A letter from Heloise, abbess of the Paraclete ()

Translated letter:

To her lord or rather, her father, to her husband or rather, her brother, from his servant or rather, his daughter, from his wife or rather, his sister: to Abelard from Heloise.

You have truly accomplished in this letter what you promised your friend when you began, that he should consider his own troubles as little or nothing compared with yours. After you describe your earlier persecutions by your teachers and that most treacherous outrage upon your body, you turn to the detestable jealousy and the ruthless attacks of those fellow-students of yours, Alberic of Reims and Lotulf the Lombard. You do not fail to mention what was done at their instigation to your famous work of theology and what happened to you yourself, when you were, so to speak, condemned to prison. Then you go on to the plotting of your abbot and false brother-monks, the slanderous attacks on you by those so-called apostles whom your enemies aroused against you, and the scandal caused by the many charges concerning the name of the Paraclete which, contrary to custom, you gave to your oratory. At last, after describing your intolerable persecutions at the hands of that cruel tyrant and those wicked monks whom you call sons, you bring your melancholy story to an end.

No one could, I believe, read or hear this tale without being moved to tears. The more fully you have set down every detail, the more sharply you have renewed my own sorrows. They have, indeed, become greater. Since you say your dangers are still increasing, all of us here are driven to despair of your life and every day we wait with trembling hearts and throbbing breasts for the latest rumors of your death. In the name of Christ who still somehow protects you for himself, as his servants and yours, we beg you to give us frequent news of you, and the storms that still buffet you. In this way, at least, you will still have us, who are your only friends, to share your grief or joy. Those who grieve with one in sorrow usually give him some comfort and any burden shared by several persons becomes lighter and may even be cast off. If this tempest should subside a little, you should write all the sooner because your letters will be so welcome. Whatever you write will comfort us, for by writing, at least you will prove that you are thinking of us.

Showing us by his own example how delightful are the letters of friends from whom we are separated, Seneca writes to his friend Lucilius:
      "Thank you for writing to me so often, because this is the only way in which you can give me back your presence. I never receive a letter from you without instantly feeling that we are together. If the pictures of our absent friends give us pleasure, refreshing our memory and relieving our longing for them by an unreal and lifeless solace, how much more satisfying are the letters bearing the true marks of the friend who is far away! I thank God that no malice prevents you from restoring your presence to us in this way at least, and that no obstacle stands in your path. Do not, I beg you, let your own negligence delay you.”

 You have written your friend a long letter of consolation, ostensibly concerning his misfortunes, it is true, but really about your own. Although you evidently meant to comfort him by your detailed account of your troubles, you have inflicted fresh wounds of sorrow on us, and increased the pain of those we suffered earlier. Heal, I implore you, those wounds that you yourself have made, you who are so busy curing those caused by others. You have really done well by your friend and comrade; you have discharged the debt of friendship and comradeship. But you are bound by a larger debt to us, whom you may rightly call not merely your friends, but your dearest friends, not simply comrades but daughters, or whatever sweeter and holier name, if any, can be imagined.

There is no lack of evidence to show how great is the debt that binds you to us. To remove any doubt, and if all else were silent, the facts themselves speak loudly. After God, you are the sole founder of this place, the only architect of this oratory, the sole builder of this congregation. You have built nothing on foundations laid by another. Everything here is your creation. This wilderness, occupied only by wild beasts and robbers, had known no human dwellings; there were no houses here. In the very lairs of the animals, in the hiding places of thieves, where the name of God was not spoken, you built a divine tabernacle and dedicated a temple to the Holy Spirit himself. In building this temple you accepted nothing from the treasuries of kings and princes, though you could have obtained assistance from the greatest and most powerful men, so that whatever was accomplished might be attributed to you alone. The clerics and students who flocked here to be taught by you supplied all the essentials of life. Those who were living on ecclesiastical benefices and did not know how to make offerings, but only how to receive them—who had their hands outstretched to take, not to give—became lavish and even prodigal in their offerings here.

