Heloise’s letters reveal a medieval woman caught between enduring love, religious duty, and the expectations of her age. Andrea Maraschi explores how they also showcase her remarkable learning and her willingness to express thoughts and emotions rarely preserved in medieval women’s writing.
By Andrea Maraschi
Argenteuil, about 15 km to the north-west of Paris, 1118. A young lady gravely walks to the altar without saying a word. She catches the veil from the bishop’s hands and starts reciting an ancient pagan poem authored by Lucan—specifically, a few lines from Book VIII of Pharsalia, where Pompey’s wife blames herself for her husband’s tragic destiny. The lady shared those same feelings: she felt terribly guilty for a man—for her husband, actually. And now that she was about to become a nun, she recited no prayer, nor asked for help; composed and dignified, she simply relied on these ancient words to speak about herself. Her name was Heloise.
In the last year, her mind had been focused on one thought only: Peter Abelard. Her teacher of philosophy and theology; the man who made her fall in love; the man with whom she had started a clandestine affair; the man with whom she eventually had a child, named—not surprisingly, given his parents’ erudition—Astrolabius.
Abelard saw her first in Paris, and he decided he would conquer her: he was 38, she was 17. He was told that her uncle, a canon named Fulbert, wanted the best teacher for her, and Abelard happened to be one of the brightest minds of his time. Abelard made an agreement with Fulbert whereby he would be Heloise’s private teacher, and Fulbert would provide him with board and lodging in return. And so, every day, after teaching theology at the University of Paris, Abelard would go back home and shut himself in a private room with the young and beautiful Heloise.
Abelard and Heloise – Chantilly. Library and Archives of the Château, Ms. 482 f. 60v
Things quickly escalated. In the privacy of their room, the master and the pupil fell in love with each other. A few months later, when Heloise could no longer hide her pregnancy, Fulbert planned his revenge on Abelard for his betrayal: a man who had not asked his permission to have Heloise.
At first, Fulbert let them celebrate a shotgun marriage in secret, but later he sent two hitmen to Abelard’s house and had him castrated. Abelard’s life and career were compromised, but he still did not want to give Heloise up—and here we are back where we started.
In 1118, Heloise became a nun at the monastery of Argenteuil, whereas Abelard became a monk at Saint-Denis. Many other things happened to him, while we do not know a great deal about Heloise for many years.
Abelard and his pupil Heloise by Edmund Leighton, 1882
For about twelve years, the two did not have the chance to see each other. Then, in 1130, Heloise read Abelard’s History of My Misfortunes, where her husband recorded when they had met, how their love began, and how the situation suddenly worsened. Terribly worried for her husband’s life, she decided to send him a letter. Her words still give goosebumps to the reader:
To her lord—or rather, her father; to her husband—or rather, her brother; from his servant—or rather, his daughter; from his wife—or rather, his sister: to Abelard from Heloise.
The letter you wrote to comfort a friend, my beloved, has recently chanced to come into my hands. Recognizing at once from the heading that it was yours, I began to read it with eagerness as great as my love for its writer. For I hoped that I might be refreshed by the words, as if by a picture, of one whom in reality I have lost. Instead, I found almost every part of this letter filled with the bitterness of gall and wormwood, as you told the pitiable story of our conversion to the religious life and the endless torments you have suffered, my only love.
Heloise shows herself to be concerned for him, but she cannot help giving voice to her love, which she has not been able to choke off:
You know, my dearest, as everyone knows, what I have lost in you, and how calamitous for me was that supreme and notorious betrayal which robbed me of myself as well as you, so that my sorrow is immeasurably deeper for the way in which I lost you than for the loss itself. Truly the greater the cause of sorrow, the greater must be the remedies of consolation applied to it—not by someone else, however, but by you yourself. For you were the sole cause of my grief, and you alone can bring me the balm of comfort. You alone can make me sad, and only you can make me happy and console me.
