Chapter 7

Forthwith I repaired to my own country, and brought back thence my mistress, that I might make her my wife. She, however, most violently disapproved of this, and for two chief reasons: the danger thereof, and the disgrace which it would bring upon me. She swore that her uncle would never be appeased by such satisfaction as this, as, indeed, afterwards proved only too true. She asked how she could ever glory in me if she should make me thus inglorious, and should shame herself along with me. What penalties, she said, would the world rightly demand of her if she should rob it of so shining a light! What curses would follow such a loss to the Church, what tears among the philosophers would result from such a marriage! How unfitting, how lamentable it would be for me, whom nature had made for the whole world, to devote myself to one woman solely, and to subject myself to such humiliation! She vehemently rejected this marriage, which she felt would be in every way ignominious and burdensome to me.

I immediately returned to my own country and brought my mistress back with me so that I could marry her. But she strongly opposed the marriage for two main reasons: the danger and the disgrace it would bring upon me. She swore that marriage would never appease her uncle. As it turned out, she was only too right. She asked how she could ever take pride in me if she disgraced me and brought shame on herself as well. What punishment, she asked, would the world rightly demand of her if she robbed it of such a shining light? What curses would follow such a loss to the Church? How many tears would such a marriage bring among philosophers? How wrong and tragic it would be for me, whom nature had made for the whole world, to devote myself to one woman alone and submit to such humiliation! She strongly rejected the marriage, believing it would be shameful and burdensome to me in every way.

Besides dwelling thus on the disgrace to me, she reminded me of the hardships of married life, to the avoidance of which the Apostle exhorts us, saying: "Art thou loosed from a wife? seek not a wife. But and if thou marry, thou hast not sinned; and if a virgin marry, she hath not sinned. Nevertheless such shall have trouble in the flesh: but I spare you" (I Cor. vii, 27). And again: "But I would have you to be free from cares" (I Cor. vii, 32). But if I would heed neither the counsel of the Apostle nor the exhortations of the saints regarding this heavy yoke of matrimony, she bade me at least consider the advice of the philosophers, and weigh carefully what had been written on this subject either by them or concerning their lives. Even the saints themselves have often and earnestly spoken on this subject for the purpose of warning us. Thus St. Jerome, in his first book against Jovinianus, makes Theophrastus set forth in great detail the intolerable annoyances and the endless disturbances of married life, demonstrating with the most convincing arguments that no wise man should ever have a wife, and concluding his reasons for this philosophic exhortation with these words: "Who among Christians would not be overwhelmed by such arguments as these advanced by Theophrastus?"

Besides speaking of the disgrace marriage would bring me, she reminded me of the hardships of married life. The Apostle urges us to avoid those hardships, saying: "Are you free from a wife? Do not seek one. But if you marry, you have not sinned. And if a virgin marries, she has not sinned. Nevertheless, those who marry will have trouble in the flesh. I would spare you that" (I Cor. vii, 27). And again: "But I want you to be free from cares" (I Cor. vii, 32). But if I would heed neither the Apostle's advice nor the saints' warnings about the heavy burden of marriage, she urged me to consider at least the advice of the philosophers. She asked me to weigh carefully what they had written on the subject and what had been written about their lives. Even the saints themselves have often spoken earnestly about marriage to warn us. Thus St. Jerome, in his first book against Jovinianus, has Theophrastus describe in great detail the unbearable annoyances and endless disturbances of married life. Theophrastus shows with the most convincing arguments that no wise man should ever have a wife. Jerome ends his account of this philosophical warning with these words: "Who among Christians would not be overwhelmed by arguments like those offered by Theophrastus?"

Again, in the same work, St. Jerome tells how Cicero, asked by Hircius after his divorce of Terentia whether he would marry the sister of Hircius, replied that he would do no such thing, saying that he could not devote himself to a wife and to philosophy at the same time. Cicero does not, indeed, precisely speak of "devoting himself," but he does add that he did not wish to undertake anything which might rival his study of philosophy in its demands upon him.

