And what a love it was. Until recently, we could read it directly only in eight letters discovered in the 13th century and composed long after the lovers' entry into monastic life. The first, from Abelard, isn't even directed to Heloise. Written for an unnamed monk, it's what a medieval reader would have called a "letter of consolation," meant to comfort a troubled friend by convincing him that your problems are greater than his. This early variant of schadenfreude, the so-called "Historia Calamitatum," is how we learn of Abelard's first arrival in Paris, of his growing renown as a teacher and his encounter with the well-educated young Heloise. Here too we learn of Abelard's rash decision to move into her uncle Fulbert's home and become her tutor, of their love and her pregnancy, of Fulbert's rage, Abelard's attempt to pacify him by proposing marriage and Heloise's resistance -- at least in part because of the damage it would do to her lover's reputation. We learn that Abelard prevailed over his pupil, that the wedding was initially kept secret and that Fulbert ordered a terrible act of vengeance. Days after thugs broke into Abelard's bedroom at night and castrated him, the newlyweds took vows of celibacy and repaired to their respective religious institutions.
The letters written after the "Historia Calamitatum" are the richest, containing the rash, ringing, reckless and altogether impious declarations of love for which Heloise will always be known. Here is a voice that refuses to stay in the Middle Ages; it reaches through the centuries and catches us at the throat. "Men call me chaste," she writes. "They do not know the hypocrite I am." Even during the celebration of Mass, she confesses, "lewd visions" of the pleasures she shared with Abelard "take such a hold upon my unhappy soul that my thoughts are on their wantonness instead of on prayers. I should be groaning over the sins I have committed, but I can only sigh for what I have lost." She asserts the primacy of desire, boldly professing the amorous, sacrilegious motives that drove her into the convent: "It was not any sense of vocation which brought me as a young girl to accept the austerities of the cloister, but your bidding alone. . . . I can expect no reward for this from God, for it is certain that I have done nothing as yet for love of him. . . . I would have had no hesitation, God knows, in following you or going ahead at your bidding to the flames of hell." Her bravado, her defiance, her ruthless honesty and her apotheosis of eros over morality are everywhere apparent -- and still today they are shocking.
Love is Heloise's religion, even when she's wrapped in the robes of a nun. And in the practice of this religion, she is as uncompromising as she is unconventional. For her, love has no business with the law or money or social safety nets. It is for this reason, more than any other, that she opposes Abelard's desire to wed: "I never sought anything in you except yourself. . . . I looked for no marriage bond." Indeed, she proclaims,"if Augustus, emperor of the whole world, saw fit to honor me with marriage and conferred all the earth on me to possess forever, it would be dearer and more honorable to me to be called not his empress, but your whore."
The dust will not settle on such words. At once intrepid and idealistic, transgressive and submissive, taboo-busting and sweet-natured, noble and naughty, they have seduced scholars for centuries. This woman, this prioress, who was prepared to sacrifice not just earthly reputation but heavenly salvation for the sake of her secular love, is a literary original. Petrarch couldn't read her without scribbling exclamations in the margins; the three letters to Abelard that have come down to us from her monastic confinement have sufficed to make her name as a writer.
Only recently -- and miraculously -- has a new cache of material turned up, fragments of 113 letters that many scholars believe Abelard and Heloise exchanged before Abelard's castration. Copied in the 15th century by a monk named Johannes de Vespria, discovered in 1980 by Constant J. Mews and finally published as "The Lost Love Letters of Heloise and Abelard," these short but eloquent missives present two people vying -- with no coyness or gender typecasting whatever -- to outdo each other in expressions of adoration. "To a reddening rose under the spotless whiteness of lilies," the woman addresses the man. "To his jewel, more pleasing and more splendid than the present light," the man addresses the woman. The letters have unleashed a new storm of interest in the couple; it is to this that we owe the British filmmaker James Burge's biography, "Abelard and Heloise."
