The Letters and Other Writings

For most of their printed history, the letters of Abelard and Heloise have been known chiefly through a series of impostures, freewheeling and highly colored fantasias on their writings pretending to be faithful translations. Already in the fifteenth century, a forged manuscript purported to contain the French letters of “abbess Heloise of the Paraclete,” which offered instruction in the art of love to a young disciple by the name of Gaultier, in the manner of one of the most famous medieval writers on love, Andreas Capellanus.¹ But the end of the seventeenth and beginning of the eighteenth century saw a vogue in such imposter texts that came to have a decisive role in how Abelard and Heloise were understood for well over a hundred years.

The scene for this vogue was set in 1675 when Jacques Alluis, a lawyer from Grenoble, published a fictionalized account of Les amours d’Abailard et d’ Héloïse set in the form of a bourgeois romance, including many long passages of sentimental dialogue and such narrative innovations as romantic rendezvous set in gardens, a rival for Heloise’s affections named Alberic (identified as “a native of Rheims”), and scenes of scandalous misbehavior among the nuns at Argenteuil. In a similar spirit twelve years later, Roger de Rabutin, count of Bussy, began privately circulating his own embellishments of the First, Second, and Third Letters composed as comic entertainments for his cousin Madame de Sévigné. These were not published until 1697, but even so they became the basis for further embellishments, written by Nicolas Rémond des Cours but published anonymously in 1693 and 1695 with the claim they were true translations from the Latin. A second edition in 1695 combined these with a reprint of Alluis’ romance, anonymous versions of three additional letters (which correspond to nothing in the Latin), and an anonymous version of the Calamities, which was offered under the title Lettre d’Abailard à Philinthe. Different combinations of these texts were published in the Netherlands, France, Germany, and Belgium frequently over the next fifty years.²

The vogue for imposture became something more, however, in 1713, with the translation of the French texts into English by the poet and musician John Hughes. Hughes could have had no access to the Latin originals—the first Latin edition, published in 1616, was unavailable to him and the second edition not published until 1718—yet his version became standard in the English-speaking world with a position of authority that Joseph Berington’s 1787 translation directly from the Latin did little to dislodge. Dozens of editions were published through the 1940s. Even as late as the 1990s, Hughes’ words were quoted in published works as the actual words of Abelard and Heloise,³ and they remain the source of much misinformation reported on many Internet sites. But the effect of his translations from the French went even deeper than this. It was on Hughes’ versions of the First and Third Letters that Alexander Pope directly based his famous “Eloïsa to Abelard” of 1717, and through the poem’s own continual republication, imitation, and translation into many European languages, the influence of the imposter texts was considerably magnified and prolonged.

These early imposter texts were not unintelligently done, transposing Abelard and Heloise into the sensibilities of the late seventeenth century. The narrative is given greater incident and color, a wider cast of articulate characters, and a more specific psychological background—standard devices for historical novels as well as many screenplays made from literary sources—especially in places where the Latin is conspicuously reticent. Abelard’s correspondent in the Calamities, for example, is supplied with a name (Philintus) and a history (he also has suffered in love), and Abelard’s silent sister (here named Lucilla) now turns out to have a great deal to say. For the most part, the interpretation strips away all but the erotic dimensions of the story and its characters. Abelard is cast as something of a gallant, and Heloise in her different letters vacillates between the roles of a flighty salon coquette and a Racinian Phèdre torn between reason and love.

It was Heloise in the latter role whom Pope chose to portray and whom nineteenth-century readers in particular chose to purify and elevate into “the great saint of love.”⁴ When her body was transported in 1800 for the collection of a Paris museum, scores of cultists made off with bits of bones and teeth to prize as relics.⁵ During a rash of sentimental suicides in the 1830s, a professor at the University of Nancy proposed that a “hospice for the incurably heartsick” be founded on the site of the Paraclete.⁶ The neo-Gothic tomb Heloise had shared with Abelard in the cemetery of Père-Lachaise since 1817 became a place of such constant pilgrimage that in 1869 Mark Twain could scoff, “Go when you will, you find somebody snuffling over that tomb.”⁷

The imposter texts show traces of humor as well, a legacy of the work of Rabutin-Bussy, and occasionally an air of parody. But if it is parody, it is an exceptionally strong parody to have set its stamp on its material so deeply and for so long.

