by Sherry Jones
“I do not wish to cause difficulty,” Abelard said, although his broad grin belied his protest. I had to look away or be consumed by the flame I saw leaping in his eyes. The corners of my mouth twitched with a smile of my own, which I suppressed, not wanting my elation to show. Living here, with me! Warmth spread through me as though the sun had taken residence in my chest.
“Jean has served me since I was young,” Uncle Fulbert said with a wave of his hand. “Nearly thirty years! He will sleep anywhere I say, and happily. He’s as faithful as a dog, eh, Heloise?”
Indeed. I could not understand why Jean endured my uncle’s belligerent, wine-soaked rants and, when Uncle was especially drunk, his kicks and slaps. With a straight back and impassive eyes he bore Uncle’s every insult, his every blow. Of course, I endured the same from Uncle Fulbert, but I had nowhere else to go.
“And so it is settled,” my uncle said. “You will live with us. In exchange, you will instruct my niece—and we will both save money. Everyone is happy.” He hoisted the henap in a toast, took a drink, and handed the cup to Abelard.
“Everyone is happy, yes, except poor Jean,” I said, but Abelard’s lips had curled in a slippery grin. I, however, did not like the twist of Jean’s mouth upon his hearing that he must move upstairs. I had explored the attic room and found it dank and smelling of rats.
The meal finished, my uncle staggered to his chambers and I retired to the study, where I began work on a letter to Abelard.
In a few moments, as I had expected, he came in, rubbing his palms together. “Good fortune is mine once again.”
“Good fortune? You have given up a substantial sum tonight.”
“Yes, and gladly, in order to be near you.” Abelard took my hand and pulled me close, then slid his arm about my waist. “My God, Heloise, you feel like heaven. I dreamt of this nightly while I was away.”
“All this feels like a dream to me, too.” I leaned against him, feeling as though I might melt. “To have you in Paris again is strange enough. It seems you might disappear at any moment, as though you were an apparition, or made of smoke. But to see you every night—I cannot believe it.”
“I cannot believe how easily Fulbert fell into my trap.” He laughed again. “And now he has consigned his little lamb to the wolf.”
“You deceived him.” I pulled away.
“Ah, but deception is not a sin.” Abelard wagged his finger. “You have said so yourself.”
“What I have said is that, in determining the sinfulness of an act, one ought to consider the doer’s intentions.”
“Behold the bold flush of your cheeks, the flash of your eyes!”
“My uncle trusts you, and yet you mock him as though he were a fool.”
“I only did it to be with you, my lamb.”
“Do not call me that.”
“I only did it to be with you, light of my days. Think of it, Heloise—now we will see each other nightly. I will ride home with your uncle at vespers, and here you will be, your face shining with love—”
“Your presumption astonishes me.” Yet I had to smile.
“Your face shining with pleasure at the prospect of another stimulating evening, first at supper and then, afterward, here, where we may talk into the night for as long as we desire. Your eyes bright with excitement, as they are now.”
He pulled me closer than before, so that I felt his pulse thumping against my chest and another part of him pressing against my thigh. I gasped, sensing danger, as though an intruder lurked at my door. I shifted my hips and would have moved away, but his hands remained firm at my waist.
“Are you sorry I took such a liberty?” He pressed his cheek to mine.
“I worry that you will be sorry. You will regret this move, I fear.”
“What shall I regret—giving up a salary I do not need? Yes, that’s right, dear girl, I do not need your uncle’s money. Do you hate me for pretending otherwise? Had I told him the truth, he would not have believed me. Such men cannot know what it means to despise worldly riches, as you and I do.”
Truer words were never spoken. Abelard had given up a lord’s château and all the privileges of landed wealth for the pursuit of knowledge. I, who had never owned anything, dreamed not of moneyed counts as Agnes did, but of heading the Fontevraud Abbey so that I might endow generations of girls with the gift of knowledge as my teacher, the prioress Beatrice, had done for me at Argenteuil. Never were two minds more alike than Abelard’s and mine.