Again, in the same work, St. Jerome tells a story about Cicero. After Cicero divorced Terentia, Hircius asked him whether he would marry Hircius's sister. Cicero replied that he would not, saying he could not devote himself to both a wife and philosophy. Cicero does not use the exact words "devoting himself." But he does add that he did not want to take on anything that might compete with his study of philosophy for his attention.

Then, turning from the consideration of such hindrances to the study of philosophy, Héloïse bade me observe what were the conditions of honourable wedlock. What possible concord could there be between scholars and domestics, between authors and cradles, between books or tablets and distaffs, between the stylus or the pen and the spindle? What man, intent on his religious or philosophical meditations, can possibly endure the whining of children, the lullabies of the nurse seeking to quiet them, or the noisy confusion of family life? Who can endure the continual untidiness of children? The rich, you may reply, can do this, because they have palaces or houses containing many rooms, and because their wealth takes no thought of expense and protects them from daily worries. But to this the answer is that the condition of philosophers is by no means that of the wealthy, nor can those whose minds are occupied with riches and worldly cares find time for religious or philosophical study. For this reason the renowned philosophers of old utterly despised the world, fleeing from its perils rather than reluctantly giving them up, and denied themselves all its delights in order that they might repose in the embraces of philosophy alone. One of them, and the greatest of all, Seneca, in his advice to Lucilius, says: "Philosophy is not a thing to be studied only in hours of leisure; we must give up everything else to devote ourselves to it, for no amount of time is really sufficient thereto" (Epist. 73).

Then Héloïse turned from these obstacles to the study of philosophy and asked me to consider the conditions of honorable marriage. How could scholars live in harmony with servants, or writers with cradles? How could books or writing tablets coexist with distaffs, or a stylus or pen with a spindle? What man absorbed in religious or philosophical thought could endure the whining of children? How could he bear a nurse’s lullabies as she tried to quiet them, or the noisy confusion of family life? Who could endure the constant mess children make? You may say that the rich can, because they have palaces or houses with many rooms. Their wealth also allows them not to worry about expense and protects them from daily worries. But philosophers are by no means as well off as the wealthy. Nor can people whose minds are occupied with riches and worldly cares find time for religious or philosophical study. For this reason, the renowned philosophers of old utterly despised the world. They fled its dangers rather than giving them up reluctantly, and denied themselves all its pleasures. They did this so that they could rest in the embrace of philosophy alone. One of them, Seneca, the greatest of all, says in his advice to Lucilius: "Philosophy is not something to study only in our spare time. We must give up everything else to devote ourselves to it, because no amount of time is really enough" (Epist. 73).

It matters little, she pointed out, whether one abandons the study of philosophy completely or merely interrupts it, for it can never remain at the point where it was thus interrupted. All other occupations must be resisted; it is vain to seek to adjust life to include them, and they must simply be eliminated. This view is maintained, for example, in the love of God by those among us who are truly called monastics, and in the love of wisdom by all those who have stood out among men as sincere philosophers. For in every race, gentiles or Jews or Christians, there have always been a few who excelled their fellows in faith or in the purity of their lives, and who were set apart from the multitude by their continence or by their abstinence from worldly pleasures.

She pointed out that it makes little difference whether someone gives up studying philosophy altogether or merely takes a break. Once interrupted, the study of philosophy can never remain where it left off. One must resist all other occupations. Trying to fit them into one’s life is pointless. They must simply be eliminated. Those among us who are truly called monastics hold this view out of love for God. So do all those who have stood out as sincere philosophers, out of love for wisdom. For among every people, whether gentile, Jewish, or Christian, there have always been a few who surpassed others in faith or purity of life. They stood apart from the crowd through self-restraint or abstinence from worldly pleasures.

Among the Jews of old there were the Nazarites, who consecrated themselves to the Lord, some of them the sons of the prophet Elias and others the followers of Eliseus, the monks of whom, on the authority of St. Jerome (Epist. 4 and 13), we read in the Old Testament. More recently there were the three philosophical sects which Josephus defines in his Book of Antiquities (xviii, 2), calling them the Pharisees, the Sadducees and the Essenes. In our times, furthermore, there are the monks who imitate either the communal life of the Apostles or the earlier and solitary life of John. Among the gentiles there are, as has been said, the philosophers. Did they not apply the name of wisdom or philosophy as much to the religion of life as to the pursuit of learning, as we find from the origin of the word itself, and likewise from the testimony of the saints?