In the following excerpts from Hughes’ “Letter to Philintus,” I have modified the spelling and punctuation for a somewhat better fit with modern usage, and have silently corrected some obvious typographical errors. Otherwise, the passages are as they appear in Letters of Abelard and Heloise, With a Particular Account of Their Lives and Misfortunes, to Which Are Added Poems by Pope, Madan, Cawthorne, etc. etc., printed for bookseller R. Scott by J. Hardcastle (New York 1808). No other author, translator, or editor is indicated.

The last time we were together, Philintus, you gave me a melancholy account of your misfortunes. I was sensibly touched with the relation and, like a true friend, bore a share in your griefs. What did I not say to stop your tears? I laid before you all the reasons philosophy could furnish which I thought might any ways soften the strokes of fortune. Grief, I perceive, has wholly seized your spirits, and your prudence, far from assisting, seems quite to have forsaken you. But my skillful friendship has found out an expedient to relieve you. Attend to me a moment, hear but the story of my misfortunes, and yours, Philintus, will be nothing, if you compare them with those of the loving and unhappy Abelard. Observe, I beseech you, at what expense I endeavor to serve you, and think this no small mark of my affection, for I am going to present you with the relation of such particulars as it is impossible for me to recollect without piercing my heart with the most sensible affection….

There was in Paris a young creature (ah! Philintus) formed in a prodigality of nature to show mankind a finished composition—dear Heloise, the reputed niece of one Fulbert, a canon. Her wit and her beauty would have fired the most sensible heart, and her education was equally admirable. Heloise was a mistress of the most polite arts. You may easily imagine that this did not a little help to captivate me. I saw her, I loved her, I resolved to endeavor to engage her affections. The thirst of glory cooled immediately in my heart, and all my passions were lost in this new one. I thought of nothing but Heloise; everything brought her image to my mind. I was pensive, restless, and my passion was so violent as to admit of no restraint. I was always vain and presumptive; I flattered myself already with the most bewitching hopes. My reputation had spread itself everywhere, and could a virtuous lady resist a man that had confounded all the learning of the age? I was young: could she show an insensibility to those vows which my heart never formed for any but herself? My person was advantageous enough, and by my dress no one would have suspected me for a doctor; and dress, you know, is not a little engaging with women. Besides, I had wit enough to write a billet-doux and hoped, if ever she permitted my absent self to entertain her, she would read with pleasure those breathings of my heart.

Filled with these notions, I thought of nothing but the means to speak to her. Lovers either find or make all things easy. By the offices of common friends, I gained the acquaintance of Fulbert, and (can you believe it, Philintus?) he allowed me the privilege of his table and an apartment in his house. I paid him, indeed, a considerable sum, for persons of his character do nothing without money, but what would not I have given? You, my dear friend, know what love is. Imagine, then, what a pleasure it must have been to a heart so inflamed as mine to be always so near the dear object of desire! I would not have exchanged my happy condition for that of the greatest monarch on earth. I saw Heloise and spoke to her. Each action, each confused look, told her the trouble of my soul, and she on the other side gave me ground to hope for everything from her generosity. Fulbert desired me to instruct her in philosophy; by this means I found opportunities of being in private with her, and yet I was, sure, of all men the most timorous in declaring my passion.

As I was with her one day alone, “Charming Heloise,” said I, blushing, “if you know yourself, you will not be surprised with what passion you have inspired me with. Uncommon as it is, I can express it but with the common terms—I love you, adorable Heloise! Till now I thought philosophy made us master of all our passions and that it was a refuge from the storms in which weak mortals are tossed and shipwrecked, but you have destroyed my security and broken this philosophic courage. I have despised riches, honor and its pageantries could never raise a weak thought in me, beauty alone has filled my soul. Happy, if she who raised this passion, kindly receives this declaration. But if it is an offense….”

“No,” replied Heloise, “she must be very ignorant of your merit, who can be offended at your passion. But for my own response, I wish either that you had not made this declaration or that I were at liberty not to suspect your sincerity.”

“Ah! divine Heloise,” said I, flinging myself at her feet, “I swear by yourself….” I was going to convince her of the truth of my passion but heard a noise, and it was Fulbert. There was no avoiding it, but I must do violence to my desire and change the discourse to some other subject.