Burge spends much time glossing the new correspondence -- unfortunately, trivializing rather than illuminating it. "This sounds to modern ears like a promise of sex," he tells us at one point, then rushes to explain: "The question of when exactly they first consummated their love awaits more assiduous scholarship." Given that scholars are still arguing about Heloise's birth date (she's been put between 15 and 27 years of age at the time of her encounter with Abelard, who would have been in his late 30's), you shouldn't hold your breath waiting for this golden factoid. But what's really missing in Burge's biography is an ear for the lyricism of his subjects' correspondence, a feel for the mystery of their bond.
Antoine Audouard's novel "Farewell, My Only One" doesn't draw explicitly on the new letters, but it's substantially truer to their spirit. It also has an ingenious narrative scheme: the story is told from the point of view of a wandering student, William, who falls in love with Heloise at the same time that he becomes Abelard's disciple. When he has outlived both, at the end of the tale, we discover an even closer connection.
Audouard, a former director of the French publisher Laffont-Fixot, evokes in gritty and poetic detail the streets of 12th-century Paris (where the narrator tells us he "stumbled over a pig"). He's also very good at conveying the process of infatuation: William falls for Heloise when she loses consciousness in a crowd: "I am not strong. I have never carried a woman," he marvels. And yet he does, and even lunges after the flower that has fallen from her hair. "A few crushed petals" are all that remain, though, when he opens his "clenched fist" -- a foretaste of what happens when we grasp what we love too firmly.
But Audouard spends too much time alone with William -- building churches, cleaning grates, making friends -- and we resent being taken away from the lovers. Then again, anyone writing about Abelard and Heloise must compete with their own eloquence. The early letters are so clear and beautiful they can be read alone, without anachronistic glossing or fictional superstructures. Like the later letters -- recently reprinted in a volume edited by the British medievalist and Abelard biographer Michael Clanchy -- they glow. Together they preserve the myth of a shining couple, persecuted by authority and hounded by circumstance but true to each other, ready for all sacrifice, passionate even to the grave.
It's a potent myth and a necessary one -- but it is a myth. The reality of Abelard and Heloise's story may be no less moving, but it's less than perfect. You could argue, first off, that their relationship was already on the decline by the time Abelard was castrated. And that Fulbert's vengeance was taken because Abelard was insufficiently, rather than excessively, close to his niece. Heloise already lived in a convent at the time of Abelard's mutilation -- not as a nun, but nevertheless under the protection of the nuns. Ostensibly this was a tactic to preserve the secrecy of their marriage; to Fulbert, however, it may have suggested that Abelard was planning to get rid of his wife. Is this what it meant to her? The arrangement, in any case, was neither ideal nor particularly gallant, and Abelard's visits were decreasing in frequency: "You sadden my spirit," Heloise writes in the last of her early letters.
Is it possible that Fulbert's crime saved rather than sank the lovers' passion? That by turning Abelard into a romantic martyr at the very moment his interest was flagging, Fulbert reinvigorated Heloise's loyalty and gave Abelard an excuse to ignore her without blame?
This is, in fact, what he did for the next 12 years. It wasn't until Heloise had become abbess of her own convent and stumbled upon his "Historia Calamitatum" that she was able to draw Abelard back into communication with her. And even then religion had changed him; the passion and warmth of the early letters had fled.
In the later letters, Abélard has become pious and self-centered. When Heloise entreats him to take pity on her loneliness, he sends her a set of prayers to say for him. When she serenades their love, he moans about the trouble he's having with the other monks at his abbey. Never an easy man to get on with, he has made blood enemies of men whose well-being he is supposed to preserve: they are, he assures Heloise, relentlessly trying to poison him. Therefore the refrain, "Pray for me."
