Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  The Canon was fond of good living, assemblies of his friends and lute-playing, but after Philippe’s death his door was forbidden to all; and the talk about him often was that he sat alone in the evening thinking how Philippe died, and that if he came upon Philippe’s name in a book he turned the page. But if he never spoke of Philippe, he was always thinking of his brother, not however as a warrior but as a handsome young man of agreeable mien and bearing, with whom the daughter of a great noble had, against the wishes of her family, run away, and against whom the influence of the family was directed so persistently that Philippe had been obliged to enlist in Raymond’s army —

  That was the reason, or part of the reason, of Philippe’s enlistment, he often said to himself, turning over the leaves of a book. It was not till Madelon told him (in defiance of his order) that it was Philippe who had received the tidings of the whereabouts of the Holy Spear that the Canon began to associate his brother with the clashing of swords in breached walls and the sacking of cities. He was angry with Madelon for mentioning his brother’s name, but shrank from telling her again that she must keep it off her tongue. All the same he could not bear to see her with her arms akimbo, talking to him of his brother by the hour. An almost unendurable trial she was, but he was glad she had told him, for now he knew that Philippe was chosen by God; Philippe was therefore with God, and his belief in his brother’s spiritual life seemed to unite them both in spirit till the only hours he cared to live were those that he spent thinking of Philippe, despite the fact that these meditations were broken by questions as to whether he was acting exactly as Philippe would wish by leaving his niece in the Argenteuil convent.

  On looking up and turning his eyes towards a certain corner of the room one night it seemed to him that the smile had vanished out of Philippe’s eyes. She must be now sixteen, going on for seventeen, he said to himself, and sought out the Prioress’s letter in the hope that it would again set flowing a pleasant current of meditation; but he had hardly opened it when his brother came out of the corner of the room, and while looking at Philippe the thought came into his mind that perhaps he appeared at this moment so strangely visible because he disapproved of his daughter passing from the schoolroom to the novitiate in ignorance of the world, no choice having been given to her. He looked again (he was never sure that he was reading Philippe’s face truly), but the apparition had faded; he was now looking into his memory of it and could not rid himself of the thought that Philippe’s eyes seemed to protest against the disposal of his daughter to the Church in her first youth. Héloïse, a voice said, was thrust into a convent school at ten years of age, and has seen nobody but the nuns. Never once, Fulbert, hast thou been to see her. Fulbert was not certain with what eyes he saw his brother, nor with what ears he heard the words. Did he see with the mind’s eye, did he hear with the mind’s ear? He did not know, and tried to attribute the appearance and the voice to nervousness or ill-health. For why should a devoted son of the Church object to his daughter taking the veil? he asked himself, getting back for answer that Philippe did not object to his daughter taking the veil if she were so disposed, but did not like her being tricked into accepting it. I am being driven, he said, as if Philippe’s sword were behind me all the time prodding, prodding me in the rue des Chantres, prodding me as I sit over my books reading, prodding me in the Cathedral. I am being compelled at the point of a sword to send Madelon for her. He strove against his conscience as long as he could, but one day in the Cathedral it seemed to him, as he was laying out some vestments, that he could not do else than send Madelon to Argenteuil with instructions that she was to bring Héloïse back with her. He could not understand how it was that he had delayed so long, and then of a sudden he began to feel that he could not interrupt the pleasant tenor of his life by the introduction of another person into it; and no sooner had he come to a new resolve not to send for Héloïse than he began to feel that he could not bear any longer the anguish of his conscience, and that the only way to end it was to send for Héloïse. It is a long time since we have seen Héloïse, he said one day to Madelon, turning back as he was going to leave his house.