This new plantation in the Lord's field is truly yours and yours alone, and it needs frequent watering to make its tender plants grow. Even if it were not new, it would be frail enough, simply because of the weakness of the female sex. So it needs more careful and more constant tending, as the Apostle says (1 Cor. 3:6): "It was for me to plant the seed, for Apollo to water it, but it was God who gave the increase." By his preaching the Apostle planted and established in the faith the Corinthians to whom he wrote. Afterward his disciple, Apollo, watered them with holy preaching and so their virtues were increased by divine grace bestowed on them.

But you, with those wasted admonitions of yours and those holy sermons preached in vain, are now tending a vineyard not of your planting, and one that has turned bitter against you. While you are lavishing your care on what belongs to another, think of your debt to what is yours. You teach and admonish the rebellious, and accomplish nothing by it. You fruitlessly cast the pearls of divine eloquence before swine. While you are wasting so much on those who resist you, think of your debt to those who obey you. As you are lavishing so much on your enemies, consider what you owe to your daughters. Putting all else aside, think of the great debt that binds you to me, so that what you owe in general to these devout women, you may pay with deeper devotion to her who is yours alone.

You in your excellent learning know better than my poor self how many important treatises were written by the Holy Fathers for the instruction, encouragement, and consolation of holy women, and how carefully these works were composed. For this reason your forgetfulness of me in the frail beginnings of our religious life troubled and amazed me. For when I was wavering and crushed by lasting grief, you were not moved by reverence for God, or love of me, or by the examples of the Holy Fathers, to try to comfort me either by words when I was with you or by a letter when we were apart. Yet you know how you are bound to me by a debt that is the greater because you are tied to me so closely by the sacramental bonds of marriage, and how you are joined to me still more closely because, as everyone knows, I have always loved you with a boundless love.

You know, my dearest, as everyone knows, what I have lost in you, and how calamitous for me was that supreme and notorious betrayal which robbed me of myself as well as you, so that my sorrow is immeasurably deeper for the way in which I lost you than for the loss itself. Truly the greater the cause of sorrow, the greater must be the remedies of consolation applied to it, not by someone else, however, but by you yourself. For you were the sole cause of my grief and you alone can bring me the balm of comfort. You alone can make me sad, and only you can make me happy and console me. You alone owe me this great debt, now above all, when I have done all that you demanded, even to the point where, unable to refuse you anything, I found the strength to give up my own life at your command. What is more, and stranger still, my love reached such a pitch of madness that it sacrificed without hope of recovery the sole object of its desires, when, at your command and without hesitating, I changed my habit and my mind, to show that you alone possessed my body and my soul.

God knows, I have never asked anything of you but only you yourself. I wanted you alone, not what was yours. You know that I did not hope for marriage or for any dowry. I did not seek to gratify my own pleasures or desires, but only yours. If the name of wife seems holier and more impressive, to my ears the name of mistress always sounded sweeter or, if you are not ashamed of it, the name of concubine or whore. For I thought that the more I humbled myself for you, the more completely I might win your love, and that in this way I might do less damage to your great fame. You had not completely forgotten this love in the letter you wrote to console your friend, since you did not consider it beneath you to report the various arguments by which I tried to dissuade you from our marriage, to keep you from an ill-starred bed. But you neglected to mention the many reasons that made me prefer love to marriage, liberty to bondage. As God is my witness, if Augustus, who ruled over the whole earth, should have thought me worthy of the honor of marriage and made me ruler of all the world forever, it would have seemed sweeter and more honorable to me to be called your mistress than his empress.