After this I found frequent opportunities to free Heloise from those suspicions which the general insincerity of men had raised in her, and she too much desired what I said were truth not to believe it. Thus there was a most happy understanding between us. The same house, the same love, united our persons and our desires. How many soft moments did we pass together? We took all opportunities to express to each other our mutual affections and were ingenious in contriving incidents which might give us a plausible occasion of meeting. Pyramis and Thisbe’s discovery of a crack in the wall was but a slight representation of our love and its sagacity.⁸ In the dead of the night, when Fulbert and his domestics were in a sound sleep, we improved the time proper to the sweet thefts of love. Not contenting ourselves, like those unfortunate lovers, with giving insipid kisses to a wall, we made use of all the moments of our charming interviews. In the place where we met we had no lions to fear, and the study of philosophy served us for a blind. But I was so far from making my advances in the sciences that I lost all my taste of them, and when I was obliged to go from the sight of my dear mistress to my philosophical exercises, it was with the utmost regret and melancholy. Love is incapable of being concealed: a word, a look, nay silence speaks it. My scholars discovered it first; they saw I had no longer that vivacity of thought to which all things were easy. I could now do nothing but write verses to soothe my passion; I quitted Aristotle and his dry maxims to practice the precepts of the more ingenious Ovid. No day passed in which I did not compose amorous verses. Love was my aspiring Apollo. My songs were spread abroad and gained me frequent applauses. Those who were in love, as I was, took a pride in learning them, and by luckily applying my thoughts and verses, have obtained favors which, perhaps, they could not otherwise have gained. This gave our amours such an eclat that the loves of Heloise and Abelard were the subject of all conversations.

The town-talk at last reached Fulbert’s ears. It was with great difficulty he gave credit to what he heard, for he loved his niece and was prejudiced in my favor; but, upon closer examination, he began to be less incredulous. He surprised us in one of our more soft conversations. How fatal sometimes are the consequences of curiosity! The anger of Fulbert seemed to moderate on this occasion, and I feared in the end some more heavy revenge. It is impossible to express the grief and regret which filled my soul when I was obliged to leave the canon’s house and my dear Heloise. But this separation of our persons more firmly united our minds, and the desperate situation we were reduced to made us capable of attempting any thing.

My intrigues gave me but little shame, so lovingly did I esteem the occasion. Think what the gay young divinities said when Vulcan caught Mars and the goddess of beauty in his net, and impute it all to me. Fulbert surprised me with Heloise, and what man that had a soul in him would not have borne any ignominy on the same conditions? The next day I provided myself with a private lodging near the loved house, being resolved not to abandon my prey. I continued some time without appearing publicly. Ah! how long did these few moments seem to me! When we fall from a state of happiness, with what impatience do we bear our misfortunes.

It being impossible that I could live without seeing Heloise, I endeavored to engage her servant, whose name was Agaton, in my interest. She was brown, well-shaped, of a person superior to the ordinary rank, her features regular, and her eyes sparkling, fit to raise love in any man whose heart was not prepossessed by another passion. I met her alone and entreated her to have pity on a distressed lover. She answered, she would undertake anything to serve me, but there was a reward. At these words I opened my purse and showed the shining metal which lays asleep guards, forces a way though rocks, and softens the heart of the most obdurate fair.

“You are mistaken,” said she, smiling and shaking her head, “you do not know me. Could gold tempt me? A rich abbot takes his nightly station and sings under my window; he offers to send me to his abbey, which, he says, is situated in the most pleasant country in the world. A courtier offers me a considerable sum and assures me I need have no apprehensions, for if our amours have consequences, he will marry me to his gentleman and give him a handsome employment. To say nothing of a young officer, who patrols about here every night and makes his attacks after all imaginable forms. It must be love only which could oblige him to follow me, for I have not, like your great ladies, any rings of jewels to tempt him; yet during all his siege of love, his feather and his embroidered coat have not made any breach in my heart. I shall not quickly be brought to capitulate; I am too faithful to my first conqueror,” and then she looked earnestly on me.

I answered, I did not understand her discourse. She replied, “For a man of sense and gallantry, you have a slow apprehension. I am in love with you, Abelard. I know you adore Heloise; I do not blame you. I desire only to enjoy the second place in your affections. I have a tender heart, as well as my mistress; you may without difficulty make returns of my passion. Do not perplex yourself with unfashionable scruples. A prudent man ought to love several at the same time; if one should fail, he is not then left unprovided.”

You cannot imagine, Philintus, how much I was surprised at these words. So entirely did I love Heloise that, without reflecting whether Agaton spoke anything reasonable or not, I immediately left her. When I had gone a little way from her, I looked back and saw her biting her nails in the rage of disappointment, which made me fear some fatal consequences. She hastened to Fulbert and told him the offer I had made her but, I suppose, concealed the other part of the story. The canon never forgave this affront. I afterwards perceived he was more deeply concerned for his niece than I at first imagined. Let no lover hereafter follow my example; a woman rejected is an outrageous creature. Agaton was day and night at her window on purpose to keep me at a distance from her mistress, and so gave her own gallants opportunity enough to display their several abilities.