So deeply does she still want him that she says she would rather consider herself his concubine or whore than his mistress or wife. As she talks about love, she displays her impressive learning and culture: she casually quotes Xenophon, the Church Fathers, the Bible, Seneca, and many others.
Heloise at the Abbey of the Paraclete by Jean-Baptiste Mallet (1759–1835)
Still in love, Heloise is also resentful about Abelard’s behavior. She has the feeling that her husband wanted her only as long as he was moved by sexual desire, and that afterwards things changed:
Lust, not love, inspired the ardor of your desire for me. Then, after what you desired came to an end, whatever feelings you had shown for this reason vanished at the same time.
Such words could have been posted today on social media, and they would have sounded as timely and accurate as ever. Abelard replied by changing the focus of the discussion from carnal love to spiritual love. The time to speak about their affair was over, he said, and it was now the time to consider themselves as brother and sister in God. But did this finally convince Heloise to dedicate her thoughts to prayer and the monastic life?
No—not by any stretch of the imagination. Heloise’s second letter burns with passion. Unlike what one would expect of a twelfth-century nun, she frankly states that if Abelard had died, she would have cursed the Lord for this. She is still dominated by anger, for God first gave her all the happiness in the world and then took it away.
Furthermore, she feels guilty for Abelard’s horrible mutilation. It is the last time she would talk openly about her feelings, but she did so in a memorable way:
How unhappy I am, to have been born to be the cause of so great a crime! If only the ancient, baneful influence of women did not afflict most severely the greatest of men!
She quotes Proverbs and Ecclesiastes to remind Abelard that great men had long been troubled by women, and that she eventually did the same to him. Her reply resembles a treatise of exegesis, as she elegantly cites other biblical verses in order to introduce the so-called “doctrine of intentionality”: the women of her examples were indeed responsible for their crimes, whereas she was “innocent at heart.”
She thus accepts the twelfth-century cultural and societal attitude toward women, according to which they were naturally predisposed to being corrupted by the Devil, and to corrupt men as a consequence.
Many centuries earlier, Isidore of Seville (c. 560–636) had said that women were weak by definition because the Latin word for “woman” (mulier) came from mollitia (“weakness”). Heloise accepts the prejudices of her patriarchal society with great dignity, for her knowledge was vast enough to encompass all of the Judeo-Christian tradition on the matter, through the great theologians of the medieval era up to her own time, such as Gregory the Great and Ambrose.
This notwithstanding, she can still do justice to her inner self and confesses the unspeakable: even after so many years since the last time she made love to Abelard, she cannot yet “banish … those delights … from her mind.”
The ghosts of lust and love torment her, night and day:
Even when I am asleep, their illusions plague me. In the most solemn moments of the Mass itself, when prayer should be especially pure, the impure fantasies of those pleasures so obsess my wretched soul that I am more concerned with these base acts than with my prayers. […] Not only what we did together, but the various times and places of our love-making are so entwined with you and so vividly impressed with your image in my mind, that in my thoughts I do everything again with you, and even sleep brings no relief from these illusions.
She was a woman of her age, yet much ahead of her time. Heloise eventually accepted her destiny and heeded Abelard’s request to stop talking about their love. In the following two epistles, the former lovers addressed only philosophical and theological matters, among them the doctrine of heroic morality: that women begin their ascent toward God in a condition of disadvantage compared to men, for they are weaker and more easily corrupted by evil, but for this very reason, when they reach God, they prove stronger and braver than any man.
Moreover, Heloise and Abelard discussed the behavior of men and women in the Gospels, coming to an interesting conclusion: men are more concerned with signs and symbols of truth, whereas women know the real truth; men soon give up when facing danger and adversity, while women endure. Indeed, Christ was betrayed by men, they observed, and was assisted by women.
And Heloise was no exception to this rule: she remained loyal to her feelings far longer than her husband, who instead was immediately overwhelmed by the situation.