  Troth and faith, it is a long time since you have seen her, wellnigh six years, Madelon answered. But I sent thee with some presents last year. I went myself, Canon, bringing her a cake last year. Now of what are you thinking? Madelon asked, standing before him, her arms, as usual, akimbo. Of sending me to fetch her back? If you aren’t, it’s time you were! Be sure of one thing, that I’m not asking for thy thoughts on this subject or any other, the Canon answered, and Madelon began to laugh and the Canon walked out of the house. But though he could leave Madelon, he could not escape from the torment within him, and at the end of the week he said: the die is cast; Madelon must go for her. And next day at the same hour he stood at his window hearing the cart groaning through the rutted street on its way to the Great Bridge, almost helpless, thinking that his life had come to an end, but unable to do otherwise than he had done. It had to be, he said to himself, and I couldn’t have acted otherwise, even if I knew that Héloïse would refuse to return to Argenteuil at the end of the week. She will go back willingly if she doesn’t stay too long, and a three days’ visit will be enough. But Madelon will not hear of less than a week, not a day less will satisfy her, and six evenings with a prattling girl seemed an unmerited punishment. Good-bye, dear books; good-bye, dear friends, he cried, gathering up his books. The separation is a great one, but peace of mind is better than books; without it books are of no avail. I shall return to you as I once was, never to part again, he added, as he locked his books into a cupboard and fell into a chair, himself seeming to himself the unhappiest man in the world.

  CHAP. II.

  BUT TIME DOES not stand still, he said, starting from his chair, because I am unhappy; I must hasten or I shall be late for vespers. Now what can be keeping them? he asked himself as he hastened up the rue des Chantres. Argenteuil is but six miles from Paris, and they might walk as many in a couple of hours if Madelon were not so fat... like myself; and should they meet a cart on the way back it will bring them hither in an hour and a half. I shall find them for sure in the rue des Chantres when I return.

  And resting his head against the carvings of his stall, which he could do without hurting himself, his hood being comfortably padded, the Canon gave his thoughts to the difference there would be between the present week and the preceding week, and again between the present week and the week that was to come. For Héloïse would not stay more than a week with him. And a week’s soon over, he added thoughtfully, as he left the Cathedral, stopping to admire the outlines of the street, as was his custom to do. Spreading, he said, into great bulk as the houses ascend in overhanging, jutting storeys, an architecture following the whims of the builders, telling a varied tale that I never weary of reading. And his thoughts going back to Roman times, he meditated that if the Moderns had lost skill in literature they had acquired an architecture that was all their own. Virgil would understand the beauty of my street, though the peaked gables would seem strange to him at first; and he could not help thinking that Virgil would like a certain corner house with windows overlooking the street and windows overlooking the Seine, however little it might remind him of a Roman villa. He began to count his steps. A dozen more and it will come into view, he said, and was disappointed to find that he had miscalculated the distance by three steps. But never had his house presented so charming an appearance as it did at this moment, standing amid strong lights and shadows. What a pretty house, he muttered; prettier than I thought for; and he remained for some moments forgetful of Héloïse, lost in admiration of the cut-stone façade and the appearance of the balcony high up under the impending roof, where Madelon dried her linen. She has not a great deal of washing this week, he said; and I hope the sheets she will put upon Héloïse’s bed will be aired. But whatever her faults are, and they are many, she does not forget these things. They ought to be back by this from Argenteuil; and he hastened up th
e flight of steps that led to his house and kept it free from the Seine, which in winter flowed into the street if the thaw was sudden. At the top of the steps was the front door, and on pushing it open the Canon found himself in a passage, and facing him was the staircase leading to the first storey. No doubt Madelon is showing her round the house, and he ran up the stairs. No, she is not here, he said, looking round the room known as the Canon’s company-room. They must be in the parlour. And he ran down to the room in which he had his meals and which served him also as a sitting-room in the winter, fuel not being plentiful enough to have fires in more than two rooms. No, they are not here; she must have taken Héloïse into my study. And as he expected, he found Madelon and Héloïse waiting for him in his study, having no more than half-an-hour ago returned from Argenteuil.