It is Heloise's tact and generosity that allow the dialogue to continue and even attain exemplary dimensions. Seeing that her beloved is no longer capable of the language of passion, she smothers her love song ("the loss," as Burge states, "is history's") and addresses him on the only terms he still knows and values. Like the star student she once was, she begins to quiz him on every biblical, monastic and moral question she can think of. In doing so, she inspires much of the most valuable -- and satisfying -- work of Abelard's life. Disdained by his own monks as well as by the Vatican (he was twice condemned for heresy), he found an enthusiastic audience in Heloise and her nuns. It is for Heloise that he undertakes what one scholar has called "the most substantial writings of the 12th century on women's place in Christianity"; it is for Heloise that he writes countless sermons, hymns and disquisitions on spiritual themes. Heloise's convent becomes, in some sense, the couple's joint project, their spiritual child. Their cooperation struck onlookers as a dazzling example of friendship between a man and a woman.
If Heloise didn't get what she most wanted from Abelard, she got the very best he had to give. His reflections, his confidences and his final, all-important confession were addressed to her; his most urgent worldly plea was to be buried where she would be near him. Is their story a fraud because Abelard, as Mews has written, was "tagging along behind" Heloise in matters of the heart?
The love stories that touch us most deeply are punctuated by human frailty. Look at them up close and you see the fault lines, compromises and anticlimaxes. At the beginning of Shakespeare's play, Romeo is just as intemperately in love with a girl called Rosaline as he is later with Juliet. Tristan and Isolde's passion could well be the fruit of substance abuse, of a love potion they drank unknowingly. And Abélard and Heloise? They weren't equally strong or passionate or generous. Still, they put their frailties together and begat a perfect myth, as well as something perhaps even more precious -- a surprising, splendid, fractured reality. "There is a crack," the Leonard Cohen lyric goes, "a crack in everything: that's how the light gets in."
Books Discussed in This Essay
HELOISE AND ABELARD A New Biography. By James Burge. HarperSanFrancisco, $24.95.
FAREWELL, MY ONLY ONE By Antoine Audouard. Translated by Euan Cameron. Houghton Mifflin, $24.
ABELARD AND HELOISE By Constant J. Mews. Oxford University, cloth, $74; paper, $24.95.
THE LETTERS OF ABELARD AND HELOISE Translated With an Introduction and Notes by Betty Radice. Revised by M. T. Clanchy. Penguin, paper, $14.
THE LOST LETTERS OF HELOISE AND ABELARD Perceptions of Dialogue in Twelfth-Century France. By Constant J. Mews. With Translations by Neville Chiavaroli and Constant J. Mews. Palgrave Macmillan, cloth, $75; paper, $24.95.
ESSAY Cristina Nehring writes regularly for The Atlantic. She is the author of the forthcoming "Women in Love From Simone de Beauvoir to Sylvia Plath: A Feminist Defense of Romance."Continue reading the main story
w4m: Looking for a pseudointellectual narcissist who will always one-up or belittle me when it comes to anything culture-related. Must tell me my mental illness is my fault because I don’t exercise, and explain that medication is wrong. Cannot be a doctor, mentally ill himself or empathetic.
w4m: Looking for a burnt-out, jobless musician who played SXSW once ten years ago and thinks that still means something. Must sing to me and show me his artistically crafted self-harm marks to gain my affection and sympathy, and after that, ignore me or tell me he has “way too much going on.”
w4m: Looking for an aspiring white actor who complains there aren’t enough roles for him because his Italian skin tone casts him as a mobster and never the common Midwestern. Must ask if I’m a feminist and play devil’s advocate, saying women are just biologically crazier, and still expect me to sleep with him.
Nothing In Between
I’m smart and cute and full of great ideas
I can do it all
I’m incompetent and will never be as smart or witty or beautiful as her and her and her and her and her
I’m fucking awful
Everything is coming together and I can’t wait!!!!!
