The Sharp Hook of Love (45 page)

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 love 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.

“I thought you had ceased to love me,” I said, “or that you had never loved me at all.”

“You are the only one I have ever loved,” he said, beginning to tremble again. I tightened my embrace, but, this time, his shivers did not abate for a long while. A sob formed in my throat but I swallowed it, not wanting to hinder his soul's unburdening in his final hours. My reward came soon enough, as, once his body had calmed, he told me through laboring breaths all that I had wanted to know.

Abelard had never blamed me for my uncle's cruel act, he said. Again, the urge to confess seized me, but again I forbore, not only because I feared extinguishing the light of love from his eyes but
also because I would have him rest, now, in peace. If he had treated me coldly, he did so out of shame, he said, and also out of confusion. Even after his body's wounds had healed and the pain diminished, the desire that once had burned for me stirred him no more.

“When I beheld you—forgive me!—I felt nothing.” Shame increased by his body's failure to feel what a man ought to feel, he wanted only to be rid of me, the reminder of all he once had been.

“And now I must confess. Heloise, the bishop of Paris did not decree that you must take the veil; nor did Suger suggest it. The idea was mine, and mine alone.”

He began to weep anew, but I begged him to dry his tears. I'd given up my life for no one's sake but his, I said. Only Abelard could have prompted me to make that sacrifice.

“I hoped that you would repay your debt to me with your love,” I said.

“How could I do so when I abhorred myself?”

His shivering commenced; I cradled his clattering bones awkwardly, as though clutching a bundle of twigs.

“I have never ceased to love you, my precious jewel; my unique one; my
amica, amor
,
dilectio
, and
caritas
,” he said.

I smiled through my tears. At last, he knew: love is love. I had won our debate.

Yet, I realized, Abelard's love had differed from mine. As I had argued so passionately all those years ago, each of us feels love differently. My experience of love—selfless, sacrificial, all-consuming—differed from his, which considered his own interests first and foremost. He loved himself first, but he did not love me less.

Out of love, he'd given me the most exquisite pleasures rather than simply taking his from me; out of love, he'd sent me to Brittany with all the money he could gather to ensure my safety and well-being. Out of love had he married me, imperiling all that
he'd worked so long to build; out of love had Abelard moved me to Argenteuil to flee my uncle's abuse, knowing that Uncle might turn his hand against him, instead.

Out of love had Abelard given me his only possession in the world, his land for the Paraclete. Out of love had he made an abbess of me, knowing that I would be cared for no matter what might befall him, and also that, as the Paraclete's adviser, he would be able to visit me from time to time.

“I did not wish to harm you further,” he gasped. “God is my witness, Heloise: all I have done since we parted has been for your sake. And yet mine is a selfish love, yes. I want you with me in heaven.”

His eyes brimmed and overflowed, blue pools into which I yearned to dive, immersing myself in what had been denied to me for so long. Abelard loved me as much as I loved him, only differently. Why had I ever thought otherwise? Abandoned by my mother, never knowing my father, abused by my uncle, I had expected Abelard to hurt me, as well. Indeed, I thought many times that he had done so. I could not have erred more grievously. He had remained true to me since the day we met. He had not betrayed me, but, in allowing doubt to govern my mind, I had betrayed myself, and him.

I knew nothing else that night, cradling Abelard, my heart of hearts, but I knew this: he had never ceased to love me, and he never would. And, on that night, he repaid his debt to me.

His eyes pleaded. I opened my mouth to answer,
oui
, that I loved him, and always had loved him, and always would love him. But he foundered like a drowning man, grasping at my clothes as if to keep from slipping away.

“Pray for me, Heloise. Swear it. Take my body to the Paraclete. Pray over me every day. Ask for God's mercy and forgiveness. I should not have led you into sin. Please—beg him to forgive me.”

“Shh. Do not speak of these things.” Had he forgotten that I
had never repented of our indulgences? Nor have I done so now, two decades after Abelard's death. Instead, I relive every hour we spent together and indulge, again, in every delightful transgression. Why would God listen to me, a sinner yet twisting with desire for my former lover and utterly unrepentant? I doubted that my prayers would provide any benefit—but I did not say so. Instead, I made the promise as he drifted away, his eyes' light diminishing, lanterns set on a vessel that, now, drifted out to sea.

“Abelard,” I said, crying now, “don't leave me.”

“Heloise,” he said, gasping. “I shall never leave you. I will await you in heaven, my only one. We shall be together again someday, God willing.”

“But what if God does not will it?” I began to sob. “I have never repented of sinning with you. I cannot, not in my heart. You say you have done so? Tell me how, I beg you.”

His eyes' expression told me all. Elation swept through me. His admonishments; the calls for repentance in his letters; his claims that lust, not love, had ruled him—all were false.

“Or have you repented?” I whispered. “Are you forgiven?”

“I don't know.”

He pressed his mouth to mine, as for a kiss. I felt my fears subside as, with a long sigh, he released his spirit, giving himself to me at last, the greatest gift of all, taking up residence in my soul, becoming a part of me as never before. Warmth rushed through my blood like the fresh breath of springtime, filling me with hope where, for so long, the cold winds of desolation had blown.

Every year without Abelard in my life has seemed, to me, a lifetime. But what are Earthly years? With his dying breath, he became mine for eternity.

And I, as ever, am his.

Love urges me to enlist in its service, to respect its laws,

And what I had not learnt, love forces me to learn.

No man but stone is he whom your beauty does not move.

I believe that I am moved, nor can I be stone.

Poets have tried hard to portray the body of Venus,

. . . .

But did they ever produce anyone equal to you? Certainly I think not.

For your beauty surpasses even the goddesses themselves.

Should I go on or be silent? By your grace, I will speak.

I will speak, for a traitor is devoid of words . . .

You have conquered me, whom no woman could conquer.

Thus I burn more strongly, this being my first love;

For never before has that flame penetrated my marrow.

If ever there was love before, I was only lukewarm.

You alone make me eloquent; such glory has happened to

No one, that she be worthy of my song.

You are like no one else, you in whom nature has placed

Whatever excellence the world can have:

Beauty, noble birth, character—through which honor is begotten—

All make you outstanding in our city.

So is it then surprising that I am lured by their brilliance,

If I succumb to you, conquered by your love?

—Abelard to Heloise