I was infinitely perplexed what course to take. At last I applied myself to Heloise’s singing master, the shining metal, which had no affect on Agaton, charming him. He was excellently qualified for conveying a billet with the greatest dexterity and secrecy. He conveyed one of mine to Heloise, who, according to my appointment, was ready at the end of a garden, the wall of which I scaled by a ladder of ropes. I confess to you all my feelings, Philintus. How would my enemies, Champeaux and Anselm, have triumphed, had they seen the redoubted philosopher in such a wretched condition? Well, I met my soul’s joy, my Heloise. I shall not describe our transports; they were not long, for the first news Heloise acquainted me with plunged me in a thousand distractions. A floating Delos was to be sought for, where she might be safely delivered of a burden she began already to feel.⁹ Without losing much time in debating, I made her presently quit the canon’s house and at break of day depart for Bretagne, where she, like another goddess, gave the world another Apollo, which my sisters took care of.

This carrying off Heloise was sufficient revenge upon Fulbert. It filled him with the deepest concern and had like to have deprived him of all that little share of wit which Heaven had allowed him. His sorrow and lamentation gave the censorious an occasion of suspecting him for something more than the uncle of Heloise. In short, I began to pity his misfortunes and to think this robbery, which love had made me commit, was a sort of treason. I endeavored to appease his anger by hearty engagements to marry Heloise secretly. He gave me his consent, and with many protestations and embraces confirmed our reconciliation. But what dependences can be placed on the word of an ignorant devotee? He was only plotting a cruel revenge, as you will perceive by the sequel.

I took a journey into Bretagne in order to bring back my dear Heloise, whom I now considered as my wife. When I had acquainted her with what had passed between the canon and me, I found her opinion contrary to mine. She urged all that was possible to divert me from marriage: that it was a bond always fatal to a philosopher, that the cries of children and the cares of a family were utterly inconsistent with the tranquility and application which the study of philosophy required. She quoted to me all that was written on the subject by Theophrastus, Cicero, and, above all, insisted on the unfortunate Socrates, who quitted life with joy, because by that means he left Xanthippe. “Will it not be more agreeable to me,” said she, “to see myself your mistress than your wife? And will not love have more power than marriage to keep our hearts more firmly united? Pleasures tasted sparingly and with difficulty have always a higher relish, while every thing by being easy and common grow flat and insipid.”

I was unmoved by all this reasoning. Heloise prevailed upon my sister to engage me. Lucilla (for that was her name) taking me aside one day, said, “What do you intend, brother? Is it possible that Abelard should in earnest think of marrying Heloise? She seems, indeed, to deserve a perpetual affection. Beauty, youth, and learning, all that can make a person valuable, meet in her. You may adore all this, if you please, but, not to flatter you, what is beauty but a flower, which may be blasted by the least fit of sickness? When those features with which you have been so captivated shall be sunk and those graces lost, you will too late repent that you have entangled yourself in a chain from which death only can free you. I shall see you reduced to the married man’s only hope of survivorship. Do you think learning ought to make Heloise more amiable? I know she is not one of those affected females who are continually oppressing you with fine speeches, criticizing books, and deciding on the merit of authors. When such an one is in the fury of her discourse, husband, friends, servants, all fly before her. Heloise has not this fault, yet ’tis troublesome not to be at liberty to use the least improper expression before a wife, which you bear with pleasure from a mistress.

“But you say you are sure of the affection of Heloise. I believe it; she has given you no ordinary proofs. But can you be sure marriage will not be the tomb of her love? The names of husband and master are always harsh, and Heloise will not be the phoenix you think her. Will she not be a woman? Come, come, the head of a philosopher is less secure than those of other men.” My sister grew warm in the argument and was going on to give me a hundred more reasons of this kind, but I angrily interrupted her, telling her only that she did not know Heloise.

A few days after, we departed together from Bretagne and came to Paris, where I completed my project. It was my intent my marriage should be kept secret, and thereafter Heloise retired among the nuns of Argenteuil.

