by Sherry Jones
He walked with me toward the chapel wearing the bliaut that I most admired, of brilliant blue silk embroidered with gold fleurs-de-lis, and a silver cross at his throat. For myself: that gown of deep red, the color of blood, soon to be shed for my beloved’s sake. The abbey loomed before us like a great hulking predator. I clutched Abelard’s arm, clinging to him for what was surely the last time.
“Steady, Heloise,” he said when I stumbled. Not sweetest or shining star nor any of the other endearments that had sweetened his tongue in a past that was, for me, achingly present. Hold still, you little beast, my uncle had grunted as he’d carried me to the door that was, now, swinging open. The smoke of incense stung my nostrils. Women’s voices sang of sacrifice and sorrow, and the mysteries of love. A man in robes stood in the entry, beckoning me into a darkness from which I would never return.
“I feel as though I were preparing a virgin for sacrifice,” Agnes had said that morning, combing out my hair so that it fell in waves nearly to my waist. In the mirror I beheld my flushed cheeks, my red and trembling mouth, and my eyes glowing with a fire that burned unnaturally hot, as cinders do before they sputter to an end.
“My dear, you look divine. No—do not avert your eyes. Behold the beauty that God has given to you.” She placed her hands on either side of my face and compelled me to face the mirror. “Surely it would be a sin to hide your shining light in that cellar.”
Her words, a final attempt at dissuasion, had the opposite effect. Face and form meant nothing to me now, having ceased to please Abelard. Where once he had written songs in praise of my milk-white skin and eyes like dark stars, now he regarded my gifts with anguish, not able to bear the thought of another man’s enjoying that which he, now, could not. Regarding outer beauty as I did, as the petals of a flower that would someday wither and drop, I could only smile at Agnes’s words. Bereft of Abelard, what else was I to do except his bidding? My uncle’s blade, in cutting him, had cut him off from me, and me from our son—an act for which I bore as much responsibility as Uncle Fulbert and for which I now would pay the price.
Oh, why hadn’t I died that day by Abelard’s bed when he had announced my fate? I had fainted to the floor, instead, “from exhaustion,” the physician had said, but I knew that the shock had felled me. For me to die would have been kinder to Astralabe, who now must struggle to comprehend a mother’s abandonment, as I had done. Perhaps he would learn the truth about me someday, if anyone dared to reveal it. But non—I had not died. I would tell him myself.
Bereft of my son, losing my beloved, I possessed nothing except my work. Removed from the cares of the world, I would devote myself to my studies and also to teaching, which I longed to do. So why did my throat constrict so tightly that, walking into the chilly Chapelle Saint-Jean-Baptiste, I could hardly breathe? The dim-flickering candles and grim-faced monks and canons and priests, the De profundis rising like a wail from the choir, the priest with the gleaming knife standing nearby: all filled me with dread as though death, not marriage, awaited me.
No one had to tell me what to do. I had already seen many novices walk this candlelit aisle, stepping in slow time, bedecked like brides with their father or a brother or an uncle—but never with a husband—by their side. No one had to tell me when to kneel, or when to bend my head to the knife that skimmed along my scalp, shearing my hair, which fell around me like a dark pool. I stood and turned to Abelard, triumphant in my submission, expecting to see his shock at the sight of me shorn, as fragile in appearance as though I were starving, which, in a way, I was. But his face remained as impassive as if he were blind, which, in a way, he was.
O Abelard! Had only a month passed since he’d embraced me so tenderly on these very grounds? I will always love you, my only restoration, my only food, my one peace, and his eyes had opened like windows through which I beheld my own soul. In them I saw restless wings beating, fanning my desire.
Standing in the chapel, shorn and cold, I knew I resembled nothing more than a frightened child, as did all novices. Would Abelard awaken to me at last, and to my sacrifices made for his sake? Every argument, every entreaty, every plea that I had uttered these past weeks had fallen on ears that had seemed, to me, deaf to anyone’s interests but his own.
Cry, I urged myself. Please, dear God, give me tears so that he will know the depth of my sorrow, and of my love.