It is an old, old story that is still as relevant as ever.
Heloise’s letters reveal a medieval woman caught between enduring love, religious duty, and the expectations of her age. Andrea Maraschi explores how they also showcase her remarkable learning and her willingness to express thoughts and emotions rarely preserved in medieval women’s writing.
By Andrea Maraschi
Argenteuil, about 15 km to the north-west of Paris, 1118. A young lady gravely walks to the altar without saying a word. She catches the veil from the bishop’s hands and starts reciting an ancient pagan poem authored by Lucan—specifically, a few lines from Book VIII of Pharsalia, where Pompey’s wife blames herself for her husband’s tragic destiny. The lady shared those same feelings: she felt terribly guilty for a man—for her husband, actually. And now that she was about to become a nun, she recited no prayer, nor asked for help; composed and dignified, she simply relied on these ancient words to speak about herself. Her name was Heloise.
In the last year, her mind had been focused on one thought only: Peter Abelard. Her teacher of philosophy and theology; the man who made her fall in love; the man with whom she had started a clandestine affair; the man with whom she eventually had a child, named—not surprisingly, given his parents’ erudition—Astrolabius.
Abelard saw her first in Paris, and he decided he would conquer her: he was 38, she was 17. He was told that her uncle, a canon named Fulbert, wanted the best teacher for her, and Abelard happened to be one of the brightest minds of his time. Abelard made an agreement with Fulbert whereby he would be Heloise’s private teacher, and Fulbert would provide him with board and lodging in return. And so, every day, after teaching theology at the University of Paris, Abelard would go back home and shut himself in a private room with the young and beautiful Heloise.
Things quickly escalated. In the privacy of their room, the master and the pupil fell in love with each other. A few months later, when Heloise could no longer hide her pregnancy, Fulbert planned his revenge on Abelard for his betrayal: a man who had not asked his permission to have Heloise.
At first, Fulbert let them celebrate a shotgun marriage in secret, but later he sent two hitmen to Abelard’s house and had him castrated. Abelard’s life and career were compromised, but he still did not want to give Heloise up—and here we are back where we started.
In 1118, Heloise became a nun at the monastery of Argenteuil, whereas Abelard became a monk at Saint-Denis. Many other things happened to him, while we do not know a great deal about Heloise for many years.
For about twelve years, the two did not have the chance to see each other. Then, in 1130, Heloise read Abelard’s History of My Misfortunes, where her husband recorded when they had met, how their love began, and how the situation suddenly worsened. Terribly worried for her husband’s life, she decided to send him a letter. Her words still give goosebumps to the reader:
To her lord—or rather, her father; to her husband—or rather, her brother; from his servant—or rather, his daughter; from his wife—or rather, his sister: to Abelard from Heloise.
The letter you wrote to comfort a friend, my beloved, has recently chanced to come into my hands. Recognizing at once from the heading that it was yours, I began to read it with eagerness as great as my love for its writer. For I hoped that I might be refreshed by the words, as if by a picture, of one whom in reality I have lost. Instead, I found almost every part of this letter filled with the bitterness of gall and wormwood, as you told the pitiable story of our conversion to the religious life and the endless torments you have suffered, my only love.
Heloise shows herself to be concerned for him, but she cannot help giving voice to her love, which she has not been able to choke off:
You know, my dearest, as everyone knows, what I have lost in you, and how calamitous for me was that supreme and notorious betrayal which robbed me of myself as well as you, so that my sorrow is immeasurably deeper for the way in which I lost you than for the loss itself. Truly the greater the cause of sorrow, the greater must be the remedies of consolation applied to it—not by someone else, however, but by you yourself. For you were the sole cause of my grief, and you alone can bring me the balm of comfort. You alone can make me sad, and only you can make me happy and console me.
So deeply does she still want him that she says she would rather consider herself his concubine or whore than his mistress or wife. As she talks about love, she displays her impressive learning and culture: she casually quotes Xenophon, the Church Fathers, the Bible, Seneca, and many others.