Among the ancient Jews were the Nazarites, who dedicated themselves to the Lord. Some were sons of the prophet Elias, and others were followers of Eliseus. According to St. Jerome (Epist. 4 and 13), we read about their monks in the Old Testament. Later, there were three philosophical sects, which Josephus describes in his Book of Antiquities (xviii, 2). He calls them the Pharisees, the Sadducees, and the Essenes. In our own time, there are monks who imitate either the communal life of the Apostles or the earlier, solitary life of John. Among the gentiles, as I have said, there are the philosophers. Did they not use the name of wisdom or philosophy for a religious way of life as well as for the pursuit of learning? We can see this from the origin of the word itself and from the testimony of the saints.

There is a passage on this subject in the eighth book of St. Augustine's "City of God," wherein he distinguishes between the various schools of philosophy. "The Italian school," he says, "had as its founder Pythagoras of Samos, who, it is said, originated the very word 'philosophy.' Before his time those who were regarded as conspicuous for the praiseworthiness of their lives were called wise men, but he, on being asked of his profession, replied that he was a philosopher, that is to say a student or a lover of wisdom, because it seemed to him unduly boastful to call himself a wise man." In this passage, therefore, when the phrase "conspicuous for the praiseworthiness of their lives" is used, it is evident that the wise, in other words the philosophers, were so called less because of their erudition than by reason of their virtuous lives. In what sobriety and continence these men lived it is not for me to prove by illustration, lest I should seem to instruct Minerva herself.

There is a passage on this subject in the eighth book of St. Augustine's "City of God." In it, he distinguishes between the various schools of philosophy. "The Italian school," he says, "was founded by Pythagoras of Samos, who is said to have coined the very word 'philosophy.' Before his time, people known for their admirable lives were called wise men. But when asked about his profession, Pythagoras replied that he was a philosopher, meaning a student or lover of wisdom. He thought it too boastful to call himself a wise man." In this passage, Augustine speaks of people known for their admirable lives. Clearly, then, the wise, or philosophers, were so called less because of their learning than because of their virtuous lives. It is not for me to give examples of how soberly and with what self-restraint these men lived. To do so would be like trying to teach Minerva herself.

Now, she added, if laymen and gentiles, bound by no profession of religion, lived after this fashion, what ought you, a cleric and a canon, to do in order not to prefer base voluptuousness to your sacred duties, to prevent this Charybdis from sucking you down headlong, and to save yourself from being plunged shamelessly and irrevocably into such filth as this? If you care nothing for your privileges as a cleric, at least uphold your dignity as a philosopher. If you scorn the reverence due to God, let regard for your reputation temper your shamelessness. Remember that Socrates was chained to a wife, and by what a filthy accident he himself paid for this blot on philosophy, in order that others thereafter might be made more cautious by his example. Jerome thus mentions this affair, writing about Socrates in his first book against Jovinianus: "Once when he was withstanding a storm of reproaches which Xantippe was hurling at him from an upper story, he was suddenly drenched with foul slops; wiping his head, he said only, 'I knew there would be a shower after all that thunder.'"

She added: If laymen and non-Christians, who had made no religious vows, lived this way, what should you do? You are a cleric and a canon. How can you avoid putting base pleasure before your sacred duties? How can you keep this Charybdis from sucking you down headlong? How can you save yourself from plunging shamelessly and irreversibly into such filth? If you care nothing for your privileges as a cleric, at least uphold your dignity as a philosopher. If you scorn the reverence due to God, let concern for your reputation restrain your shamelessness. Remember that Socrates was chained to a wife. Remember, too, the filthy incident through which he paid for this stain on philosophy. His example should make others more cautious in the future. Jerome mentions the incident in his first book against Jovinianus, writing about Socrates: "Once, while Socrates was enduring a storm of insults from Xantippe, who was upstairs, he was suddenly drenched in foul slops. He wiped his head and said only, 'I knew there would be a shower after all that thunder.'"