Our eyes met, and we joined ourselves in another kiss, becoming one in breath as in mind. Our mouths feasted hungrily, but, rather than sate my appetite, Abelard’s kisses only made me yearn for more. I groaned.
“Shh! I feel the same way, but we do not want Fulbert to hear.” Abelard laughed tentatively, as though tiptoeing across humor’s prickly terrain.
“That is what I meant when I said you might regret this move. Are you certain you wish to take such a risk? What of the danger to you—to us both?”
His lips twitched. “ ‘The wise man regards the reason for his actions, but not the results.’ ”
I had never agreed with Seneca on this. “I beg you to reconsider. If Uncle Fulbert discovers us, he will kill us.”
“A man cannot kill you if he cannot see you.” Abelard’s gaze roamed across my throat, down to my breasts. “Or, if he sees two of you.” He nuzzled my throat and stroked the small of my back, sending pleasure coursing up my spine. He smelled of woodsmoke and wine, and, underneath, of soap. “What should I reconsider—my agreement with your uncle or my feelings for you, which I could no sooner relinquish than my need for air?”
As he kissed my forehead, my cheeks, my nose, I relished the bristle of his unshaven cheek, his flavor like wine, his heat—Abelard, for whom I had ached these past months, Abelard at last. “I worry that the price will be too dear.”
His voice broke and quivered. “For one night with you, my love, I would give my life, which, without you, would be no life at all.”
His murmurs turned to whispers as he held me close, closer, kissing my ear, stroking my hair, my love, my lovely Heloise, words bubbling like a spring from his tongue. I, trembling against his chest, heard his heart’s beat and, playing like a song, his words more beautiful than any poem: my love my love my love.
9
To her love most pure, worthy of inner fidelity; through the state of true love, the secret of tender faith.
—HELOISE TO ABELARD
The sun shone more brightly, it seemed, after Abelard came to live in our home. Warm breezes blew across the city, delaying the autumn; the birds rivaled the morning trumpet with their cheerful song. No more did I tarry in the scriptorium and arrive home late for supper, but waited eagerly for Abelard’s arrival every day after the vespers bell. Home was where we all wanted to be—all, that is, except Jean, who scowled as the rest of us laughed at Abelard’s witticisms, and as he complimented Pauline on her cooking and begged her to divorce Jean and marry him. Even I joined in the merriment, I who had not truly laughed since my seventh year, when my mother and I had danced in the sunlight singing nonsense songs and wearing chains of daisies in our hair.
As much as I enjoyed our suppers, however, I cherished the hours afterward even more, when Jean and Pauline’s son, Jean-Paul, had come to accompany his mother home and Jean and my uncle had retired. Then Abelard would join me in the study, and we would resume our lessons, in which I learned little of philosophy but much of love.
He spared no effort to please me, plumping the cushion for my chair; presenting me with a pen made from the quill of a peacock; taking his seat so near that I could scarcely breathe—and yet I would not have had him move away, not even were I gasping for air.
“Here you have wished me ‘the secret of tender faith’ through ‘the state of true love,’ ” he said one evening, critiquing the letters I had sent to him in Brittany. “You have mistaken spiritual love, caritas”—he gestured toward the words I had written—“for carnal l
ove, amor.” His fingers brushed against my arm, standing the hair on its ends, as he spoke the word carnal.
“But love is love. It is all the same.”
“Then why do we utter one word for God’s love, another for the love of a friend, and another for erotic love?” His brusque tone made it clear that he did not expect an answer. “Of course a difference exists. Do you feel the same love for your uncle as you do for God?”
I did not feel love for my uncle, but only gratitude and, at times, fear—but I forbore straying from the topic at hand. “Are you saying that different types of love exist because of the words we use? Having read your Dialectica, I am surprised to hear you take this position.”
“You have read Dialectica?” Pleasure shone on his face.
