Chapter 6

Now there dwelt in that same city of Paris a certain young girl named Héloïse, the niece of a canon who was called Fulbert. Her uncle's love for her was equalled only by his desire that she should have the best education which he could possibly procure for her. Of no mean beauty, she stood out above all by reason of her abundant knowledge of letters. Now this virtue is rare among women, and for that very reason it doubly graced the maiden, and made her the most worthy of renown in the entire kingdom. It was this young girl whom I, after carefully considering all those qualities which are wont to attract lovers, determined to unite with myself in the bonds of love, and indeed the thing seemed to me very easy to be done. So distinguished was my name, and I possessed such advantages of youth and comeliness, that no matter what woman I might favour with my love, I dreaded rejection of none. Then, too, I believed that I could win the maiden's consent all the more easily by reason of her knowledge of letters and her zeal therefor; so, even if we were parted, we might yet be together in thought with the aid of written messages. Perchance, too, we might be able to write more boldly than we could speak, and thus at all times could we live in joyous intimacy.

In that same city of Paris lived a young woman named Héloïse, the niece of a canon named Fulbert. Her uncle loved her deeply and was equally determined to give her the best education he could obtain. She was quite beautiful, but she stood out above all for her extensive learning. Such learning is rare among women, and for that very reason it made her doubly admirable. It also made her more worthy of renown than anyone else in the kingdom. After carefully considering all the qualities that attract lovers, I decided to unite myself with her in love. Indeed, I thought this would be very easy. My name was so well known, and I had the advantages of youth and good looks. I feared rejection from no woman I chose to love. I also believed I could win her consent more easily because of her learning and her passion for it. Even if we were apart, we could still share our thoughts through letters. Perhaps we could write more boldly than we could speak, and so enjoy intimacy at all times.

Thus, utterly aflame with my passion for this maiden, I sought to discover means whereby I might have daily and familiar speech with her, thereby the more easily to win her consent. For this purpose I persuaded the girl's uncle, with the aid of some of his friends, to take me into his household—for he dwelt hard by my school—in return for the payment of a small sum. My pretext for this was that the care of my own household was a serious handicap to my studies, and likewise burdened me with an expense far greater than I could afford. Now, he was a man keen in avarice, and likewise he was most desirous for his niece that her study of letters should ever go forward, so, for these two reasons, I easily won his consent to the fulfillment of my wish, for he was fairly agape for my money, and at the same time believed that his niece would vastly benefit by my teaching. More even than this, by his own earnest entreaties he fell in with my desires beyond anything I had dared to hope, opening the way for my love; for he entrusted her wholly to my guidance, begging me to give her instruction whensoever I might be free from the duties of my school, no matter whether by day or by night, and to punish her sternly if ever I should find her negligent of her tasks. In all this the man's simplicity was nothing short of astounding to me; I should not have been more smitten with wonder if he had entrusted a tender lamb to the care of a ravenous wolf. When he had thus given her into my charge, not alone to be taught but even to be disciplined, what had he done save to give free scope to my desires, and to offer me every opportunity, even if I had not sought it, to bend her to my will with threats and blows if I failed to do so with caresses? There were, however, two things which particularly served to allay any foul suspicion: his own love for his niece, and my former reputation for continence.

Burning with passion for this young woman, I sought a way to speak with her daily and in private. That would make it easier to win her consent. With the help of some of her uncle’s friends, I persuaded him to let me live in his house for a small payment. He lived close to my school. My excuse was that managing my own household seriously hindered my studies and cost far more than I could afford. Her uncle was a greedy man, and he was also eager for his niece to continue her studies. For these two reasons, I easily won his consent. He was eager for my money and believed that his niece would benefit greatly from my teaching. Indeed, he helped my plans more than I had dared hope. By his own earnest requests, he opened the way for my love. He placed her entirely in my care and begged me to teach her whenever I was free from my school duties, whether by day or by night. He also asked me to punish her severely if I ever found her neglecting her work. His innocence amazed me. I could hardly have been more astonished if he had entrusted a tender lamb to a ravenous wolf. He had put her in my care, not only to be taught but even to be disciplined. What had he done but give my desires free rein? Even if I had not sought the opportunity, he gave me every chance to bend her to my will with threats and blows if caresses failed. Two things, however, especially helped prevent any shameful suspicion: his own love for his niece and my previous reputation for sexual restraint.

