by George Moore
Héloïse heard Abélard start out with an argument in a way that she recognised as characteristic of him, and knowing him as well as she did, Héloïse did not seek to interrupt the flow of logic which he could not restrain, so natural was it to him. She heard many quotations from Saint Paul, and the case he made out against his accusers was an excellent one. But why does he put himself to all this trouble, she asked, to prove himself to be in the right before one whose heart cries always: thou art the right, and known by me from the beginning, since thy voice called me out of myself; and now, listening to the thrice-beloved voice, she regretted nothing, for she knew now that the story he was telling her was the story of a man to whom a thought was more imperative than health or wealth or glory.
Wherever there is great love, there also will be found pity, and she apprehended more clearly than ever that the man whose destiny she had accepted as hers could spare no faintest shade of his thought. His thought is himself, and next to his thought, I come, she said, and fell to listening once more to the beautiful voice and to the abundance of words that had led half the world away, herself more than any other. She began to listen again, for he was now telling how he had sent some Dialogues of Plato, and a rare book, the Elevatio Theologica, by Proclus, to be copied by a skilful scribe in the abbey of Clairvaux; and in this story, Héloïse saw Abélard as plainly as she did in the carving of the has-relief and the dedication of his church to the Holy Ghost rather than to the Trinity or the Son, together with the indignant Bernard and another fanatic, Norbert, who ran about France foretelling the coming of Antichrist and stirring up persecution against all those who seemed to him a danger to faith and unity.
Though they had nothing else in common, they were united in hatred of me and of learning, Abélard said. It would seem to them that Christianity rested not upon a rock of learning but upon the mud-banks of ignorance; and ever since they met they have not ceased to speak against me and impugn my teaching, and wherever they go their aim is to discover some act of mine, which would justify them in bringing a charge of heresy against me. Whilst I was at the Paraclete tidings reached me almost every week of something that had been said against me. I call God to witness I never heard of a synod of ecclesiastics that the thought did not cross my mind: they are meeting now to consider my case. A man bears with his enemies easily for a time, but at length he begins to feel himself like a hunted animal. Whichever way he goes the hounds are on his track; they seem to be getting nearer, and at last he swings himself over a cliff’s edge to escape them — a thing that I often longed to do myself, dreaming myself out of Europe in the midst of some idolatrous country, where at least I should not have to teach philosophy for money.
But, Abélard, Héloïse said, returning to her conception of Abélard’s character — that the source of his misfortunes was his love of truth — Abélard, thou dost defame thyself worse than thine enemies do. How is that? he asked, for his mind had been away, and he returned to the actual present with difficulty. The thought of money was never in thy mind, Abélard; thou didst teach philosophy for philosophy’s own sake, and I will not hear thee defame thyself. It may be that thou art right, he answered, and that the money I received was but an accident. It was indeed, she said; the love of truth was always thy lode-star. And now tell me what brought thee to Saint-Gildas — to Brittany. To a monastery, he added, hung like an eagle’s nest among rocks; to savage monks whose language I do not speak and whose wants I cannot fulfil. Drink and food they claimed from me for themselves and their wives and families, and we were persecuted by a lord of that country and robbed by him. The ocean thunders around the rocks and the gulls scream; a country without laws, a savagery. What evil providence drove thee thither? she asked, and Abélard, his voice dropping to one of gentle sadness, related that the monastery, founded by Chilperic I., lost its Abbot, Harvé, in 1125, and that the monks were deputed by Conan IV., Duke of Brittany, to go to France, and these, having obtained the consent of the Abbot and monks of Saint-Denis, came to the Paraclete. And all being dark about me — not a single light showing anywhere — I set forth with them for Brittany and have borne as best I might with them. But thou wilt not return? Héloïse said. Rodebœuf, he continued, came to Saint-Gildas and told me of thy life at Argenteuil and of the danger of the monks of Saint-Denis possessing themselves of the buildings and lands belonging to you. The thought of the abandoned Paraclete came into my mind as a refuge for you. But now that we have met after these many years we shall not part again, she said. It cannot be that thou hast come from the uttermosts of Brittany to leave me again. Thy life and my life are but one life now, as they should have been, without hope or joy except what each may bring to the other. Our lives are twain as before, Héloïse. Then it is not for me that thou hast come, but for thy son? For my son, whom I saw but once; where is he? Did Rodebœuf not tell thee what befell him? Another misfortune then has befallen us both, Héloïse? Is our son dead? We know not if he be dead or living, Abélard, but he has gone from us. He may return.
