Prologue
25 November, 1304
In the year of our Lord 1272, my uncle, a clerk in the employ of the Bishop of Troyes, placed in my hands a small wooden chest bound with copper bindings that was found by workmen installing a new cistern for the abbey of the Paraclete in that diocese. I located a local artisan, a man adept at both wood and metal working, to help me open it as it was in a very bad state of decay, having lain in a collapsed wine cellar for an undetermined length of time. When after much delicate and exacting labor, my man was finally able to reveal the contents, we found two leather pouches, each containing a codex written on parchment and bound in kidskin. These had escaped the fate of their casket due to the effectiveness of the quantity of bee’s wax in which they had been sealed. It was obvious that someone had gone to great trouble not only to ensure that these volumes be preserved, but also that they remain hidden.
It was with great anticipation that I carefully cleaned away the wax with my own hands and set to determining the content of these volumes. And what a find it was. The first volume that I perused turned out to be a compilation of letters between two of the most famous, if not revered, personages of two centuries past: the renowned scholar Peter Abelard and Heloise, abbess of the aforementioned Paraclete. I could hardly contain my excitement as I thumbed through their communications, too impatient to examine them carefully at that first reading. Fortunately, my Latin was good enough to allow me to understand the content of the letters despite some of the quaint expressions indicative of their times. When I took the leisure to examine the letters more closely, I was struck by the precision in the use of the language. Subsequently, this very perfection gave rise to suspicious that they were forgeries. It seemed unlikely to some that anyone crafting such intimate correspondence would take such pains with the grammar and vocabulary. Be that as it may, it was with great anticipation that I read through the entire volume and was most impressed with the contents. How delighted I was to read Heloise’s defense of carnal love and desire, a most unexpected sentiment to come from the pen of that holy abbess. It was I who rekindled the memory of her great love affair with Abelard and incorporated their story in my continuation of The Romance of the Rose, the poem begun by Guillaume de Lorris around the time of my birth.
When I examined the second volume, I found it to have been authored in the French vernacular by a woman who had served Heloise as her secretary and companion at the Paraclete for more than twenty years. It left no doubt that the letters were genuine. I hastened to have them translated into French and published, and they have enjoyed wide circulation for nearly three decades.
It is largely due to my efforts that one and all, young and old, rich and poor, are familiar with the names Abelard and Heloise, who are now the subject of many histories, songs and poems. But as so often happens, recollection fades and fantasy comes to replace fact as the decades which separate us pile up. The complete and factual history of the lives of Abelard and Heloise, as contained on the following pages of the volume authored by Heloise’s secretary, a woman who calls herself Adele, reveals what is true and what is false in what has now become legend.
I have hesitated publishing the contents of the second volume until now. There are many reasons for this, one constraint being financial; book publishing is an expensive endeavor. But I am now fortunate enough to have procured a sponsor, although this elevated personage desires to remain anonymous and has requested instead that I dedicate this book to the patron saint of this city, Genevieve.
However, the principal cause of my reluctance has been fear of the authorities. While the Letters of Abelard and Heloise represent the highest level of intellectual and Christian reasoning and communication, the volume written in the common vulgar tongue of the 12th century records the events of that time in base language and openly discusses those things that are best kept secret. Worse even than the prurient quality of the work, the authoress expresses opinions regarding the Catholic religion that, given the current campaign against any thought that differs from official church doctrine, would surely be deemed dangerous, even heretical.
Now as my end draws near, I have little to fear from the Inquisition. It rages far to the south, our churchmen here in Paris being of a more tolerant turn of mind for the time being. My doctor claims that I will not see another summer, and the wheels of condemnation turn too slowly to trouble me. Although I feel it is my duty to warn the reader that what is contained herein will surely shock your sensibilities, its historical value outweighs these concerns. The views expressed are those of the authoress alone; I take no responsibility for them nor do I condone or condemn them.
I pray that you will accept the testimony contained herein as sound. It is neither a work of fiction or a product of my pen, as some claimed about the letters when they were first published. My talent is too poor and imagination too limited to have produced such a work. I, worldly as I am, blush at the recitation of some of the images. It is incredible to think that it was written by a religious woman more than a century ago. Had I had the good fortune to make the acquaintance of such an honest, insightful and courageous woman, perhaps my disdain for the weaker sex and their wiles would have been amended.
I recommend that you be discreet with this volume and store it out of sight of prying eyes. If you have enemies, they may take the opportunity to denounce you to the inquisitors. If you are of faint heart, it would be better that you burn this volume before you begin. A reading may not only jeopardize your physical safety but the fate of your soul as well.
Written by my own hand this day.
Jean de Meung