I now thought Fulbert’s anger disarmed; I lived in peace. But, alas! our marriage proved but a weak defense against his revenge. Observe, Philintus, to what a barbarity he pursued it! He bribed my servants; an assassin came into my bedchamber by night with a razor in his hand and found me in a deep sleep. I suffered the most shameful punishment that the revenge of an enemy could invent, in short, without losing my life: I lost my manhood. I was punished indeed in the offending part: the desire was left me but not the possibility of satisfying the passion. So cruel an action escaped not unpunished; the villain had the same inflicted on him, poor comfort for so irretrievable an evil! I confess to you, shame, more than sincere repentance, made me resolve to hide myself from the sight of men, yet I could not separate myself from my Heloise. Jealousy took possession of my mind, and at the very expense of her happiness, I decreed to disappoint all rivals. Before I put myself in a cloister, I obliged her to take the habit, and retire into the nunnery at Argenteuil. I remember somebody would have opposed her making such a cruel sacrifice of herself, but she answered, in the words of Cornelia after the death of Pompey the Great—

Ah! my once greatest lord! Ah! cruel hour!
Is thy victorious head in Fortune’s pow’r?
Since miseries my baneful love pursue,
Why did I wed thee only to undo?
But see, to death my willing neck I bow;
Atone the angry gods by one kind blow.

Speaking these verses, she marched up to the altar and took the veil with a constancy which I could not have expected in a woman who had so high a taste of pleasures which she might still enjoy. I blushed at my own weakness, and, without deliberating a moment longer, I hurried myself in a cloister, resolved to vanquish a fruitless passion….

I live in a barbarous country, the language of which I do not understand; I have no conversation but with the rudest people. My walks are on the inaccessible shores of a sea which is perpetually stormy. My monks are only known by their dissoluteness and living without any rule or order. Could you see the abbey, Philintus, you would not call it one. The doors and walls are without any ornament, except the heads of wild boars and hinds’ feet with the hides of frightful animals, which are nailed up against them. The cells are hung with the skins of deer. The monks have not so much as a bell to wake them, the cocks and dogs supply that defect. In short, they pass their whole days in hunting. Would to Heaven that were their greatest fault! or that their pleasures terminated there! I endeavored in vain to recall them to their duty. They all combined against me, and I only expose myself to continual vexations and dangers. I imagine I see every moment a naked sword hang over my head. Sometimes they surround me and load me with infinite abuses; sometimes they abandon me and I am left alone to my own tormenting thoughts. I make it my endeavor to merit by my sufferings and to appease an angry God. Sometimes I grieve for the loss of the house of the Paraclete and wish to see it again. Ah! Philintus, does not the love of Heloise still burn in my heart? I have not yet triumphed over that unhappy passion. In the midst of my retirement I sigh, I weep, I pine, I speak the dear name Heloise and am pleased to hear the sound. I complain of the severity of Heaven. But, oh! let us not deceive ourselves; I have not made a right use of grace. I am thoroughly wretched. I have not yet torn from my heart the deep roots which vice has planted in it; for if my conversion was sincere, how could I take a pleasure to relate my past follies? Could I not more easily comfort myself in my afflictions? Could I not turn to my advantage those words of God himself, “If they have persecuted me, they will also persecute you; if the world hate you, ye know that it hated me also”? Come, Philintus, let us make a strong effort, turn our misfortunes to our advantage, make them meritorious, or at least wipe out our offenses. Let us receive without murmuring what comes from the hand of God, and let us not oppose our will to his. Adieu, I give you advice which could I myself follow, I should be happy.

2 The most complete account of these texts, with exhaustive publication data and fascinating excerpts, is by Charrier 1933, 406 ff. In her bibliography, Charrier cites over 100 examples through 1916 of what she calls traductions fantaisistes into French alone (1933, 602–13). For understandably briefer surveys, see McLeod 1971, 303 ff., and Robertson 1972, 155–66.

4 The phrase was first used by the nineteenth-century historian Henri Martin in his Histoire de France, cited by Charrier 1933, 499 n. 7. Charrier’s account is by far the most complete for all periods of the reception of Heloise, but see also Robertson 1972, chapters 9–12.

5 See Charrier 1933, 338 ff. and Plate 18, in particular, which depicts a reliquary in the shape of a young woman, designed to house these precious body parts; and McLeod 1971, 238 ff.

8 Pyramis and Thisbe were the lovers of Ovid’s Metamorphoses 4.55 ff., who were able to converse only through a small chink in the wall dividing their houses. When a lion interrupted a planned rendezvous outside the city, their affair ended dismally.

9 Pregnant with Apollo and Diana but harried by her rival, Juno, the goddess Latona found refuge on the island of Delos, then floating on the Aegean Sea. As a reward for its service to her, the island was subsequently fixed in place.