by George Moore
And so he talked on, saying things that he would wish to leave unsaid, but he could not help speaking, though he felt that by saying these things he was putting to the hazard all his fine schemes for Héloïse’s welfare. But since he had sent for her she must be allowed to chose between the world and religion, and that was why he must speak to her of the nobles who came up to Paris from the provinces at Easter. But Easter is six months hence, Héloïse interjected, and the Canon could find no more subtle answer than: quite true, I had forgotten. To retrieve his mistake he added: but at Easter thou’lt return hither if thou’rt in doubt, and, my dear Héloïse, believe me, it shall be according to thy good wishes whether thou shalt accept or reject the world. But if I return to the convent I hope you will not be kept away by scruples lest I should be tempted to say: uncle, have me back in the rue des Chantres. It has often seemed to me that I could do well enough in the religious life as it is practised in the convent at Argenteuil, for no one is detached there from the world more than it is her lot to be. The Canon was tempted to ask in what measure the nuns were detached from life, but he was beginning to notice a certain thickness in his speech and that his tongue ran away with him, so to speak. It might be that he had drunk more wine than usual, or it might well be that Madelon had substituted a headier wine than he was used to, in honour of Héloïse’s return, without warning him; and a little annoyed with himself, and perhaps a little with Madelon, he began to speak of the fatigue of the journey to Argenteuil. Madelon has been there and back and has already gone to bed. What thinkest thou, niece — ? His eyelids fell over his eyes. He is asleep, she said, and began to ask herself what she should do in the event of his not awakening. As she sat considering whether she should sit and watch by him or steal away to her bed, his eyelids raised themselves slowly and he started to his feet. It must be bed-time; Héloïse, forgive me if I seemed to have fallen asleep; it was but an appearance. I heard thine every word. Good-night to thee. Héloïse, I have had a long day’s work at the Cathedral, a great deal of unnecessary work, for So-and-so (I cannot remember his name for the moment, but it doesn’t matter, I am too sleepy to think). I was saying — Don’t trouble, uncle, to fatigue your brain. No, no, it’s no fatigue, I’ll get it out; that fellow likes work for its own sake, a thing that I hope I shall never do. But I have enjoyed my evening. Yes, I have; you understand me, I’m telling thee that I’ve enjoyed my evening. We shall still see each other again, so perhaps it’s just as well not to say everything, to leave something over for to-morrow evening. To-morrow thou’lt tell me about the books they gave thee to read.
CHAP. III.
AFTER HELPING HER uncle downstairs to his bedroom Héloïse returned to hers at the top of the stairs, perplexed by the reasons her uncle gave for never having been to the convent to see her and his refusal to lend her his books. She lay awake thinking what manner of man he was, only to forget him in the sway of a sudden memory of her mother’s romantic marriage to a young physician, and her thoughts returning from Palestine to Brittany she recalled her memories of her father, associating him with many little facts that she had heard from her uncle, his love of falconry and his love of her mother, a Coetlogon. As the story came from her uncle’s lips she had barely apprehended its meaning, but now lying in her bed it became clear to her; it was nothing less than a mother coming between her daughter and her daughter’s lover, striving to undo love with lust. How terrible! And failing in her wicked endeavour, this woman, her grandmother, had never ceased to avail herself of the great influence of the Coetlogons against her father, driving him in the end out of France to Palestine, and no doubt rejoicing in his death. How terrible! And then her thoughts passing from these sins of long ago she began to ask herself if she were her mother’s true daughter, or set more store than her mother had done on the lineage and the power of the Coetlogons. She had barely heard the name before this evening and knew no more of them than that she was allied on her mother’s side to this great family. For her mother had not told her the story, out of shame, no doubt. Was she less spirited and adventurous than her mother? She knew nothing of herself but that she was good at her lessons, and fell to thinking in a sudden mood of sadness that if the nuns had heard her uncle’s story they would have gone away chortling, asking if mother and daughter were ever more different. One runs out of a castle to marry her lover in a forest, the other prefers a pile of books to all else. She was sure that that was what the nuns would have said if they had heard the story, and the old joke would have been put on her again, that she couldn’t go to the village to see Sister Paula’s baby, so deep was she in St. Augustine. But she had not said anything of the kind and had been to the village to see the baby once, which was enough, for she couldn’t find time always to be running to the village and was as weary of the baby as of the joke, and sometimes thought that all this talk about the baby was worse than having one. It even seemed to her that all this curiosity about the baby’s father was not a little prurient. It possessed them all; even the school children in her charge had begun to ask her questions: had the baby been found under a gooseberry bush, or was it a currant bush? Her thoughts ran on incontinently, all the talk of the children coming up in her mind. Will you tell us, Héloïse, who found the baby? Everybody says it was Sister Paula, and if she found it does not the baby belong to her much more than it does to the Prioress or the Sub-Prioress? Nuns, she answered, do not have babies. And the children replied: why do nuns not have babies? Because nuns say their prayers and have learned their lessons well, she said, not knowing what else to say, but rued for her words, for the children began very soon afterwards to make a false application of them, thinking, perchance, that if they said their prayers thoughtlessly and failed to learn their lessons they, too, would find babies certainly under the gooseberry bushes in the garden.
