shine between the hills, the grots that echo to the tinkling rills, the dying gales that pant upon the trees, the lakes that quiver to the curling breeze. No more these scenes, my meditation aid, or lull to rest, the visionary maid. But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves, long-sounding aisles and interminkled graves, black melancholy sits, and round her throws a death-like silence and a dead repose. Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene, shades every flower, and darkens every green, deepens the murmur of the falling floods, and breathes a browner horror on the woods. Yet here for ever, ever I must stay, sad-proof how well a lover can obey. Death only death can break the lasting chain, and here, even then, shall my cold dust remain. Here all its frailties, all its flames resign, and wait till there's no sin to mix with thine. O wretch, believed the spouse of God in vain, confessed within the slave of love and man, assist me, heaven, but whence arose that prayer, sprung it from piety or from despair. Even here, where frozen chastity retires, love finds an altar for forbidden fires. I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought. I mourn the lover, not lament the fault. I view my crime, but kindle at the view, repent old pleasures and solicit new. Now turned to heaven, I weep my past offence. Now think of thee and curse my innocence. Of all affliction taught a lover yet, it is sure the hardest science to forget. How shall I lose the sin yet keep the sense, and love the offender, yet detest the offence? How the dear object from the crime remove, or how distinguish penitence from love? Unequal task, a passion to resign for hearts so touched, so pierced, so lost as mine. Air such a soul regains its peaceful state, how often it must love, how often hate. How often hope, despair, resent, regret, conceal, disdain, do all things, but forget. But let heaven seize it, all at once, tis fired, not touched, but rapt, not wakened, but inspired. O come, O teach me nature to subdue, renounce my love, my life, myself, and you. Fill my font heart with God alone, for he alone can rival, can succeed to thee. How happy is the blameless festival's lot, the world forgetting by the world forgot, eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, each prayer accepted, and each wish resigned, labour and rest that equal periods keep, obedient slumbers that can wake and weep, desires composed, affections ever even, tears that delight and sighs that waft to heaven. Grace shines around her with serenest beams, and whispering angels prompt her golden dreams. For her, the unfading rows of Eden blooms, and wings of seraph's shed divine perfumes, for her the spouse prepares the bridal ring, for her white virgins hymniles sing, to sounds of heavenly harps she dies away, and melts in visions of eternal day. Far other dreams my earring souls employ, far other raptures of unholy joy, when at the close of each sad, sorrowing day, fancy restores what vengeance snatched away, then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free, all my loose soul unbounded springs to thee. O burst dear horrors of all conscious night, how glowing guilt exalts the keen delight! Provoking demons all restraint remove, and stir within me every source of love. I hear thee, view thee, gaze over all thy charms, and round thy phantom glue my clasping arms. I wake. No more I hear, no more I view, the phantom flies me, as unkind as you. I call aloud, it hears not what I say. I stretch my empty arms, it glides away. To dream once more I close my willing eyes, ye soft illusions, dear deceits arise. Alas! no more. Me thinks we wandering go through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe, where round some mouldering tower of pale ivy creeps, and low-browed rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps. Sudden you mount, you beckon'd from the skies, clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise. I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find, and wake to all the griefs I left behind. For thee the fates severely kind, ordain a cool suspense from pleasure and from pain. Thy life a long dead calm of fixed repose, no pulse that riots, and no blood that glows. Still as the sea, air winds were taught to blow, or moving spirit bad the waters flow. Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiven, and mild as opening gleams of promised heaven. Come, Abelard, for what hast thou to dread? The torch of Venus burns not for the dead. Nature stands checked, religion disapproves, even thou art cold, yet Eloisa loves. Our hopeless lasting flames, like those that burn to light the dead, and warm the unfruitful urn. What scenes appear where ere I turn my view? The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue, rise in the grove, before the altar rise, stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes. I waste the mattin lamp in size for thee. Thy image steals between my God and me. Thy voice I seem in every hymn to hear, with every bead I drop to softer tear. When from the censor clouds of fragrance roll, and swelling organs lift the rising soul, one thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight, priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight. In seas of flame my plunging soul is drowned, while altars blaze and angels tremble round. While prostrate here in humble grief I lie, kind, virtuous drops just gathering in my eye, while praying, trembling, in the dust I roll, and dawning grace is opening on my soul. Come, if thou dest, all charming as thou art, oppose thyself to heaven, dispute my heart. Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes, blot out each bright idea of the skies. Take back that grace, those sorrows and those tears, take back my fruitless penitence and prayers. Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode, assist the fiends, and tear me from my God. No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole, rise alps between us, and whole oceans roll. Ah, come not, right not, think not once of me, nor share one pang of all I felt for thee. Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign, forget, renounce me, hate what ere was mine. Fair eyes and tempting looks, which yet I view, long loved, adored ideas, all adieu. O grace serene, O virtue heavenly fair, divine oblivion of low-thoughted care, fresh blooming hope, gay daughter of the sky, and faith our early immortality. Enter each mild, each amicable guest. Receive and wrap me in eternal rest. See in her cell, sad Eloisa spread, propped on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead. In each low wind, methinks a spirit calls, and more than echoes talk along the walls. Here, as I watched the dying lamps around, from yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound, come, sister, come, it said, or seemed to say. Thy place is here, sad sister, come away. Once, like thyself, I trembled, wept and prayed, love's victim then, though now a sainted maid. But all is calm in this eternal sleep, here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep. Even superstition loses every fear, for God, not man, absolves our frailties here. I come, I come, prepare your rosate boughs, celestial palms, and ever-blooming flowers. Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go, where flames refined in breasts, seraphic glow. Thou, Abelard, the last sad office pay, and smooth my passage to the realms of day. See my lips tremble, and my eyeballs roll. Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul. Ah, no, in sacred vestments, maced thou stand, the hallowed taper trembling in thy hand. Present the cross before my lifted eye, teach me at once, and learn of me to die. Ah, then thy once-loved Eloisa, see. It will be then no crime to gaze on me. See from my cheek the transient roses fly. See the last sparkle languish in my eye. Till every motion, pulse, and breath be our, and even my Abelard be loved no more. O death, all eloquent, you only prove what dust we dot on when tis man we love. Then, too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy, that cause of all my guilt and all my joy, in trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drowned, bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round, from opening skies may streaming glories shine, and saints embrace thee with a love like mine. May one kind grave unite each hapless name, and graft my love immortal on thy fame. Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er, when this rebellious heart shall beat no more, if ever chance to wandering lovers brings to paraclete's white walls and silver springs, O the pale marble shall they join their heads, and drink the falling tears each other sheds, then sadly say, with mutual pity moved, O may we never love as these have loved. From the full choir, when loud Hosanna's rise, and swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice, amid that scene, if some relenting eye glance on the stone where our cold relics lie, devotion's self shall steal a thought from heaven, one human tear shall drop and be forgiven, and sure, if fate some future bard shall join in sad similitude of griefs to mine, condemned whole years in absence to deplore, and image charms he must behold no more. Such, if there be who loves so long, so well, let him our sad, our tender story tell, the well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost, he best can paint them who shall feel them most. End of Appendix Appendix 2 of The Love Letters of Abelard and Eloise This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Icy Jumbo. The Love Letters of Abelard and Eloise translated anonymously. Appendix 2 from W. E. Henley's prologue to Beau Austin. Ah, then, as now, it may be, something more, woman and man were human to the core. They too could risk, they also could rebel, they could love wisely, they could love too well. In that great duel of sex, the ancient strife, which is the very central fact of life, they could, and did, engage it breath for breath, they could, and did, get wounded unto death. As at all times, since time for us began, woman was truly woman, man was man. Dead, dead and done with, swift from shine to shade, the roaring generations, flit and fade. To this one, fading, flitting like the rest, we come to proffer, be it worst or best. A sketch, a shadow, of one brave old time, a hint of what it might have held sublime. A dream, an idyll, call it what you will, of man still man, and woman, woman still. End of Appendix 2 End of The Love Letters of Abelard and Eloise Translated Anonymously