The fact that a man is rich and powerful does not make him therefore better; the one depends on fortune, the other on character. The woman who marries a rich man rather than a poor one, and desires her husband's possessions more than the man himself, should realize that she is only putting herself up for sale. Surely anyone who is led to marry by this kind of greed deserves to be paid rather than loved by her husband. It is obvious that what she is seeking is not a man but what he owns, and that if she could, she would prostitute herself to a richer man. This point is made in the argument by which, as Aeschines Socraticus tells us, the wise Aspasia tried to convince Xenophon and his wife. After she had explained the reasons why this pair should become reconciled with one another, she concluded her argument with these words: "It is only when both of you have come to realize that there is not a better man or a more desirable woman in the world that you will always seek above all what seems best to each of you: one to be the husband of the best of women, and the other to be the wife of the best of men."1 This is surely a holy saying, and more than philosophic; it may, indeed, be said to spring from wisdom rather than philosophy. For it is a pious error and a blessed fallacy in those who are married to think that a perfect love can keep the bonds of matrimony unbroken, not so much by the continence of their bodies as by the purity of their hearts.

But what other women have deceived themselves into thinking was in my case nothing less than the truth. What they believed to be true of their husbands, I, and everyone else as well, not merely believed, but knew to be true of you, since the more truly I loved you, the less I could be in error about you. What kings or philosophers could rival you in fame? What kingdom or city or village did not yearn with eagerness to see you? Who did not rush to look at you when you appeared in public, and crane his neck and strain his eyes after you as you departed? What girl or woman did not long for you when you were gone and burn with desire in your presence? What queen or great lady did not envy me my joys and my bed?

You had, I admit, two special gifts by which you could instantly captivate the heart of every woman: the gifts of composing and singing songs, gifts that other philosophers, as we know, have rarely possessed. In these arts, as in a kind of play, you found recreation from the labor of your philosophical studies, and the many love songs you composed have been sung repeatedly because of the great sweetness of their words and melodies, and they have kept your name constantly on everyone's lips. For the charm of your tunes would not let even the unlettered forget you. It was for this reason, above all, that women sighed for love of you. Since most of these songs told the story of our love, they quickly spread my fame in many lands and made other women envious of me.

What grace of mind or body did not adorn your youth? What woman who envied me then is not now compelled by my disaster to pity one who has been robbed of such delights? What man or woman, even though at first unfriendly to me, is not now softened by the compassion I deserve? Although I am exceedingly guilty, you know that I am also most innocent. For it is not the deed itself but the intention of the doer that makes the sin. Equity weighs not what is done, but the spirit in which it is done.2  Only you, who have known them, can judge my intentions toward you. I submit everything to your scrutiny. I yield to your decision.

Tell me just one thing, if you can: why it is that ever since we entered the religious life, which you alone decided we should do, you have so neglected and forgotten me that I am not refreshed in spirit by words when I am with you, or comforted by a letter when we are apart? Tell me if you can, I beg you, or let me say what I feel or, rather, what everyone suspects. Lust, not love, inspired the ardor of your desire for me. Then after what you desired came to an end, whatever feelings you had shown for this reason vanished at the same time.

This, my dearest love, is not simply my conjecture, but everyone's suspicion. It is not peculiar to me, but common to all. It is not a personal, but a public opinion. I wish that this seemed true only to me and that your love might find someone to make excuses for it, which might comfort me a little in my sorrow. If only I could invent excuses by which to acquit you and so, to some extent, conceal my own baseness! Please pay attention, I beg you, to what I am asking of you and you will see what a small thing it is, and how very easy it would be for you, when I am cheated of your presence, at least to make your sweet image present to me in words, of which you have plenty at your command. I must hope in vain for you to be generous in deeds if I am forced to endure your miserliness in words.

Until now, I really believed that I deserved better from you, since I have done everything for you and am still persevering in obedience to you. It was not religious devotion but your command alone that drove me in my youth to the harshness of the monastic life. But if I am to have no reward from you, you may judge that my efforts have been futile. I can expect no reward from God, since it is evident that I have not yet done anything for love of him.

