LOVE I^ and public treachery of which you were the victim — severed me from the world at the same moment as you, and that what is incomparably my greatest grief is less the manner in which I lost than that I have lost you. But the greater the reason of my grief, the greater should be the remedies of comfort. At least, there is no one else ; it is you, you alone, the cause of my suffering, who can comfort me. Sole object of my sorrow, it is you only who can give back joy to me or bring any relief. To you only is this a pressing duty, for all your wishes have been accomplished by me blindly, so far even that in nothing could I even sUghtly oppose you. I had the courage to lose myself at a word from you. I did more. Strange thing ! My love turned to delirium ; that which was the unique object of its fervour it sacrificed without the least hope of ever finding it again. At your com- mand I put on another heart with another dress, thus proving that you were the sole master of my heart as well as of my body." PASSIONATE LETTERS And Mer, for his coldness had hurt her, she writes : " Consider, I beseech you, what it is I ask — so small, so easy a thing. If your actual self is denied me, let the tenderness of your words — a letter costs you so little ! — bring back to me the sweetness of your presence. How can I hope to find you generous in deeds when you are so sparing in words ! Till now I thought I was safe in claiming consideration from you, since for you I have done everything — at your bidding withdrawing from the world. This is not my vocation ; it is your will — yes, your will alone — that has cast my youth among these austerities. If this is nothing to you, see how vain my sacrifice will be. I have no reward to expect from God. I have not yet — let all bear witness — done anything for Him. " When you went towards God, I followed. What do I say ? I preceded you. As though you were troubled by the memory of Lot's wife, and the glance she cast behind her, you made me before you take the religious dress and vows. You chained me to God before you chained yourself. This mistrust of me, which till then you had never shown, filled me, I confess, with sorrow and shame — I, who at a word would, God knows, have preceded or followed you, without hesitation, into hell, because my heart was no longer with me, but with you. And, more than ever to-day, if it is not with you it is nowhere ; or, rather, it can be nowhere without you. But, I beseech you, let it be well in your keeping. And it will be if it finds you kind, if you return it love for love, little for much, words for deeds. W^ould to God, my beloved, you were less sure of my love, you would be more anxious ! But the more I have done to render you secure, the more you neglect me to-day. Ah, remember what I haye done, I entreat you, and how much you owe me ! " REPROACHES In another letter she reproaches Abelard for speaking of his possible death : " A heart weighed down by grief can never be calm ; a spirit which is a prey to all sorrows cannot sincerely think of God. I beseech you do not hinder us in our accom- plishment of those holy duties to which you have consecrated us. When a blow is inevitable, when it must bring with it immense sorrow, one must hope that it will be speedy, and not anticipate by useless fears those tortures which no human fore- sight may turn aside. It is this a poet has felt so well in his prayer, ' Let Thy punish- ments be suddenly accomplished ! Let not the wit of man pierce the shadows of the future. Comfort our alarms with hope.' " And yet, you lost, what hope remains for me ? Why should I prolong a pilgrimage where, save in you, I have no comfort — where my one happiness is the knowledge that you are alive, since all other pleasure from you is forbidden me, and I am not even allowed to enjoy your presence, which sometimes, at least, might give me back to myself ? " A BEAUTIFUL LEGEND This is Heloise at her most passionate- But the letters are interrupted by long and tedious disquisitions concerning 'the order, and with these Abelard's answers are concerned. One cannot help wishing that the correspondence had taken place before their days of penitence. Now there are a few drops of pure wine to a great deal of water, and one is necessarily tantalised. Abelard died in 1142, and Heloise twenty years later. There is a beautiful legend that when Heloise was laid in the same tomb the arms of Abelard opened to receive her. So that even death could not choke the faithful and tormenting flame which burned in the hearts of these two, who take rank among the great lovers of the world.