“I devoured every word.”
“And what did you think of my arguments? The Count of Poitiers praised them as ‘skillfully and subtly written.’ ”
“I cannot argue with that assessment, although I found the discourse rather too subtle at times. You dwell at length on the functions of words but little on the ideas which they express.”
His expression changed. He slid his chair away from me. The chill night air blew into the space between us.
“The subject matter is too abstract for a woman’s mind,” he said.
“And yet I did appreciate your theories about universals and particulars.”
“I cannot believe you have read my Dialectica.” He gazed at me as fondly as if he were a proud papa, and I his child who had performed some difficult feat.
“And the classifications we give to things, you wrote, are mere words.”
“My dear girl! Dialectic is not too abstract for your grasp at all.” He reached for the stylus, pressing his knee against mine.
“But, master,” I said, glancing away lest he detect the gleam of triumph in my eyes, “what of love?”
“As I said, a universal ‘love’ does not exist. Love comes in many forms.”
“But are there truly different types of love, or do humans merely perceive them to differ?”
“They differ. It is a matter on which everyone can agree.”
“Everyone, master? Are we all the same then, knowing the same things, feeling the same love, sharing the same ‘world soul’ as Plato described?”
He leapt to his feet and raked his fingers through his hair. “If you have read my work, then you know that the ‘world soul’ is a fallacy. Men do not share the same soul; we are not the same ‘in essence.’ ”
“If each man and woman is unique, doesn’t it follow that each of us loves uniquely?”
“Of course we experience love differently—in all its forms.”
“And so isn’t it possible that I could feel caritas, that beautiful, spiritual, unconditional love, not only for God but also for my beloved? Isn’t that what Christ wanted from us—to enact caritas on Earth as he did, transforming God’s love into love for our fellow men?”
Abelard’s expression changed. He resumed his seat and reached over to touch my hand. My body’s taut string plucked, I quivered and hummed.
“Heloise, you astonish me. Your mind—dear God! I can scarcely believe that you are—” He stopped, his face reddening.
“That I am a woman?” I rolled my eyes. “Given your propensity for insulting me, I can scarcely believe that you are a poet who makes women swoon.”
“Shall I speak of your beauty instead of your mind?” He winked.
“It matters not to me whether you think me beautiful of face or form—”
“But I do think so.” He slid his knees forward to press them against my thigh and touched my cheek with his fingertip.
“Do not flatter me.” Suddenly short of breath, I could barely utter the words. I turned my head away from his touch, my eyes away from his gaze. “I consider only my soul of any importance, for that is what God sees.”
“But he has given me eyes with which to behold your own eyes, as black and luminous as the water at night, and your lush, red mouth.” His lowered lids, the softening of his mouth as it approached mine, made me leap from my seat and turn toward the open window, away from him. The stars, so near that it seemed I could touch them, shifted and wheeled in my dizzy sights. My heart beat so wildly that I cupped it with my hands, thinking it might fly away. I crossed my arms to cradle myself, trying to quell my blood’s stirring, and heard the scrape of Abelard’s chair on the floor. Then he stood behind me and stroked the backs of my arms.
I whirled around. “Master—”
“Call me Abelard,” he murmured, moving his hands to my waist. “It is the name my scholars use—and many of my friends.”
“Are we friends?” I said weakly, taking one step backward but no more, standing so close to the window’s edge.
“We shall be the best of friends. How can it be otherwise? Who else, besides me, possesses a mind like yours? What other woman besides you approaches me in subtlety of thought and in sheer intellectual power?”
His modesty never failed to astound me, I wanted to retort—but I could hardly hear myself think over my pulse’s throb. Heat rose from him like breath. When he grasped my waist and pulled me close to him, I thought I might burst into flame. A feral cry escaped my lips.
Abelard slipped his arms around me and murmured my name, a sound more delightful to my ear than angels’ harps. I knew I should resist, but I had forgotten everything I had ever learned, forgotten even God and that he watched us, or, rather, I did not fear him. How could he be displeased, being the source of all love?
