The true story of Abelard and Heloise is the exact opposite of romantic. Abelard and Heloise did not simply fall in love while bent over a text. The truth of their affair is far more pedestrian - after the manner of professors and their female students from time immemorial, Pierre Abelard seduced Heloise Garlande and bragged about his conquest. His behavior caused a scandal, but only did so when she was clearly with child. When Heloise’s uncle took vengeance by having Abelard castrated, it was not because Heloise was pregnant or even because the pair married in secret. It was because Abelard convinced Heloise to pledge the Argenteuil convent outside Paris so their marriage could be kept a secret, his career prospects could remain unmarred in spite of having a wife of relatively low social standing, and perhaps also so he could preserve his lothario ways.
But as the study of history often is - discovery of the truth is so much more pedestrian a pursuit than believing in the myths we require. Historical truth is a nearly worthless endeavor, it is impossible to determine with complete certainty and its importance is of such little consequence when compared to when you examine the myths which move historical actors to act as they do. Each era creates its own myths about previous eras, and the key to understanding history is not by knowing precisely what happened, but knowing the stories they believed, and understanding why they (and we) believe them.
But we can be reasonably certain that Abelard and Heloise wrote their letters precisely as we now know them to be. Even if their suffering was stupidly self-generated, it was nonetheless deeply felt, and even if Abelard was a shit, he was a suffering shit, and not even he deserved the life he got. And even if the common myth of Abelard as a selfless and caring lover is entirely wrong, he himself admits to its fallacy. Over and over again, he admits that he chases after a different kind of woman than most do, and talks about his aversion for ‘light women, whom ‘tis a reproach to pursue’ (aka, whores)... ‘I was ambitious in my choice, and wished to find some obstacles, that I might surmount them with the greater glory and pleasure.’ Whether or not this is a man whom history remembers for his weaknesses, this is a man who clearly knew his own.
If Abelard’s letters prove anything, they demonstrate that he came by his base character honestly. The beauty and clarity of his prose comes down to us with no filter, and needs no allowance for the limitations of the period. If a man who writes this well during a historical era which generated so much unreadable drivel says that he was leagues and bounds smarter than all his competitors, are we really going to disbelieve him? And if he was so much smarter than his peers, then it would naturally follow that the progress of his career would be stifled because he could refute all of their intellectual endeavors. Whenever a league of mediocrity sees real talent, they naturally view it as a threat. And whenever the more talented person is thwarted, he grows more bitter, more defensive, and more conceited, because if he does not stand up for his own abilities, no one will do it for him.
The last paragraph of letter one is one of the most heartbreaking paragraphs ever set to pen, and frankly stung me to the bone from the first time I read it. There are passages within it which could nearly as well describe the life I lived from the ages of 8 to 19, and is, no doubt, more close to days, weeks, months, perhaps years of my life ever since than I’d like to admit. I don’t want to think much on how close I may have come to such a period occurring again:
I live in a barbarous country, the language of which I don't understand; I have no conversation but with the rudest people. My walks are on the inaccessible shore of a sea which is always stormy. ….they all combine against me, and I only expose myself to continual vexations and dangers. I imagine I see every moment a naked sword hang over my head. Sometimes they surround me and load me with infinite abuses; sometimes they abandon me, and I am left alone to my own tormenting thoughts. I make it my endeavour to merit by my sufferings and so appease an angry God... I complain of the severity of Heaven; but oh! let us not deceive ourselves, I have not yet made a right use of grace. I am thoroughly wretched; I have not yet torn from my heart the deep roots which vice has planted in it, for if my conversion were sincere, how could I take pleasure in relating my past faults?
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