That happiness which others imagine, best beloved, I experienced.  Other women might think their husbands perfect, and be happy in the idea, but I knew that you were so and the universe knew the same.  What philosopher, what king, could rival your fame?  What village, city, kingdom, was not on fire to see you?  When you appeared in public, who did not run to behold you?  Wives and maidens alike recognized your beauty and grace.  Queens envied Heloise her Abelard.

Two gifts you had to lead captive the proudest soul, your voice that made all your teaching a delight, and your singing, which was like no other.  Do you forget those tender songs you wrote for me, which all the world caught up and sang,—­but not like you,—­those songs that kept your name ever floating in the air, and made me known through many lands, the envy and the scorn of women?

What gifts of mind, what gifts of person glorified you!  Oh, my loss!  Who would change places with me now!

And you know, Abelard, that though I am the great cause of your misfortunes, I am most innocent.  For a consequence is no part of a crime.  Justice weighs not the thing done, but the intention.  And how pure was my intention toward you, you alone can judge.  Judge me!  I will submit.

But how happens it, tell me, that since my profession of the life which you alone determined, I have been so neglected and so forgotten that you will neither see me nor write to me?  Make me understand it, if you can, or I must tell you what everybody says:  that it was not a pure love like mine that held your heart, and that your coarser feeling vanished with absence and ill-report.  Would that to me alone this seemed so, best beloved, and not to all the world!  Would that I could hear others excuse you, or devise excuses myself!

The things I ask ought to seem very small and easy to you.  While I starve for you, do, now and then, by words, bring back your presence to me!  How can you be generous in deeds if you are so avaricious in words?  I have done everything for your sake.  It was not religion that dragged me, a young girl, so fond of life, so ardent, to the harshness of the convent, but only your command.  If I deserve nothing from you, how vain is my labor!  God will not recompense me, for whose love I have done nothing.

When you resolved to take the vows, I followed,—­rather, I ran before.  You had the image of Lot’s wife before your eyes; you feared I might look back, and therefore you deeded me to God by the sacred vestments and irrevocable vows before you took them yourself.  For this, I own, I grieved, bitterly ashamed that I could depend on you so little, when I would lead or follow you straight to perdition.  For my soul is always with you and no longer mine own.  And if it is not with you in these last wretched years, it is nowhere.  Do receive it kindly.  Oh, if only you had returned favor for favor, even a little for the much, words for things!  Would, beloved, that your affection would not take my tenderness and obedience always for granted; that it might be more anxious!  But just because I have poured out all I have and am, you give me nothing.  Remember, oh, remember how much you owe!