I followed you when you hastened to God, or rather, I preceded you in taking the monastic habit. Before you gave yourself to God, you delivered me over to the sacred habit and the monastic calling, as if you were thinking of Lot's wife, who looked back. I confess that I was greatly saddened and ashamed that in this one thing you showed so little faith in me. God knows, I would not have hesitated for a moment to precede or follow you into the fires of hell, if you had given the word. For my heart is not mine but yours. Now, more than ever, if it is not with you, it belongs nowhere. Without you, it can find no place. But I beg you to behave in such a way that my heart may be happy with you, and it will be happy with you if it finds you kind, if you return love for love, little for much, words for deeds.

I wish, my love, that your love were less sure of me, so that you would be more anxious. But the more reason I have given you for confidence in the past, the more you neglect me now. Remember, I entreat you, what I have done and consider what you owe me. While I was enjoying the delights of the flesh with you, many people were not certain whether I was moved by love or by lust. But now the outcome shows clearly the spirit in which I began. In obedience to your will, I have forbidden myself every pleasure. I have kept nothing for myself but only this, to become more than ever yours alone. Think how unjust you would be if you gave back less—indeed, nothing at all—to one who deserves so much more, especially when what I ask of you is such a small thing and so very easy for you to do.

So in the name of God to whom you have offered yourself, I beg you to restore your presence in the way that lies open to you, I mean, by giving me the consolation of writing to me. Then at least I may be renewed in spirit and may take part more gladly in the divine service. When long ago you wanted me for shameful pleasures, you used to besiege me with letters and with your songs you put your Heloise's name on every lip. Every street rang with it; it echoed in every house. Should you not excite me toward God now, as you excited me then to desire for you? Think, I implore you, what you owe me! Listen to what I ask you, and I shall end this long letter with a brief word,

Farewell, my only love.

Original letter:

I. (Heloisae suae ad ipsum deprecatoria)

DOMINO suo immo patri, coniugi suo immo fratri, ancilla sua immo fllia, ipsius uxor immo soror, Abaelardo Heloisa. Missam ad amicum pro consolatione epistolam, dilectissime, vestram ad me forte quidam nuper attulit. Quam ex ipsa statim tituli fronte vestram esse  considerans, tanto ardentius eam coepi legere, quanto scriptorem ipsum carius  amplector ut, cuius rem perdidi, verbis saltem tamquam eius quadam imagine  recreer. Erant memini huius epistolae fere omnia felle et absinthio plena quae scilicet nostrae conversionis miserabilem historiam et tuas, unice, cruca assiduas referebant. Complesti revera in epistola illa quod in exordio eius amico promisisti ut videlicet in comparatione tuarum suas molestias nullas vel parvas reputaret. Ubi quidem expositis prius magistrorum tuorum in te persecutionibus deinde in corpus tuum summae proditionis iniuria ad condiscipulorum quoque tuorum Alberici videlicet Remensis et Lotulfi Lombardi execrabilem invidiam et infestationem nimiam stilum contulisti. Quorum quidem suggestionibus quid de glorioso illo theologiae tuae opere quid de te ipso quasi in carcere damnato actum sit non praetermisisti.
   Inde ad abbatis tui fratrumque falsorum machinationem accessisti et detractiones illas tibi gravissimas duorum illorum pseudo-apostolorum a praedictis aemulis in te commotas atque ad scandalum plerisque subortum de nomine Paracliti oratorio praeter consuetudinem imposito. Denique ad intolerables illas et adhuc continuas in te persecutiones crudelissimi scilicet illius exactoris et pessimorum quos filios nominas monachorum profectus miserabilem historiam consummasti.
    Quae cum siccis oculis neminem vel legere vel audire posse aestimem. Tanto dolores meos amplius renovarunt, quanto diligentius singula expresserunt et eo magis auxerunt, quo in te adhuc pericula crescere retulisti ut omnes  pariter de vita tua desperare cogamur et quotidie ultimos illos de nece tua umores trepidantia nostra corda et palpitantia pectora expectent.  
    Per ipsum itaque qui te sibi adhuc quoquo modo protegit Christum obsecramus quatinus ancillulas ipsius et tuas crebris litteris de his in quibus adhuc fluctuas naufragiis certificare digneris ut nos saltem quae tibi solae remansimus doloris vel gaudii participes habeas. Solent etenim dolenti nonnullam afferre  consolationem qui condolent et quodlibet onus pluribus impositum levius sustinetur sive defertur. Quod si paululum haec tempestas quieverit, tanto amplius maturandae sunt litterae, quanto sunt iucundiores futurae. De quibuscumque autem nobis scribas, non parvum nobis remedium conferes hoc saltem uno quod te nostri memorem esse monstrabis. Quam iucundae vero sint absentium litterae amicorum ipse nos exemplo proprio Seneca docet ad amicum Lucilium loco sic scribens:

     Quod frequenter mihi scribis gratias ago. Nam quo uno modo potes te mihi ostendis. Numquam epistolam tuam accipio quin protinus una simus. Si imagines nobis amicorum absentium iocundae sunt quae memoriam renovant et desiderium absentiae falso atque inani solatio levant quanto iocundiores sunt litterae quae amici absentis veras notas afferunt?

Deo autem gratias quod hoc saltem modo praesentiam tuam nobis reddere nulla invidia prohiberis, nulla difficultate praepediris, nulla, obsecro, negligentia retarderis.
   Scripsisti ad amicum prolixae consolationem epistolae et pro adversitatibus quidem suis sed de tuis. Quas videlicet tuas diligenter commemorans cum eius intenderes consolationi nostrae plurimum addidisti desolationi et, dum eius mederi vulneribus cuperes, nova quaedam nobis vulnera doloris inflixisti et priora auxisti. Sana, obsecro, ipsa quae fecisti qui quae alii fecerunt curare satagis. Morem quidem amico et socio gessisti et tam amicitiae quam societatis debitum persolvisti. Sed maiori te debito nobis astrinxisti quas non tam arnicas quam amicissimas non tam socias quam fillias convenit nominari vel si quod dulcius et sanctius vocabulem potest excogitari.
    Quanto autem debito te erga obligaveris non argumentis non testimoniis indiget ut quasi dubium comprobetur et si omnes taceant, res ipsa clamat. Huius quippe loci tu post Deum solus es fundator, solus huius oratorii constructor, solus huius congregationis aedificator. Nihil hic super alienum aedificasti fundamentum. Totum quod hic est tua creatio est. Solitudo haec feris tantum sive latronibus vacans nullam hominum abitationem noverat, nullam domum habuerat. In ipsis cubilibus ferarum, in ipsis latibulis latronum ubi nec nominari Deus solet, divinum erexisti tabernaculum et Spiritus Sancti proprium dedicasti templum. Nihil ad hoc aedificandum ex regum vel principum opibus intulisti cum plurima posses et maxima ut quicquid fieret tibi soli posset ascribi. Clerici sive scholares huc certatim ad disciplinam tuam confluentes omnia ministrabant necessaria. Et qui de beneficiis vivebant ecclesiasticis nec oblationes facere noverant sed suscipere et qui manus ad suscipiendum non ad dandum habuerant hic in oblationibus faciendis prodigi atque importuni fiebant.
    Tua itaque vere tua haec est proprie in sancto proposito novella plantatio cuius adhuc teneris maxime plantis frequens ut proficiant necessaria est irrigatio. Satis ex ipsa feminei sexus natura debilis est haec plantatio et infirma etiam si non esset nova. Unde diligentiorem culturam exigit et frequentiorem iuxta illud apostoli: Ego plantavi, Apollo rigavit, Deus autem incrementum dedit. Plantaverat apostolus atque fundaverat in fide per praedicationis suae doctrinam Corinthios quibus scribebat. Rigaverat postmodum eos ipsius apostoli discipulus Apollo sacris exhortationibus et sic eis incrementum virtutum divina largita est gratia. Vitis alienae vineam quam non plantasti in amaritudinem tibi conversam admonitionibus saepe cassis et sacris frusta  sermonibus excolis. Quid tuae debeas attende qui sic curam impendis alienae.
    Doces et admones rebelles nec proficis. Frustra ante porcos divini eloquii margaritas spargis. Qui obstinatis tanta impendis quid obedientibus debeas considera. Qui tanta hostibus largiris quid filiabus debeas meditare. Atque ut ceteras omittam, quanto erga me te obligaveris debito pensa ut quod devotis communiter debes feminis unicae tuae devotius solvas.