It was very unfair of the nuns to think that she was not like her mother, but merely an earnest girl who was fond of her books, caring to match St. Augustine’s Latin against St. Jerome’s more than anything else, and to argue by the hour with Sister Josiane whether rhymed Latin was more beautiful than unrhymed. She had thoughts for these things and always would have. Why not indeed? For it was no shame surely to strive after a good Latinity. Surely not. Nor did it follow that because she didn’t care to gossip about Sister Paula’s baby, she might not outdo her mother’s adventure in the forest if it befell her to meet a man like her father; and then contrasting her mother’s marriage with Sister Paula’s sin, she fell to thinking that Sister Paula’s baby was a mere fact, like her uncle’s tipsiness. Nuns did not drink as much as priests, but even nuns were different after wine than they were before; nor was her uncle the first prelate to drink too much wine, nor would he be the last, nor was Sister Paula the first woman to transgress the moral law. And turning over restlessly on her pillow she asked herself if Sister Paula was going to keep her awake all night. And folding her arms and closing her eyes she availed herself of all the known remedies to produce sleep. The sheep were counted as they jumped through the gap, and she tried to put a spell upon her brain with the words: go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep. But sleep seemed farther than ever from her eyelids, and she caught herself thinking again of Sister Paula, saying to herself that she hoped the Sister would not transgress again and that the baby’s father would repent; she hoped, too, that her uncle would repent, and not drink too much wine again, and said a prayer that he might be given strength to keep himself from it.
A few minutes later she caught herself thinking that she would prefer him to give way to wine rather than that he should refuse to lend her his books. For why had he done this? she asked herself, in a tone that was almost one of anguish, adding that I would turn down the leaves and soil them. Now why did he say such hurtful things of one of whom he knew nothing? Would it not have been better for him to allow her to read and watch her, and at the slightest sign of carelessness to take the book out of her hand?
And it was while grieving over her uncle’s unjust suspici
ons that she had no care for books that she fell asleep. On awaking it seemed to her that she must have been asleep for a long while. But the room was dark, so she could not have been asleep more than an hour or two. Some noise in the house had awakened her, and she lay listening eagerly, afraid that a robber was within doors, that somebody was on the stairs. Atlast the awful silence was broken. Was somebody coming in or was it merely her clothes falling from the chair on which she had thrown them? Sounds seemed to come from every side, and in the streets voices came nearer and then died away; voices collected and then divided. Was she in dream or in reality? She did not know, and as the dream dissolved she lay staring through the darkness of the room, unable to escape from an extraordinary mental clarity in which everything was written so clearly that she seemed to have been blind until this night. She understood now why her uncle had put her into a convent as soon as her mother died, and he had never come to see her so that she might be forced to take the veil. She could not believe, yet she must believe, for there it was written on the wall, and frightened literally out of her senses she recalled how a few hours ago she was reading in the convent library when the news was brought to her that Madelon was waiting in the parlour. She expected a cake and some fruit, for it was autumn, but Madelon brought neither, but the strange news that her uncle wished her to come to Paris for a week’s visit, and when she asked for a reason, Madelon answered: I can see there is no thought in thee for Paris. Now why had Madelon said this? And why had her uncle sent Madelon for her without writing to the nuns? He must have some purpose in view, and Madelon must know of it. And why had Madelon not told her? Was her old nurse, whom she had known always, going to betray her? It looked like it. And she felt like a trapped animal, without power to escape from her uncle and Madelon. And why had Madelon’s face changed when she said she was sorry to leave her reading? Some plan was in her mind. Were they about to force her into a marriage that was abhorrent to her? Perhaps! And Héloïse was so frightened that it was only the silence of the house that kept her in bed. She would have run into the street, she thought, but she did not dare face the staircase and the shadows about the doorways, but lay listening and remembering that Madelon had promised to come to her room to see her before she went to bed, to hear what she had thought of her uncle, to talk things over with her. But Madelon hadn’t come. Why hadn’t she come?