Why should I say more: We were united first in the dwelling that sheltered our love, and then in the hearts that burned with it. Under the pretext of study we spent our hours in the happiness of love, and learning held out to us the secret opportunities that our passion craved. Our speech was more of love than of the book which lay open before us; our kisses far outnumbered our reasoned words. Our hands sought less the book than each other's bosoms; love drew our eyes together far more than the lesson drew them to the pages of our text. In order that there might be no suspicion, there were, indeed, sometimes blows, but love gave them, not anger; they were the marks, not of wrath, but of a tenderness surpassing the most fragrant balm in sweetness. What followed? No degree in love's progress was left untried by our passion, and if love itself could imagine any wonder as yet unknown, we discovered it. And our inexperience of such delights made us all the more ardent in our pursuit of them, so that our thirst for one another was still unquenched.

Why say more? We were united first in the home that sheltered our love, and then in our hearts, which burned with love. Under the pretense of studying, we spent our hours enjoying love. Our studies gave us the secret opportunities our passion craved. We spoke more about love than about the book open before us. Our kisses far outnumbered our thoughtful words. Our hands reached for each other's breasts more often than for the book. Love drew our eyes to each other far more than the lesson drew them to the pages. To avoid suspicion, there were indeed occasional blows. But love gave them, not anger. They were not signs of anger, but of a tenderness sweeter than the most fragrant balm. What followed? Our passion left no stage of love unexplored. And if love itself could imagine any wonder still unknown, we discovered it. Our inexperience with such pleasures made us pursue them all the more eagerly, so that our thirst for each other remained unquenched.

In measure as this passionate rapture absorbed me more and more, I devoted ever less time to philosophy and to the work of the school. Indeed it became loathsome to me to go to the school or to linger there; the labour, moreover, was very burdensome, since my nights were vigils of love and my days of study. My lecturing became utterly careless and lukewarm; I did nothing because of inspiration, but everything merely as a matter of habit. I had become nothing more than a reciter of my former discoveries, and though I still wrote poems, they dealt with love, not with the secrets of philosophy. Of these songs you yourself well know how some have become widely known and have been sung in many lands, chiefly, methinks, by those who delighted in the things of this world. As for the sorrow, the groans, the lamentations of my students when they perceived the preoccupation, nay, rather the chaos, of my mind, it is hard even to imagine them.

As this passionate rapture absorbed me more and more, I spent less and less time on philosophy and teaching. I came to loathe going to the school or staying there. The work was also a heavy burden, since I spent my nights awake in love and my days studying. My lectures became utterly careless and halfhearted. I did nothing out of inspiration, but everything merely from habit. I had become nothing more than a reciter of my earlier discoveries. Though I still wrote poems, they were about love, not the secrets of philosophy. You know well that some of these songs became widely known and were sung in many lands. I think they were sung chiefly by people who delighted in worldly things. It is hard even to imagine the sorrow, groans, and lamentations of my students. They saw how preoccupied my mind was, or rather, how chaotic it had become.

A thing so manifest could deceive only a few, no one, methinks, save him whose shame it chiefly bespoke, the girl's uncle, Fulbert. The truth was often enough hinted to him, and by many persons, but he could not believe it, partly, as I have said, by reason of his boundless love for his niece, and partly because of the well-known continence of my previous life. Indeed we do not easily suspect shame in those whom we most cherish, nor can there be the blot of foul suspicion on devoted love. Of this St. Jerome in his epistle to Sabinianus (Epist. 48) says: "We are wont to be the last to know the evils of our own households, and to be ignorant of the sins of our children and our wives, though our neighbours sing them aloud." But no matter how slow a matter may be in disclosing itself, it is sure to come forth at last, nor is it easy to hide from one what is known to all. So, after the lapse of several months, did it happen with us. Oh, how great was the uncle's grief when he learned the truth, and how bitter was the sorrow of the lovers when we were forced to part! With what shame was I overwhelmed, with what contrition smitten because of the blow which had fallen on her I loved, and what a tempest of misery burst over her by reason of my disgrace! Each grieved most, not for himself, but for the other. Each sought to allay, not his own sufferings, but those of the one he loved. The very sundering of our bodies served but to link our souls closer together; the plentitude of the love which was denied to us inflamed us more than ever. Once the first wildness of shame had passed, it left us more shameless than before, and as shame died within us the cause of it seemed to us ever more desirable. And so it chanced with us as, in the stories that the poets tell, it once happened with Mars and Venus when they were caught together.