Tell me thy story, Héloïse. And when she had finished telling it, he said: that boy, if he had lived, might have made the twain one. Then he will return, she said. There is no returning from those pilgrimages, he answered. If there be no returning, she replied, thou wilt give me another son. That may not be, Héloïse. So the story Suger told me is the truth! God has spared us no misfortune, she cried, falling over against him, and when he strove to lift her from her knees she wept the more. He took her in his arms and kissed her, but his lips frightened her, and she could not bear the touch of his hands; and the violence of her grief was such that she did not know the cruelty she was guilty of till he released her, saying: Héloïse, it would have been better had I stayed in my monastery amid the rocks than to come hither to see thee grieve like this. How often didst thou say to me: thy love for me is but passion, mine is above passion, for it is not with my body alone that I love thee but with my soul, with my spirit, with my intellect. Thy very words, Héloïse, but now when I return I find no consolation in thee but hard hands that repulse me. Héloïse, can it be that I have been mistaken in thee and that thy love was not what I thought it, but passion and desire of my glory, mayhap, lest a ray of it should fall upon thee? It would seem that this is a truth. Héloïse, it would have been better that I had not come hither. And yet to die without seeing thee again, I could not, or my son, him whom I shall never see!
If I weep, Abélard, it is from shock, out of which I shall come the same Héloïse as thou knewest; out of it I have come already, and strong enough to bear without flinching the story of thy misfortune. Suger was not lying then. Ah, it was the mutilation that kept thee from me these nine years. Shame of it kept thee away. Art thou not culpable even as I was when my grief took all reason from me for a few minutes? For nine years thou didst leave me to mourn, but I make no complaint, for thou hast returned. Only tell me that now we shall be united, that our lives shall be one, and that the misery of hope is at an end. But why this silence? It was shame that kept thee from me? How little thou knowest me! Speak, Abélard, speak, for thy silence is worse than any story, worse than any grief we have met with; and we have met with many, more than enough. Speak. It is as thou sayest, Héloïse; it was shame kept me from thee, and misfortune, always on my track, is upon it still, for now I come to thee to learn that our son has been taken from us. Is there no end to our misfortune? There is an end to it if thou canst remain with me, she replied; and I would hear all, for all thou hast not yet told. Thou wouldst hear of the mutilation, when and how it came to pass? Two weeks after leaving thee in the convent at Argenteuil Fulbert’s hirelings bribed my servant and broke into my lodging, held me, and the mutilation was accomplished. After it I lay in pain of body and shame of mind, saying to myself: Héloïse I shall never see again. How little thou knewest thy Héloïse, she answered, her tears falling upon his hands. Never shall I see her, I cried, during the night and day, and prayed that I might die and escape the shame of it. But death did not come as w
as expected, and my soul said to me: bury thyself in a monastery. Mine enemies have robbed me of love and glory; and it was for that I put on the monk’s cowl in the monastery of Saint-Denis. My enemies have indeed brought about my overthrow. They have not, she answered; my love thou hast and wilt always have it, and thy glory is assured, for is it not true that the vanquished to-day is to-morrow’s victor, and vice versa. It may be that the truth triumphs in the end, he said. Let us be faithful to one another, she cried, for we have none other to be faithful unto. Abelard, let us be faithful to one another. We may not live together, Héloïse, for, despite his mutilation, it would be said, he creeps back to his mistress. What matter, she cried, what is said of thee or me? Yes, Héloïse, it matters; it matters much what is said. A struggle still awaits me against the all-powerful Church, and we may not live together, Héloïse.