She turned from the right to the left side without ridding herself of the nightmare till at last sleep fell upon her. It fell deeply, and when she opened her eyes Madelon was standing beside her. Did I wake thee? I am sorry, for thou must be tired, having come all the way from Argenteuil. Héloïse tried to answer, but it was some time before she could collect her thoughts sufficiently to recall all the circumstances. Sleep out thy weariness, she heard Madelon say, but she called her back to her bedside. Do not go, I am not sleepy any longer. But I didn’t hear thee come into the room but just awoke. The sun coming into the room must have awakened me; the room is quite light and a great part of the morning must have gone by. I came to ask if I might bring thee a glass of wine and a biscuit before I go out marketing, Madelon answered. But may I not go with thee and see the shops and learn the prices? Madelon said she could. And a great help it will be to me to escape the marketing, as I shall do if thou shouldst stay with us and learn the prices. Call to me when thou hast washed thyself and I’ll come and help thee with thy dressing, for to do it will be like old times back again.
An hour later they were in and out of the shops like bees among flowers, talking of the price of provisions, which had gone up alarmingly, a fine chicken costing as much as threepence — as much as a sheep in the days gone by in Brittany, Madelon was saying, as they returned home through the thronging streets, excited by the pleasant air full of sunshine and thrills.... Now the nuns are walking in their convent garden finding young spiders weaving glittering threads from spray to spray, Héloïse said. And I’ll warrant startling the ring-doves out of the winter wheat — terrible ravagers of crops, Madelon replied. Why, there’s the Canon, looking up at the peaked gables as usual. So it is, Héloïse replied, and raising her eyes she admired the gables showing aloft against the autumn sky. Shining, she said, like — Like newly varnished paint, Madelon answered, and began to complain that the Canon never wearied of gaping and gazing up and down the street. See him now, his eyes wandering from balcony to balcony. So you went out without your milk, Madelon said, interrupting the Canon’s dreams, and he heard from them of the high prices that had to be paid for food in the market. I didn’t forget my milk, he said; my mouth was parched and I drank some water instead.
They returned home together, and leaving the Canon to his business in the study, Héloïse followed Madelon to the kitchen, saying that she would like to help her to get the dinner ready. But, dearie, thou’rt more thyself with a book in thy hands than washing vegetables with me. Maybe so, Madelon, Héloïse answered, and then a second thought prompted the words: but not always; I like housework and have done some in the convent. Thou’lt find me handy. We’ll come to understand each other better before long, Madelon said. Dost think we shall, Madelon? Héloïse asked, and the tone of her voice was cheerful, implying a hope that in time she might come to understand her uncle better, if she did not return to the convent. I don’t know why he doesn’t give thee the key of his library, Madelon said, breaking the silence. Thou wouldst not harm his books, if I know thee at all, and who should know thee better than myself? Héloïse asked Madelon where the scullery was, an excuse to avoid committing herself to an opinion, and the Breton woman guessing, as an animal guesses, that Héloïse did not wish to say whether she liked her uncle or disliked him and was waiting for ideas about herself — not knowing if her instinct led her to the cloister or to the world — put no questions to her. Poor child, how should she know her road, having come from a convent only yesterday, where all is different, she said to herself, as the peel of the last apple fell into the bowl. The talk turned upon last year’s crop of apples, and Héloïse enjoyed her morning’s work, and would have preferred to have dined with Madelon in the kitchen, but that could not be. She must face her uncle, of whom she was now afraid. But during dinner he asked her questions that were pleasant to answer. What Latin had she read? We have read all the Fathers. When I say we, uncle, I mean myself and some three or four nuns. I am afraid that there are not many pages in St. Augustine that would not prove a stumbling-block to the greater number of our community. So St. Augustine presents difficulties to the majority of the convent — the Canon began, and afraid that he was about to speak contemptuously of the nuns of Argenteuil before Madelon (who was bringing in the apple-dumpling at that moment), Héloïse began to speak in Latin, fetching, she could see, a darkness into Madelon’s face, for she liked to share in the conversation as a listener, sometimes contributing to it herself. She did not like being cut off from communication, looking upon herself as part of the family. But any blame cast upon the nuns at Argenteuil would be painful to Héloïse, so she continued in Latin, astonishing her uncle, who, forgetful of the nuns at Argenteuil and their ignorance, broke in suddenly: but thy Latin is excellent, niece; now