Something so obvious could have deceived only a few people. I think it deceived no one except the person it most shamed, the girl's uncle, Fulbert. Many people had often hinted at the truth to him, but he could not believe it. This was partly, as I have said, because of his boundless love for his niece. It was also partly because my previous life of self-restraint was well known. We do not easily suspect shameful conduct in those we love most. Nor can devoted love be stained by foul suspicion. St. Jerome says this in his letter to Sabinianus (Epist. 48): "We are usually the last to learn of the evils in our own households. We do not know the sins of our children and wives, though our neighbours sing them aloud." But however slowly a matter comes to light, it is sure to emerge at last. Nor is it easy to hide from one person what everyone knows. So it happened with us after several months. Oh, how great was the uncle's grief when he learned the truth! How bitter was the lovers' sorrow when we were forced to part! I was overwhelmed with shame and stricken with remorse for the blow that had fallen on the woman I loved. And what a storm of misery my disgrace brought upon her! Each of us grieved most, not for ourselves, but for the other. Each sought to ease the other's suffering, not our own. The separation of our bodies only brought our souls closer together. The full love denied to us inflamed us more than ever. Once the first wild burst of shame had passed, we were more shameless than before. As shame died within us, its cause seemed ever more desirable. And so it happened with us as it once did with Mars and Venus, when they were caught together in the poets' stories.

It was not long after this that Héloïse found that she was pregnant, and of this she wrote to me in the utmost exultation, at the same time asking me to consider what had best be done. Accordingly, on a night when her uncle was absent, we carried out the plan we had determined on, and I stole her secretly away from her uncle's house, sending her without delay to my own country. She remained there with my sister until she gave birth to a son, whom she named Astrolabe. Meanwhile her uncle, after his return, was almost mad with grief; only one who had then seen him could rightly guess the burning agony of his sorrow and the bitterness of his shame. What steps to take against me, or what snares to set for me, he did not know. If he should kill me or do me some bodily hurt, he feared greatly lest his dear-loved niece should be made to suffer for it among my kinsfolk. He had no power to seize me and imprison me somewhere against my will, though I make no doubt he would have done so quickly enough had he been able or dared, for I had taken measures to guard against any such attempt.

Not long afterward, Héloïse discovered that she was pregnant. She wrote to me with great joy and asked me to consider what we should do. So, one night when her uncle was away, we carried out the plan we had made. I secretly took her from her uncle’s house and sent her at once to my homeland. She stayed there with my sister until she gave birth to a son, whom she named Astrolabe. Meanwhile, when her uncle returned, he was almost mad with grief. Only someone who saw him then could truly understand the burning pain of his sorrow and the bitterness of his shame. He did not know what action to take against me or what traps to set for me. If he killed or injured me, he greatly feared that my relatives would make his beloved niece suffer for it. He had no power to seize me and imprison me against my will. But I have no doubt he would have done so quickly if he had been able or dared. For I had taken precautions against any such attempt.

At length, however, in pity for his boundless grief, and bitterly blaming myself for the suffering which my love had brought upon him through the baseness of the deception I had practiced, I went to him to entreat his forgiveness, promising to make any amends that he himself might decree. I pointed out that what had happened could not seem incredible to any one who had ever felt the power of love, or who remembered how, from the very beginning of the human race, women had cast down even the noblest men to utter ruin. And in order to make amends even beyond his extremest hope, I offered to marry her whom I had seduced, provided only the thing could be kept secret, so that I might suffer no loss of reputation thereby. To this he gladly assented, pledging his own faith and that of his kindred, and sealing with kisses the pact which I had sought of him—and all this that he might the more easily betray me.

At last, I took pity on his boundless grief. I bitterly blamed myself for the suffering my love had brought him through my shameful deception. I went to him to beg his forgiveness and promised to make whatever amends he demanded. I pointed out that what had happened could not seem unbelievable to anyone who had felt the power of love. Nor could it seem unbelievable to anyone who remembered how, from the beginning of the human race, women had brought even the noblest men to complete ruin. To make amends beyond his greatest hopes, I offered to marry the woman I had seduced. I asked only that the marriage be kept secret, so that my reputation would not suffer. He gladly agreed, giving his word and that of his relatives. He sealed the agreement I had sought with kisses, all so that he could betray me more easily.