Then indeed, Abélard, thy coming is not well for me or for thee, for I had as lief never seen thy face again. Do not speak so, Héloïse, we must live our lives to the end. I must return to my abbey among the high rocks over against the Western Ocean, and the oratory that my disciples built for me in a desert at Troyes, near to the banks of the Arduzon, will be a shelter for thee and the nuns who have come with thee from Argenteuil to Paris. Héloïse, do not weep, for it breaks my heart to see thee. I thought that there was more strength in thee and that thou couldst bear with finer fortitude a hard lot.
She did not answer, and he watched her fall into a trance of grief, out of which his words could not awake her, and from which she did not awaken till the sisters pushed the door open and crossed the threshold, stopping at the sight of Abélard. My husband, Héloïse said, rising, and Abélard answered: my sister in Jesus Christ.
CHAP. XLII.
FROM HÉLOÏSE TO Abélard:
To him to whom my body and temporal life belong, as my immortal life and soul belong to God. When thine eyes read these words, Abélard, thou’lt remember that I have never been disobedient to thee, that thy will has always been my will; and such it would be to this day, an undivided, mutual will if misfortune had not robbed me of my strength to obey thee, the only strength that I ever sought to possess or that seemed to me to be of any value. But the strength that empowered me for nine years is not with me to-day. I am no longer the Héloïse whom thou knewest; indeed I know not what I am beyond that I am nothing, having lost the hope of seeing thee again, for thou denyest thy presence to me. A consolation it would be to know that thou livest in thy monastery pitched above the sea, but that is not enough; with thee I could continue the pilgrimage, without thee I cannot. I must go. These words will torture thee when I am gone; I know it, and would spare thee all suffering, for, like myself, thou hast suffered enough. But I must brave thy disapproval, and though it is hard for me to do this, I must do it, for there is no reality, nothing in life for me but thou; I am dead to all other pleasure and my life is over and done in the heart of God; and like the poet I would that the black fate overhanging me should fall quickly, suddenly. He asks for hope to soothe our fears, but hope has been taken from me, and my soul is reft of all save dread of thy disapproval, of the words: why did she leave me when I needed her most? But if such a thought come to thy mind, I pray thee remember that I sought thy fame, thy glory and thy genius always, and that I am leaving thee in the belief that, released, thy genius will flourish again. In justice to me thou’lt not forget that I tried to dissuade thee from marriage, saying that it was honour enough for me to be thy mistress, thy concubine, and that I called to thy mind the names of the women who brought about the downfall of great men. I knew them all, for the terror of my soul was always that I might find myself among them in the end. In trying to dissuade thee from marriage I was pleading my own case, but thou wouldst not hearken, though thou knewest the truth and stifled it in love of me. Thy mistake was to desire me wholly, for in this world God’s gifts are partial. Clasp nothing, not even love, too tightly, lest love die in thy embrace. But since those days in Brittany thou hast pondered my words, for I find them in thy lamentations. In telling the story of Jephthah thy thoughts were on me, and in the lamentations of Israel for Samson thy thoughts were on thyself:
O, woman, thou the eternal scourge of great men: thou wert made to destroy them. The first among you struck down the father of mankind and gave the cup of death to the race.
Who was holier than David, who more prudent than Solomon, and unto what blind folly did women not lead them. Who, amid the strongest, was broken like Samson the strongest of all.