how was it that we have been speaking jargon till this minute? A question that Héloïse avoided answering, ingeniously saying that she was thinking of Virgil and had dropped into Latin accidentally. We shall speak Latin henceforth together, said the Canon. In Latin I shall have to address you in the second person singular, uncle. The second person is without importance in Latin, and he began to praise the nuns for having taught his niece the language of Virgil and Cicero so thoroughly, saying that he would write to thank them for their learning and assiduity. And thy script must be as good as thy speech, I can tell that without seeing it, he said, and asked her what her reading had been outside of Augustine and Jerome, what poetry she had read. She answered Prudentius. A worthy man, the Canon said. By the word worthy expressing thy contempt, Héloïse answered. But why is he contemptible? And she began to compare him with Augustine, asking if there wer
e not beautiful things in Augustine, recalling to his mind a celebrated passage in which the Saint stands at a window overlooking the Tiber. Well enough, well enough, the Canon replied, for one who lived after the Roman prime, but bearing traces of his indebtedness to Plotinus and his school; for you know that St. Augustine was a convert, if not to Christianity at least to the one only true Church. There are beautiful things in the Confessions, no doubt, but — But what, uncle? And why standest thou looking at me with wondering eyes? I am thinking, the Canon said, that thou’rt fortunate indeed not to have read the divine Virgil, for what wouldn’t I give to have my first reading of Virgil before me instead of behind me. But Virgil is never behind one, there is always new beauty to be discovered in him. But why divine, uncle? It might have been better, Héloïse, if I had said the blessed Virgil, for besides being the great poet of all time, past and present, Virgil knew by the light of his own genius that the Redeemer was about to be born unto us. And he recited the prophetic passage, saying that he did not see how it could be held to be else than God-inspired. Yet to admit a pagan among the prophets is hardly orthodox, he added, his thoughts almost away, and Héloïse did not speak, afraid to disturb her uncle’s meditation. When she asked him of what he was thinking he answered that he was thinking of the great store of delight in the cupboards for her, comparing the room to a hive filled with honey, layer upon layer of honeycombs; and going to one of the cupboards, he lifted down his books with absurdly careful hands and placed them before her on the table. Come, sit by me, and I’ll show them to thee: here are Virgil, Ovid, Horace, Tibullus, Cicero, Seneca. Never to have read Virgil! O Héloïse, what joy awaits thee! Eclogues! Æneid! Georgics! At which end wilt thou begin? With the story of Dido, doubtless. But if I shall find so much pleasure in this literature, why is it locked away in cupboards? Héloïse asked. And walking up and down the room he told her that he had foreseen in her visit but six evenings of silly chatter. But the convent wrote, uncle, that I was advanced in learning for my age. The talk of nuns, he replied, is of little weight. But since thou’rt speaking Latin with me, and good Latin, my books are thine for the time that thou’rt with me. But be careful of them; do not turn down the leaves; read with clean hands. Now, with which wilt thou begin? With Virgil, the divine Virgil, Héloïse cried, and receiving the volume from him she opened it, and his face lighting up with pleasure, he walked to and fro, saying: how strangely things come about. I thought to listen to a girl’s babble every evening and I have come upon one who speaks Latin, a slightly battered Latin, it is true, but still a language that Virgil would have understood. Making wry faces, perchance, as he listened to us, Héloïse answered, raising her head from the book. How beautiful it is; may I go on reading, uncle? Yes, go on reading; I have stayed too long talking to thee. But, uncle, thou’lt instruct me? Translate this for me. The meaning of the passage is, the Canon said: dost think the ashes of thy husband or his buried shade care for thy desolation? But buried shade is a strange expression, said Héloïse. Virgil, the Canon answered, had a more lively sense of man’s soul than any other writer of his time; he knew it to be different from the body, of an ethereal substance, if substance be not a wrong word to use in connection with the soul. But to-day I am expected early at the Cathedral; give me the book to put away. Tomorrow thou shalt find it ready for thee as soon as thou returnest from market and thy work be done in the house, for I would not have Virgil come between thee and thy work, lest Madelon be annoyed. Héloïse promised him that her thoughts would be on her marketing till midday; I will not come hither till the day’s work is finished. My work is finished for to-day, she said, holding out her hand to receive back the precious volume. But I should like to see thee in the Cathedral this afternoon, and Madelon too, who has come to tell me that I must hasten if I would not be late for vespers, would do well to accompany us.