The sisters ceased their singing. The bishop performed a ceremony more elaborate than my wedding had been: waving the burning censer, filling my mouth and nose with the sickly-sweet smell; intoning the vows, to which I numbly gave my “I do”; placing a ring upon my finger; fitting my head with the veil. I turned to face the crowd that had gathered and saw the curious eyes of Abelard’s scholars; the tear-swollen eyes of Agnes; the kind and solemn eyes of Etienne; the satisfied, glinting eyes of Suger; and a hundred other pairs, all watching, waiting, some shifting in anticipation of the ceremony’s imminent end. But all was not finished, not yet.
I must try one final time to make Abelard see me.
“O noble husband,” I cried out as best as I could from a throat choked with grief—not for the fate to which I submitted myself, but for the loss of Abelard’s love, which, I believed, was complete and final. A hush fell over the chapel, save for the slamming of my heart against my breast.
“ ‘O noble husband, too great for me to wed.’ ” What better poem than Lucan’s Pharsalia to shake him from his trance?
“ ‘Was it my fate to bend that lofty head?
“ ‘Why did I marry you and bring about your fall?’ ” Oh, why? Countless times have I asked this question of myself, yet the answer is ever the same: because Abelard, my only love, commanded it.
I turned and looked directly at him, hoping yet to behold on his face the recognition of what I had done, the enormity of my sacrifice.
“ ‘Now I accept the penalty,’ ” I said, faltering, for he had already begun to glance toward the open door, “ ‘and see me gladly pay.’ ”
The sisters sang again. Their voices rose to the ceiling and out the door, carrying with them all my hopes. Finding no sympathy in Abelard, I looked to Agnes, but could not see her. I lifted my hand to rub my eyes and found my face wet with tears.
“Abelard!” I cried to his retreating back. “Abelard, look at me!” But he did not hear or, hearing, did not obey. Through the blur of tears that, now unstoppered, flowed like a melancholy river over my face and hands, I saw him step through that door, into the beaming, freewheeling sunlight. Then the door fell shut, and all was dark.
15
When her dead body was carried to the opened tomb, her husband, who had died long before her, raised his arms to receive her, and so clasped her closely in his embrace.
—ANONYMOUS ON HELOISE’S BURIAL
THE ORATORY OF THE PARACLETE
1164
What, against the span of eternity, are twenty-seven years? They pass as quickly as a heartbeat, or a sigh, or a single note in a love song performed in the place de Grève market from under curling eyelashes. Yet, in the years between the day that door closed on his retreating back and the night of his death, Abelard and I might have known a lifetime of joy.
In twenty-seven years, we might have lived and loved together and raised our son and bounced his children on our knees. Instead, our Astralabe spent his childhood in Brittany with an aunt and uncle who did not want him. He never knew his maman or papa and went to the abbey as soon as he became of age. I saw him only once as a youth, when, at Abelard’s request, Dagobert brought him to me. How like his father he appeared, with those heartbreaking blue eyes and soft curls. I opened my arms to him but he shied away, averting his gaze. On his second visit, as a young man nearing departure for the Hauterive Abbey in Savoy—so distant, I knew I would never see him again—he stammered when he spoke, and his hands shook, and he stared at me without ceasing, his eyes full of questions. I told him everything I knew. Before he departed, I gave him the collection of our songs
that Abelard had entrusted to me. My son thanked me while holding the parchment to his chest, as though fearing I might wrest it away again—but then he embraced me with eyes full of moisture and kissed my cheeks and hands. “Mother,” he called me, filling me with music as Abelard had done on the day we met.
If only we had remained true to our own song, and to our love, our lives might have held more joy than sorrow, and laughter rather than tears. Why did we part? Had we defied Guibert and Suger and clung to each other, what punishments might the men of the Church have meted out that they did not inflict upon Abelard, anyway? They tried excommunication, banishment, burning his books, harassment, even assassination, but Abelard would not be silenced. How gladly would I have endured these trials and more for his sake, and for that of our son.