The rattle of the door latch caused us to fly apart. In the next moment Abelard sat in his chair, stylus in his hand, and I had turned to close the shutters of my window.
I had not yet smoothed my tunic or quelled the flush in my cheeks when the door swung open and my uncle walked into the room, a long switch of birch in his right hand. “I heard a cry.”
I averted my gaze from the switch and from his glittering eyes, praying he would not notice my crimson face.
“I had to discipline your niece, as you predicted,” Abelard lied. “We disagreed in our debate, and she called me a bouffe. Forgive me for losing my temper, friend.”
“My niece must learn to control her tongue.” Uncle glared at me. “I’m surprised you haven’t needed to correct her before now.” Turning to Abelard, he added, “My niece can be most obstinate—obstinate! She must learn to submit to authority, or she will never succeed at Fontevraud. You will need to punish her again, I am certain. But the cane you use on your scholars is too harsh for a woman’s tender flesh.” Uncle held the switch out to him.
“Thank you, Fulbert, my friend.” Will I ever forget the gleam in Abelard’s eyes as he took the weapon in hand? “Heloise, be forewarned. Do as I say—everything I say, or you will feel my sting.”
He lifted the long, quivering branch and lashed it in my direction. I turned away; its tip grazed my backside, causing a brief, sharp flicker of pain. Heat flooded my face, and my bottom tingled where the switch had stung me. I looked down at my clasped hands, hiding my sudden elation. Never had I felt so vividly alive.
10
I should be groaning over the sins I have committed, but I can only sigh for what I have lost. Everything we did and also the times and places where we did it are stamped on my heart along with your image, so that I live through them all again with you.
—HELOISE TO ABELARD
The months that followed recur to me, now, as a blur of passion in which, as Abelard himself wrote, more words of love than of reading passed between us, and more kissing than teaching. I wonder if, in later years, he relived those nights as I did, nights we spent warming each other in every new way we could imagine. Did he blush to remember all the sweet and terrible things we did?
He opened my door without knocking as I worked one evening, then, undetected, moved across the floor to seize me from behind. He covered my mouth with one hand while slipping the other inside my chemise to cup my breast. It is
a good thing that he thought to silence me, for without his quieting hand my moans might have alerted my slumbering uncle in the room beneath us, or Jean, who slept upstairs. My hips rocked as tension gathered like a storm between my thighs, making me whimper for release or for, at least, his touch in the moistly secret place that he did not, at first, approach.
Another time, he unbound my hair and wrapped it around his fingers, then pulled me backward into his lap. There he explored me with his hands and eyes while I lay in complete and blissful surrender. Even when he lowered his head to kiss the places he had touched, I never thought to resist him but instead luxuriated in the joining of skin to skin, of Abelard to Heloise. When we were together in this way, I felt truly one with him, my shooting star, nay, my fixed one.
One evening, he sat beside me and I opened my notes, a dutiful student although a negligent scholar who whiled my hours dreaming of my teacher. When he saw how little I had done, he commanded me to lie across the desk, on my stomach. My breath became gasps, then pants of desire, when I felt him lift my long skirts, rustling the cloth, exposing my bottom to the chill autumn air. Then followed a slow tease, the light dance of the switch’s tail over my skin, causing me to grip my hands and grind my teeth; then a light flick, a snap to revive the anticipation of a sting, and then, at last, the whoosh of the switch through the air before it lashed my backside. My cries could be heard, I know, throughout the house, for Uncle’s face held a sternly satisfied expression the next morning. Abelard punished me, and I endured the blows, for Uncle’s sake only, so that he might not suspect the true nature of our activities—or so we told each other. Yet, on the first night we spent alone—for my uncle had gone with the bishop of Paris to a synod in Rome, taking Jean with him—Abelard eschewed the stinging birch for the bruising cane, and I submitted.