  We have not touched your books, Canon, so there is no reason to look round the room, Madelon cried, jumping to her feet, a small Breton woman somewhere between thirty and forty, nearer forty than thirty, a sack tied in the middle with string, whose two rather witty little eyes justified her sharp tongue and lighted up her brown face so pleasantly that the low, ill-shaped forehead and the coarse black hair dragged up from it were overlooked. Nothing has been touched, we just sat down quiet as two children in a story book; but I have been telling Héloïse of your Latin books stored away in those cupboards. The Canon’s face darkened, but Madelon, quite undaunted, turned to Héloïse saying: thou seest how black he is getting, but we are used to these little changes in the rue des Chantres; thou mustn’t let thine uncle frighten thee; always remember that his bark is worse than his bite. At which words the Canon’s feet began to move angrily, and thinking she had said enough Madelon hastened through the door leading from the Canon’s study into the kitchen. The Canon called her back, but she did not heed the order; he was about to follow her, but remembering suddenly that his niece was present, he stopped. Madelon has been with me for many years, so long that she forgets herself and speaks to me as if — A devoted servant, Héloïse interrupted, who thinks of no one but you, uncle, so do not be angry with her. Fulbert barely heard, for at that moment it seemed to him that he could not bear any longer with Madelon’s familiarity. Insolent familiarity, he muttered, and for a moment he seemed as if he were of a mind to follow his servant into the kitchen; and thinking that if he did so he would take her by the arm and put her out of the house, Héloïse said: uncle, I have not been in your house half-an-hour, but you will not think it an impertinence if I tell you that Madelon’s words are mere words, not worth a second thought. I have not been in your house — caught the angry Canon’s ear, and he stood looking at his niece, whom he was beginning to see, his anger having prevented him from seeing her till now. And half conscious of his rudeness in not speaking to her before, yet unable to command his thoughts, he stood looking at his almost forgotten niece, seeing in the first glance a small, thin girl, whose bright dark face, full of youth’s pretty colouring, began to lessen his aversion to his visitor. It is easy to see why the nuns thought highly of her, he reflected; a wide brow and grey, wistful eyes that tell a taste for learning. But after speaking to her for a little while the thought came into his mind that her pale, idealistic eyes told of something more than a taste for lessons, and he fell to thinking of his niece’s thick brown hair combed into smooth braids and rolled into a knot above the nape of a fine upright neck, for this tire showed to advantage the line of a shapely head. He liked the long blue robe she wore, with sleeves tight at the wrists, and the satchel hanging by cords from an embroidered girdle, and an interest in his niece began to awaken in him. After speaking to her again for a little while a strange discrepancy in her face claimed his attention, and he said: her large, loose mouth does not match her eyes. But whom does she take after? Her face droops at the chin like Philippe’s and —

  Madelon tells me that your closets are full of books. May I look at your books, uncle? Without waiting for an answer she danced rather than walked across the room and picked up a book that the Canon had overlooked. She breaks into speech like a bird, he said to himself, a ringing voice like her mother’s, the same alert step; and he began to regret that he had made his niece’s acquaintance after so many years in the midst of a sordid quarrel with Madelon, and to blot out any unfavourable opinion that she might have formed of him, he said: it is difficult to keep one’s temper sometimes. Madelon at times —

  Forget her, uncle, or you will lose your temper again. A reproof this was, and embarrassed he stood looking into Héloïse’s far-away eyes. So thou hast come at last to the rue des Chantres, Fulbert said, and not sorry to leave thy convent for a while? What answer do you think I should make to you, uncle? Would it please you to hear that I was happy in the convent but am very glad to be in Paris with you and Madelon? What a pretty house you have. I had almost forgotten it, or had taken it all for granted more likely, for I was but a little thing when I came here one day with mother. Do you remember, uncle? Yes, I do, and it is odd that thou shouldst speak to me about my house, or rather it is not odd at all, for as I returned from the Cathedral it struck me as being a very pretty house. But has Madelon shown thee our company-room, or what was once a company-room? No, uncle; we have only just arrived. This room is my study, said Fulbert, and the room on the other side of this wall, the room off the hall, is the room in which I have my meals. Supper is at eight. I suppose thou wilt have supper with me, Héloïse? Héloïse restrained a smile, and the words that rose to her lips were: I suppose I shall, unless I am going to bed supperless. Come and I’ll show thee the house, for I see that thou hast an eye for a house, he continued, speaking like one who desires to please. Two windows, she said, as they passed out of the study into the living-room; and both looking out on to the street. Without two windows the room would be very dark, the Canon replied; but the windows in the convent are glazed, aren’t they? And she answered: I think that more light comes through your glass than through ours. The words — through ours — reassured Fulbert and predisposed him to admire Héloïse as she ascended the stairs, and to foresee a future abbess in her. Her gait is too brisk, but time will correct that, he said to himself, and to her at the head of the stairs: here is thy bedroom, niece; while thou’rt here, he added, and opened a door, saying: here is the company-room, or used to be, for of late years I find my books better company than my fellow-canons.