During those twenty-seven years—nearly half of Abelard’s too-brief life—I was forced into, then out of, Argenteuil, banished by Suger with my sisters and our Reverend Mother for crimes we did not commit. Abelard, taking pity on me, gave to me his only possession: his parcel of wild ground on the Ardusson River, on which to build an abbey of my own. My daughters and I endured starvation and robbers to tame that wilderness. With God’s help we built an edifice that became renowned both near and far as the only abbey in the world governed for, and by, women alone, and guided by the first Rule for women, which I wrote. In time, the Oratory of the Paraclete grew to become one of the largest abbeys in the realm, with five daughter houses.
We were not completely without male influence, however. As the oratory’s spiritual adviser, Abelard visited us many times, endearing himself to the sisters but keeping himself apart from me. How I yearned for even one hour with him, to talk as intimately as we had done in the past! But he would not see me alone. Perhaps he dreaded provoking any more scandal. Perhaps he wanted to avoid any reminders of our former sins—sins for which he had repented, he said in his letters, admonishing me to do the same. But how could I do so? Now, as my own death nears, I dread God’s punishment—will our Lord keep us apart in Paradise as men did on Earth?—but I hold in my heart an ember of hope that loving Abelard was, in fact, no sin at all.
During our years apart, Abelard wrote many works of true greatness, earning the glory denied to him. He threw his book on the Holy Trinity into the fire, as the Church commanded, then wrote it again even more brilliantly. For his efforts, the pope excommunicated him not once, but twice, and banished him to silence, forbidding him to teach or to publish any new writings. Yet I found him in the hours before his death sitting up in bed, surrounded by books, one hand gripping a stylus and the other holding a wax tablet onto which he scribbled as though each word might be his last.
In all the years between us, I never told my love the truth about the desperate letter I had written to my uncle that led to Abelard’s mutilation. Now, riding my horse as fast as it would go, racing death, I anguished over this failure. Why hadn’t I confessed? I could have written of it and, in fact, did so many times, but scraped the wax clean without sending anything. A written account, falling into the wrong hands, would damage us both, or so I told myself. But I also feared that, hearing the truth, Abelard might turn his back against me forever, shutting the door of his friendship, which was, now, all that remained.
Riding with as much haste as the pocked and scarred road would allow, I rehearsed my speech. I thought you had left me in the Royal Abbey to die, either from laboring in the vineyards or from a spirit broken by your absence. I wrote to my uncle, then, out of desperation. Had I known what he would do to you, I would have cut off my hands rather than write even one word to him.
How many nights had I shivered, contemplating the coldness in Abelard’s eyes where once the fires of passion had raged? In all the time he spent at our Oratory of the Paraclete, he held himself apart from me, embracing my daughters but declining even to clasp my hand. With the sisters he engaged in long discussions, made merry, and performed new compositions written especially for our convent. With me, however, he spoke only of receipts, of repairs to the abbey, or of books we might acquire—and he addressed me never in private, but only in the presence of others. Thusly did he neglect his Heloise.
While those who had given him nothing feasted on the delights of his companionship, I who had given him everything pecked at the crumbs he let fall. For Abelard’s sake, I’d sacrificed my son and all my hopes for life. Now, it seemed, he would never repay the debt. All I had wanted from him was, simply, himself—his acknowledgment of the extent of my losses, and his love. But to give of himself completely had always been an impossible task.
How would he react to my confession? With bitterness? With tears? Contemplating the possibilities, I felt calm. Abelard’s anger would be preferable to his indifference. Once the storm of his outrage had passed he might forgive me, and I might live without him not joyously, but in peace.
I rode for four days, guarded by monks. At last I understood what the Scriptures mean when they admonish us to pray without ceasing. Do not take him yet, dear God. When the Saint-Marcel monastery came into view, we dismounted our horses and waited behind some trees, out of sight of the road, for nightfall. We must not tarry, the monks urged; Abelard’s end lay near. But I would not risk being seen. The Church had denied Abelard’s request to spend his final hours with me at the Paraclete. Loving us both, our friend Pierre the Venerable, the abbot at Cluny where Abelard had taken refuge, sent my beloved to this distant monastery so that we might be together during his final days. Alas, the journey had nearly killed him. Let him live a little longer, I prayed.