    Quot autem et quantos tractatus in doctrina vel exhortatione seu etiam consolatione sanctarum feminarum sancti patres consummaverint et quanta eos diligentia composuerint, tua melius excellentia quam nostra parvitas novit. Unde non mediocri admiratione nostrae tenera conversationis initia tua iam dudum oblivio movit quod, nec reverentia Dei nec amore nostri nec sanctorum patrum exemplis admonitus, fluctuantem me et iam diutino moerore confectam vel sermone praesentem vel epistola absentem consolari tentaveris. Cui quidem tanto te maiore debito noveris obligatum, quanto te amplius nuptialis foedere sacramenti constat esse astrictum et eo te magis mihi obnoxium, quo te semper ut omnibus patet immoderato amore complexa sum.
    Nosti carissime, noverunt omnes quanta in te amiserim et quam miserabili casu summa et ubique nota proditio me ipsam quoque mihi tecum abstulerit ut incomparabiliter maior sit dolor ex amissionis modo quam ex damno. Quo vero maior est dolendi causa, maiora sunt consolationis adhibenda remedia non utique ab alio sed a teipso ut qui solus es in causa dolendi solus sis in gratia consolandi. Solus quippe es qui me contristare, qui me laetificare seu consolari valeas. Et solus es qui plurimum id mihi debeas et nunc maxime cum universa quae iusseris in tantum impleverim ut cum te in aliquo offendere non possem me ipsam pro iussu tuo perdere sustinerem. Et quod maius est dictuque mirabile, in tantam versus est amor insaniam ut quod solum appetebat, hoc ipse sibi sine spe recuperationis auferret, cum ad tuam statim iussionem tam habitum ipsa quam animum immutarem ut te tam corporis mei quam animi unicum possessorem ostenderem.
    Nihil umquam, Deus scit, in te nisi te requisivi, te pure non tua concupiscens. Non matrimonii foedera, non dotes aliquas expectavi, non denique meas voluptates aut voluntates sed tuas, sicut ipse nosti, adimplere studui. Et si uxoris nomen sanctius ac validius videtur, dulcius mihi semper exstitit amicae vocabulum aut, si non indigneris, concubinae vel scorti, ut, quo me videlicet pro te amplius humiliarem, ampliorem apud te consequerer gratiam et sic etiam excellentiae tuae gloriam minus laederem. Quod et tu ipse tui gratia oblitus penitus non fuisti in ea quam supra memini ad amicum epistola pro consolatione directa ubi et rationes nonnullas, quibus te a coniugio nostro et infaustis thalamis revocare conabar, exponere non es dedignatus sed plerisque tacitis quibus amorem coniugio libertatem vinculo praeferebam. Deum testem invoco, si me Augustus universo praesidens mundo matrimonii honore dignaretur totumque mihi orbem confirmaret in perpetuo possidendum, carius mihi et dignius videretur tua dici meretrix quam illius imperatrix.
    Non enim quo quisque ditior sive potentior ideo et melior, fortunae illud est, hoc virtutis. Nec se minime venalem aestimet esse quae libentius ditiori quam pauperi nubit et plus in marito sua quam ipsum concupiscit. Certe quamcumque ad nuptias haec concupiscentia ducit, merces ei potius quam gratia debetur. Certum quippe est eam res ipsas non hominem insequi et se, si posset, velle prostituere ditiori sicut inductio illa Aspasiae philosophae apud Socraticum Aeschinem cum Xenophonte et uxore eius habita manifeste convincit. Quam quidem inductionem cum praedicta philosopha ad reconciliandos invicem illos proposuisset tali fine ipsam conclusit:

      Quare nisi hoc peregeritis ut neque vir melior neque femina in terris electior sit, profecto semper id quod optimum putabitis esse multo maxime requiretis ut et tu maritus sis quam optimae et haec quam optimo viro nupta sit.

Sancta profecto haec et plus quam philosophica est sententia ipsius potius sophiae quam philosophiae dicenda. Sanctus hic error et beata fallacia in coniugatis ut perfecta dilectio illaesa custodiat matrimonii foedera non tam corporum continentia quam animorum pudicitia. At quod error ceteris, veritas mihi manifesta contulerat. Cum quod illae videlicet de suis aestimarent maritis, hoc ego de te, hoc mundus universus non tam crederet quam sciret ut,  tanto verior in te meus amor existeret, quanto ab errore longius absisteret. Quis etenim regum aut philosophorum tuam famam exaequare poterat? Quae te regio aut civitas seu villa videre non aestuabat? Quis te rogo in publicum procedentem conspicere non festinabat ac discedentem collo erecto oculis directis non insectabatur? Quae coniugata, quae virgo non concupiscebat absentem et non exardebat in praesentem? Quae regina vel praepotens femina gaudiis meis non invidebat vel thalamis? Duo autem fateor tibi specialiter inerant quibus feminarum quarumlibet animos statim allicere poteras, dictandi videlicet et cantandi gratia quae ceteros minime philosophos assecutos esse novimus. Quibus quidem quasi ludo quodam laborem exercitii recreans philosophici pleraque amatorio metro vel rhythmo composita relinquisti carmina quae prae nimia suavitate tam dictaminis quam cantus saepius frequentata tuum in ore omnium nomen incessanter tenebant ut etiam illitteratos melodiae dulcedo tui non sineret immemores esse. Atque hinc maxime in amorem tui feminae suspirabant. Et cum horum pars maxima carminum nostros decantaret amores, multis me regionibus brevi tempore nuntiavit et multarum in me feminarum accendit invidiam.
     Quod enim bonum animi vel corporis tuam non exornabat adolescentiam?  Quam tunc mihi invidentem, nunc tantis privatae deliciis compati calamitas mea non compellat? Quem vel quam licet hostem primitus debita compassio mihi nunc non emolliat? Quae plurimum nocens, plurimum ut nosti sum innocens. Non enim rei effectus sed efficientis affectus in crimine est. Nec quae fiunt sed quo animo fiunt aequitas pensat.
     Quem autem animum in te semper habuerim solus qui expertus es iudicare potes. Tuo examini cuncta committo, tuo per omnia cedo testimonio. Die unum si vales cur, post conversionem nostram quam tu solus facere decrevisti, in tantam tibi negligentiam atque oblivionem venerim ut nec colloquio praesentis recreer nec absentis epistola consoler. Dic, inquam, si vales aut ego quod sentio immo quod omnes suspicantur dicam. Concupiscentia te mihi potius quam amicitia sociavit, libidinis ardor potius quam amor. Ubi igitur quod desiderabas cessavit quicquid propter hoc exhibebas pariter evanuit. Haec, dilectissime, non tam mea est quam omnium coniectura, non tam specialis quam communis, non tam privata quam publica. Utinam mihi soli sic videretur atque aliquos in excusationem sui amor tuus inveniret per quos dolor meus paululum resideret. Utinam occasiones fingere possem quibus te excusando mei quoquo modo tegerem vilatatem. Attende, obsecro, quae requiro et parva haec videbis et tibi facillima. Dum tui praesentia fraudor verborum saltern votis quorum tibi copia est tuae mihi imaginis praesenta dulcedinem. Frustra te in rebus dapsilem exspecto si in verbis avarum sustineo. Nunc vero plurimum a te me promereri credideram cum omnia propter te