I’m young and have so many years to make anything happen
I’m past my prime and may have early onset dementia because nothing makes sense
I’ll be dead before I’m dead because I won’t know what the hell anything is anymore
I’m talking a mile a minute and can’t wait to go out and drink and smoke half a pack of cigarettes in two hours
I’ll be up all night hanging out and feel great the next day
I haven’t left my bed in 25 hours and don’t plan on it
Maybe these thick comforters will smother me out of my misery :~)
I’m a goddess and you better goddamn respect me
Because everybody loves me
I’m a pathetic child who has no real understanding of the world or anything ever
Everyone can see through my shit
I love myself
I hate myself
Maybe one day, I’ll be gray
like a happy, slick, glistening baby dolphin
who doesn’t give a damn
Dehydrating my fragile
and already incredibly dehydrated body
one salty drop at a time
I’m barely there, evaporating
Each tear a small, glistening Sisyphean boulder
An endless task
A futile task
Undeserved, but one I’ve chosen to take on
But with each push of the boulder
I develop droplets of something
that feel like strength
but also exhaustion
And I’ll keep doing it
Not because I’m a
Oh wait, maybe because
but just a little 😉
When you left
I made a 5-page Word doc list
of everything Wrong with You
of how shitty and terrible you are
I read it to myself every day
and promised I wouldn’t forget
I deleted it
because deep down, I wanted to forget
but can trauma ever really be deleted?
Craigslist Personals II
w4m: Looking for a white guy who has lived in South Korea and some other Asian countries for a while and singles me out because I’m Chinese. Must tell me he doesn’t have an Asian fetish but reveal he doesn’t date white women or blondes, especially, because they remind him of his mother.
w4m: Looking for a guy whose father built some of the set of “Blade Runner” and makes that very known. He, on the other hand, builds custom, handmade guitars and also makes that very known. Must ask me if he can use his sex toy on me and I’ll say no, because that’s not sanitary, and he’ll tell me he boiled it earlier so it’s clean.
w4m: Looking for a privileged semi-bro who drives a flashy brand new Audi. He’ll tell me “my parents are physicians and I’ll soon be a lawyer.” Must start playing Maroon 5 out of nowhere and tell me that they’re the best band of our generation, and disregard my subsequent discomfort.
When You Came Back
When you came back
I couldn’t tell if you loved me
I was afraid of decaying
like the produce I forget in my fridge
all the damn time
that become rotten and withered
So my body did what it does best
Protecting me as if a swarm of
Were after me
We all know how much I hate bugs
Unless they’re dead and in the display cases
at Necromance on Melrose Ave. in Hollywood
near where I once lived
But it was just you
Or just me, thinking it was You
My heartbeat was visceral
Pounding and uneven, a broken staccato
That tight knot in my gut
A wet towel being wrung in my softest, fleshiest bits
until I bleed dry
I would wake up every morning
Wondering if today would be the day
That the fogginess would disappear
That words would regain their meaning
That my voice would return
Along with my thoughts; the ones that made sense
That I wouldn’t be a ghost of a shell of a person
Going through the motions of life
Both eternally sad and unfeeling at the same time
That my normally insatiable appetite would return
That I could look you in the eye
That I could look myself in my eye
And remember who I was
and maybe find out who I am
with or without you
I did it for you
because you anxiety-shamed me
and because I needed help
A sweet, sweet, warm fuzziness washes over me
when I take 5 and a swig of whiskey
like a blanket of alpaca fur and glitter and what Love is meant to feel like
and I sleep
c a n ’ t c o n c e n t r a t e
Oops, passed out by accident
Racing anxiety-fueled nightmares
F u c k
I should’ve known
but I don’t even care
because I just got a refill :~)
We found a mysterious prayer candle in the house
and lit it for someone every time we went out for a smoke
Once for you
Once for me
Once for my sister who was in LA
Once for Steve Buscemi
Once for Věra Chytilová
Once, unbeknownst to me, for the “Basketball Gods”
You wanted The Jazz to win
The night after the night I found out
I smashed that prayer candle into a thousand pieces
along with a small plant pot, a larger plant pot
and something else, I forget
Oh, and my fragile, pathetic hope
My stupid optimism and stupider trust
Shattered into enough pieces to slice
everyone in Ohio apart
That’s around 12 million people
even 12 million prayer candles couldn’t heal
me at the time
or heal you
I don’t know who had it worse