Darkness dropped its cloak but God brushed the clouds aside, and the waning moon illumined our path to the chapel door. There Pierre the Venerable greeted me with a kiss before leading me to the infirmary.
We entered the tiny hall, filled with flickering candles warding off the darkness like myriad stars. I had to smile at the sight of Abelard propped up with pillows, his brow creased in concentration, his fist clutching the stylus that he dropped when we entered. He lifted his eyes to me, and I began to cry, overcome by the pure and tender love shining, at last, in that blue gaze.
“Thanks be to God you have come,” he said. “Heloise of my heart, here at last. Thanks be to God.”
I wanted to fall to my knees and beg our Lord to prolong Abelard’s life. Must I lose him now that he loved me again? Failing that, I would have asked him to take me, too. How could I live in a world without Abelard?
His gaze held mine, and all the years since he had first sung to me in the place de Grève market seemed to disappear. His sparse, stiff hair of pure white; his face etched by time and worry; his cracked lips; his rounded belly—all faded from my sight, and he became the Abelard of old, arrogant and proud, irreverent and more handsome than any other man I had ever beheld. I fancy that the changes time had wrought in me—silver strands in my hair, my thickened waist—might have vanished to restore me in his eyes to the youthful woman he had first loved.
“Please, Heloise, come and hold me,” he said, sweeping tablet, books, stylus, and blade to the floor.
The monks in the room frowned, forbidding, but our friend Pierre nodded assent. I removed my mantle and handed it to him. He departed and the others followed, leaving us to ourselves. I gathered the heavy folds of my habit, lifted the bedcovers, and slid into bed beside Abelard. He pressed his face against my breast and wept, soaking my clothing with tears and shaking with a chill that, he said, emanated from his marrow. All the physician’s potions and pastes had not warmed him; no fire could burn hotly enough. Yet, in my embrace, his bones ceased to rattle. He drew a deep, restful breath, then paused for so long that I thought his soul had departed. I whimpered—but then he spoke.
“Forgive me, Heloise. I wronged you and Astralabe most grievously.” I dissuaded him from saying more, admonishing him to rest, but he persisted. “Thinking only of myself, I deprived you of our son and denied him his mother. I failed you both.”
“No, my love,” I said, reveling in the lov
e in his eyes, swimming in it. “You did the only thing you could do, given the world in which we live.” As I spoke the words, I realized their truth. Abelard and I had thought ourselves immune to the authority of men we considered our inferiors. Indeed, in our arrogance we had dared to defy God himself. Is it any wonder that the Lord struck us down? Were every man to live according to his desires alone, the world would descend into chaos.
Now, I knew, was the time for me to confess my sin, namely, the letter that had incited my uncle’s attack. But how could I do so when Abelard had begun, again, to weep? Asking his forgiveness now might alleviate my agony, but it would only increase his own.
So I held my tongue and, stroking Abelard’s damp hair and kissing his brow, listened to his confession.
He had seduced me, he said. For this, I readily forgave him, adding that I had desired him in equal measure.
He had deceived my uncle, he said. Again, I offered absolution, for hadn’t I done the same and worse? Uncle Fulbert had provided for me and trusted me, yet I had given little thought to his feelings, if any at all.
He had forced me into the convent for selfish reasons, out of jealousy, loathing the thought of me with another man. I forgave him even of this, for hadn’t I taken my vows of my own free will? As much as I dreaded the life he had chosen for me, I had submitted with an equally selfish motive, that is, the hope of reigniting his love.
“And I have neglected you for all these years,” he said.
I made no reply at first, as the weight of every day without Abelard’s care pressed against my chest and tongue and the backs of my eyes. How many days do twenty-seven years contain? I suffered through every one of them, deprived first of any word from him and then of any comfort when, attempting to talk with him of the love we had shared, I received his letter admonishing me to restrain my tongue. Desperate for contact with him, I obeyed and kept our correspondence as impersonal as our conversations had become, ignoring the promptings of my heart and stifling the cries of my soul for its other, better half.