compleverim nunc in tuo maxime perseverans obsequio. Quam quidem iuvenculam ad monasticae conversationis asperitatem, non religionis devotio sed tua tantum pertraxit iussio. Ubi si nihil a te promerear quam frustra laborem diiudica. Nulla mihi super hoc merces exspectanda est a Deo cuius adhuc amore nihil me constat egisse. Properantem te ad Deum secuta sum, habitu immo praecessi. Quasi enim memor uxoris Lot retro conversae prius me sacris vestibus et professione monastica quam te ipsum Deo mancipasti. In quo fateor uno minus te de me confidere vehementer dolui atque erubui. Aeque autem Deus scit ad Vulcania loca te properantem praecedere vel sequi pro iussu tuo minime  dubitarem. Non enim mecum animus sed tecum erat. Sed et nunc maxime si tecum non est, nusquam est. Esse vero sine te nequaquam potest. Sed ut tecum bene sit age, obsecro. Bene autem tecum fuerit, si te propitium invenerit, si gratiam referas pro gratia, modica pro magnis, verba pro rebus. Utinam, dilecte, tua de me dilectio minus confideret ut sollicitior esset. Sed quo te amplius nunc securum reddidi, negligentiorem sustineo. Memento, obsecro, quae fecerim et quanta debeas attende. Dum tecum carnali fruerer voluptate, utrum id amore vel libidine agerem incertum pluribus habebatur. Nunc autem finis indicat quo id inchoaverim principio. Omnes denique mihi voluptates interdixi ut tuae parerem voluntati. Nihil mihi reservavi nisi sic tuam nunc praecipue fieri. Quae vero tua sit iniquitas perpende si merenti amplius persolvis minus, immo nihil penitus praesertim cum parvum sit quod exigeris et tibi facillimum.
    Per ipsum itaque cui te obtulisti Deum te obsecro ut quo modo potes tuam mihi praesentiam reddas, consolationem videlicet mihi aliquam rescribendo, hoc saltem pacto ut sic recreata divino alacrior vacem obsequio. Cum me ad turpes olim voluptates expeteres, crebris me epistolis visitabas, frequenti carmine tuam in ore omnium Heloisam ponebas. Me plateae omnes, me domus singulae resonabant. Quanto autem rectius me nunc in Deum quam tunc in libidinem excitares? Perpende, obsecro, quae debes, attende quae postulo, et longam epistolam brevi fine concludo: Vale unice.

Historical context:

Heloise expresses her distress over the situation Abelard describes in the "Historia" and rebukes him for not writing to her and not taking more responsibility for the convent he founded. It may be that Heloise uses her strong declaration of unabated physical desire to shock Abelard out of his depression, to make him feel responsible for her and her nuns, and to give him a new purpose by her series of requests for writings, see Joan M. Ferrante, To the Glory of Her Sex (Bloomington: Indiana University, 1997), p.57-59.

Translation notes:

1. Cf. Cicero, De inventione rhetorica I.31, 52.
2. The basic doctrine of intentonality is that one is ethically responsible only for what one intends to do....Abelard and Heloise maintain distinctions beween exterior and interior acts, so that “we are to consider not so much what is done as the intentio with which it is done.”

Printed source:

J.T. Muckle, "The Personal letters between Abelard and Heloise," Medieval Studies 15 (1953), ep.1, p.68-73.  Translation by Mary Martin McLaughlin, The Letters of Heloise and Abelard, ed. Bonnie Wheeler (Palgrave Macmillan, 2009),  51-56, reprinted here with the generous permission of the editor.  Also translated by Betty Radice, The Letters of Abelard and Heloise (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1974), p.109-18.

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