  He expected her face to tell him that she must not wear out her welcome, but her face did not tell him anything; his hints passed unheeded or were not perceived enough to check her admiration of the really handsome room in which she found herself — a long room occupying the full length of the house, with a vast fireplace and chimney-piece, from which she withdrew her eyes reluctantly. On turning from the chimney-piece, walls stretched with a faded silk, old rose, met her eyes, and on raising her eyes she saw a ceiling prettily composed of gaily painted joists. You have a handsome room, uncle; and had I one like it I should never feel inclined to leave it; whereupon she passed her eyes over the furniture, which was spare, leaving plenty of space for the company to walk about. Oak chests that served as seats stood against the walls, and tall oak cupboards with long iron hinges and elaborate locks and keys interested and detained Héloïse, and when she turned from them it was to admire the great oaken table, with carved stools about it. And all this oak furniture was shining in the quiet light diffused through the round windows, filled in with thick glass like the room on the ground floor. What room is this? Héloïse asked, going towards the door. A guest room, the Canon said; no one has slept in it yet, but if it be to thy taste — I like my room at the head of the stairs, she answered, and walked over to the window that overlooked the Seine. Why, there is the Seine, and bordered with groves of willows and poplars almost like Argenteuil.

  Paris was more like Argenteuil in my spring days, Fulbert replied; and they stood together at the window talking of the land on the right bank, now the Lombard quarter. It had gained that name from the number of Italian merchants that had settled th
ere. May I have a table, a small one, uncle? See if you can spare me one, one that I can put in the window, for while I am with you I should like to read there. My house seems to have taken thy fancy, niece, Fulbert answered. It has, indeed, uncle, but may I have the table, and will you lend me your books to read? Lend my books! the Canon replied; young girls are not careful with books; and then he added, as if he did not wish to exhibit himself in too selfish a light on the day of her return from Argenteuil: we shall see; we shall see. Thou’rt fond of reading? I hear that speaking Latin and writing it come easy to thee, so the nuns tell me. Héloïse did not answer, for she was beginning to feel averse from her uncle and the thought had just come into her mind that if he would not lend her his books, she would ask Madelon to give her needles and wool and begin a piece of tapestry. But why should he think she would crumple the leaves of his books? Why speak of the nuns’ praise of her Latin with contempt? She was beginning to dislike her uncle, and had resolved not to speak till he spoke to her, however long the silence. Goose, said he, as they descended the stairs. Dost smell it, niece? Yes, I can indeed, Héloïse answered. Goose is an excellent bird if properly cared for, the Canon replied, in a tone that helped her to overlook his partial refusal to lend her his books. An excellent bird, he repeated, as none knows better than Madelon, who was a goose-girl in Brittany before she came to live with your mother; and if we were not so short of room, if we had a garden, we might keep some poultry. It would amuse her to look after poultry, and carry her thoughts back to days that have gone. According to her the goose is rarely killed at the right moment, when the fat is healthy and plentiful, but she tries to make the best of the geese that the market supplies, and the bird that comes so odoriferously from underneath the door of my study has been hanging in the larder under Madelon’s special care for the last three days, in the hope that thou’rt partial to goose, and of all, that thou’lt not keep the bird waiting. I wonder, uncle, if she would like me to go to the kitchen to help her with her cooking? I don’t think that she would like it at all; she says it always tries her temper to have anybody in the kitchen when she is preparing the dinner. But Madelon and I, uncle —