Thy lamentations and thy love songs have reached me. The love songs are echoes of a time gone by, the lamentations tell that, released, thy genius will flourish again; and so I do not leave thee hopeless after all. But again I hear thy voice reproving me, saying: she has divided herself from me for ever by disobeying God’s law. But who shall say that in speaking to Moses the words: thou shalt not kill, it was God’s thought to forbid man to take his own life? Was not his law raised up against man killing his fellow? So indeed we may understand the law, for has not our Lord Jesus Christ said: love thy neighbour as thyself. But God’s laws are not fully revealed to our understanding, and so imperfect are our natures that each must explain God’s law to himself and to herself. And knowing what my strength is and the burden of suffering he has put upon me, I dare to put my trust in his inclement clemency. Thy genius was a gift from him which he would protect, which he would save for his unknown purposes; and in this belief I find courage as Jephthah’s daughter did, but unlike her I do not ask for two months’ reprieve, but that my death shall be promp, as is the promise of the phial. Be strong, Abélard, read this letter with firm hands, without tears, remembering that Jephthah placed his sword against his daughter’s bosom without fear. Her story will still the reproaches which I dread. Once more I beseech thee to put no blame upon me, and to think well that all that has been had to be for reasons unknown to us. I was brave in my way and thou wast brave in thy way. But our hardihood has served us nothing, so it seems, unless indeed my death releases thy genius from the constraint my life put upon it. Thou art stronger than I am and will endure thy life to the end, but being a woman I cannot bear with mine any longer. Ah, Abélard, would that it had been otherwise.
Her pen had flowed on without stopping, and might have flowed on for some lines longer, but a footstep interrupted her thoughts, and looking up, she saw Abélard. What is this? he said, laying his hand on the phial. Give it to me, she cried. He let her take it and without answering, he took the letter and began to read it aloud to her. So thou wouldst be divided from me for ever, he said, for that thou’rt unable to endure a few more years of grief for eternity’s sake? This phial of poison would set to rest thy troubles here, whilst robbing thee of heaven. What are our troubles here compared with the troubles of those on the other side who were disobedient to God’s commands? We might not be divided, Héloïse answered. Which means, he said, that thou wouldst face hell with me rather than heaven without me? Abélard, there is no heaven for me without thee. Then away with the poison, he said, and bear with thy life for the sake of eternity; and let us dedicate to God whatever years remain to us to live, and so gain a happiness to which there will be no end. A wiser course that is, for what joy would there be in heaven for me without thee, Héloïse? Will our lives in heaven be as our lives were in the days that have gone? she asked. Wilt thou be given back to me whole? We know but little of heaven, he answered; only this for certain, that heaven is happiness. Earthly pains may differ from eternal pain, but happiness is the same in heaven as on earth. Is that, she asked, an answer to my question? It is, he answered, for since we shall be happy in heaven, the means of enjoying our happiness must be given back to us — It is said by some that at the last day we rise with the body that we are now wearing, and it is said by others (by Origen, my predecessor in mutilation and in suspicion of heresy) that although our present flesh dies it holds within it a root, a seed, from which springs our heavenly body. It may be as thou sayest, Abélard, as Origen and
many others dreamed, but he parted with his manhood to escape from sin. Not to escape sin, Abélard said, but to escape suspicions of sin, and was reproved for it by the Church, for we must not escape from sin or suspicion of sin by such gross means as Origen took. Sin is not of the flesh but of the spirit, and he who is not aware of the sin does not sin. But it would seem that once more I am dropping into a heresy, a thing that in this world seems hard to escape from if one thinks at all. But Origen, she said, was ordained, though he castrated himself. The Church was laxer, he answered, in those days than now. I am Abbot of Saint-Gildas, and will die Abbot without hope of other advancement, for outside of the priesthood the Church has no higher office than Abbot. My enemies have succeeded. No bishop would ordain me for valid reasons, and hope has ended for me in this world. It would seem that hope has ended for thee, since thou sayest herein that thou canst not love any other. Life without love is a weary burden for us to bear, and a useless one too, if henceforth our adventure be not heaven, so throw the poison into the street; spill it into the mud. Obey me for thy sake and mine, and accept the Paraclete — be its Abbess — and we will go thither with the sisters who have remained faithful. I have no heart but to do thy bidding, Héloïse answered; and in the midst of remembrances that he had never heard her sob like this before, Abélard too felt tears trembling on his eyelids ready to overflow them, but he forced them back, saying: I will leave thee now, Héloïse, and go out in search of the hackneys to carry us over the first stage of our journey.