Still in love, Heloise is also resentful about Abelard’s behavior. She has the feeling that her husband wanted her only as long as he was moved by sexual desire, and that afterwards things changed:
Lust, not love, inspired the ardor of your desire for me. Then, after what you desired came to an end, whatever feelings you had shown for this reason vanished at the same time.
Such words could have been posted today on social media, and they would have sounded as timely and accurate as ever. Abelard replied by changing the focus of the discussion from carnal love to spiritual love. The time to speak about their affair was over, he said, and it was now the time to consider themselves as brother and sister in God. But did this finally convince Heloise to dedicate her thoughts to prayer and the monastic life?
No—not by any stretch of the imagination. Heloise’s second letter burns with passion. Unlike what one would expect of a twelfth-century nun, she frankly states that if Abelard had died, she would have cursed the Lord for this. She is still dominated by anger, for God first gave her all the happiness in the world and then took it away.
Furthermore, she feels guilty for Abelard’s horrible mutilation. It is the last time she would talk openly about her feelings, but she did so in a memorable way:
How unhappy I am, to have been born to be the cause of so great a crime! If only the ancient, baneful influence of women did not afflict most severely the greatest of men!
She quotes Proverbs and Ecclesiastes to remind Abelard that great men had long been troubled by women, and that she eventually did the same to him. Her reply resembles a treatise of exegesis, as she elegantly cites other biblical verses in order to introduce the so-called “doctrine of intentionality”: the women of her examples were indeed responsible for their crimes, whereas she was “innocent at heart.”
She thus accepts the twelfth-century cultural and societal attitude toward women, according to which they were naturally predisposed to being corrupted by the Devil, and to corrupt men as a consequence.
Many centuries earlier, Isidore of Seville (c. 560–636) had said that women were weak by definition because the Latin word for “woman” (mulier) came from mollitia (“weakness”). Heloise accepts the prejudices of her patriarchal society with great dignity, for her knowledge was vast enough to encompass all of the Judeo-Christian tradition on the matter, through the great theologians of the medieval era up to her own time, such as Gregory the Great and Ambrose.
This notwithstanding, she can still do justice to her inner self and confesses the unspeakable: even after so many years since the last time she made love to Abelard, she cannot yet “banish … those delights … from her mind.”
The ghosts of lust and love torment her, night and day:
Even when I am asleep, their illusions plague me. In the most solemn moments of the Mass itself, when prayer should be especially pure, the impure fantasies of those pleasures so obsess my wretched soul that I am more concerned with these base acts than with my prayers. […] Not only what we did together, but the various times and places of our love-making are so entwined with you and so vividly impressed with your image in my mind, that in my thoughts I do everything again with you, and even sleep brings no relief from these illusions.
She was a woman of her age, yet much ahead of her time. Heloise eventually accepted her destiny and heeded Abelard’s request to stop talking about their love. In the following two epistles, the former lovers addressed only philosophical and theological matters, among them the doctrine of heroic morality: that women begin their ascent toward God in a condition of disadvantage compared to men, for they are weaker and more easily corrupted by evil, but for this very reason, when they reach God, they prove stronger and braver than any man.
Moreover, Heloise and Abelard discussed the behavior of men and women in the Gospels, coming to an interesting conclusion: men are more concerned with signs and symbols of truth, whereas women know the real truth; men soon give up when facing danger and adversity, while women endure. Indeed, Christ was betrayed by men, they observed, and was assisted by women.
And Heloise was no exception to this rule: she remained loyal to her feelings far longer than her husband, who instead was immediately overwhelmed by the situation.
It is an old, old story that is still as relevant as ever.
Andrea Maraschi teaches Anthropology of Food at the University of Bologna and is a postdoctoral researcher at the University of Bari. He also teaches the online course The Magical World of the Early and High Middle Ages.
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