Her final argument was that it would be dangerous for me to take her back to Paris, and that it would be far sweeter for her to be called my mistress than to be known as my wife; nay, too, that this would be more honourable for me as well. In such case, she said, love alone would hold me to her, and the strength of the marriage chain would not constrain us. Even if we should by chance be parted from time to time, the joy of our meetings would be all the sweeter by reason of its rarity. But when she found that she could not convince me or dissuade me from my folly by these and like arguments, and because she could not bear to offend me, with grievous sighs and tears she made an end of her resistance, saying: "Then there is no more left but this, that in our doom the sorrow yet to come shall be no less than the love we two have already known." Nor in this, as now the whole world knows, did she lack the spirit of prophecy.

Her final argument was that taking her back to Paris would be dangerous for me. She said she would much rather be called my mistress than be known as my wife. She also said that this would be more honorable for me. In that case, she said, love alone would keep me with her. We would not be bound by the chains of marriage. Even if we happened to be separated from time to time, our meetings would be all the sweeter for being rare. But she found that these and similar arguments could not persuade me or deter me from my folly. And because she could not bear to offend me, she stopped resisting, with deep sighs and tears. She said, "Then all that remains is this: in our ruin, the sorrow still to come will be no less than the love we have already known." As the whole world now knows, she proved to be a prophet.

So, after our little son was born, we left him in my sister's care, and secretly returned to Paris. A few days later, in the early morning, having kept our nocturnal vigil of prayer unknown to all in a certain church, we were united there in the benediction of wedlock, her uncle and a few friends of his and mine being present. We departed forthwith stealthily and by separate ways, nor thereafter did we see each other save rarely and in private, thus striving our utmost to conceal what we had done. But her uncle and those of his household, seeking solace for their disgrace, began to divulge the story of our marriage, and thereby to violate the pledge they had given me on this point. Héloïse, on the contrary, denounced her own kin and swore that they were speaking the most absolute lies. Her uncle, aroused to fury thereby, visited her repeatedly with punishments. No sooner had I learned this than I sent her to a convent of nuns at Argenteuil, not far from Paris, where she herself had been brought up and educated as a young girl. I had them make ready for her all the garments of a nun, suitable for the life of a convent, excepting only the veil, and these I bade her put on.

So, after our little son was born, we left him in my sister's care and secretly returned to Paris. A few days later, we spent the night in prayer in a church, without anyone knowing. Early that morning, we were married there. Her uncle and a few of his friends and mine were present. We left immediately, secretly and by separate routes. Afterward, we saw each other only rarely and in private, doing all we could to conceal our marriage. But her uncle and his household began to spread the story of our marriage to ease their disgrace. In doing so, they broke the promise they had made me to keep it secret. Héloïse, on the other hand, denounced her relatives and swore they were telling outright lies. Her uncle was furious and punished her repeatedly. As soon as I learned of the punishment, I sent her to a convent at Argenteuil, not far from Paris. She had been brought up and educated there as a young girl. I had all the clothing a nun needed for life in the convent prepared for her, except the veil. I told her to put it on.

When her uncle and his kinsmen heard of this, they were convinced that now I had completely played them false and had rid myself forever of Héloïse by forcing her to become a nun. Violently incensed, they laid a plot against me, and one night, while I, all unsuspecting, was asleep in a secret room in my lodgings, they broke in with the help of one of my servants, whom they had bribed. There they had vengeance on me with a most cruel and most shameful punishment, such as astounded the whole world, for they cut off those parts of my body with which I had done that which was the cause of their sorrow. This done, straightway they fled, but two of them were captured, and suffered the loss of their eyes and their genital organs. One of these two was the aforesaid servant, who, even while he was still in my service, had been led by his avarice to betray me.

When her uncle and his relatives heard this, they believed I had completely betrayed them. They thought I had rid myself of Héloïse forever by forcing her to become a nun. Furious, they plotted against me. One night, I was sleeping unsuspectingly in a private room in my lodgings. They broke in with the help of one of my servants, whom they had bribed. They took revenge on me with a punishment so cruel and shameful that it shocked the whole world. They cut off the parts of my body with which I had caused their sorrow. They fled immediately afterward, but two of them were captured. Their eyes and genitals were cut out. One of them was the servant I mentioned. While still in my service, he had been driven by greed to betray me.