Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  A cloud passed across the sun and the landscape darkened, but a moment after the sun shone forth and the world seemed more beautiful than ever. By the spell of contrast, she said; may we not say, therefore, that beauty will return to us again, making the world seem more beautiful than it was even in Virgilian days? Beauty, she said, was Virgil’s theme always, and he taught us by drawing our attention to what is beautiful, and his art was to make things beautiful in themselves seem still more beautiful by selection and exquisite refinements of language. Nothing of the world’s beauty seems to have escaped him, she continued, picking up the book again; he raised all things to a higher level, even the Gods, for the Gods of his day were perhaps not as beautiful as he made them, nor the men and the women, though it would grieve me to find myself thinking that they were less august than he painted them to us. Even the insects he raises out of their lowly instincts and gives them immortality.

  And giving heed to these marvels certain have taught that bees have a share in the divine mind, and breathe the airs of Heaven; for that God extends to all lands and spaces of sea and depths of sky; from whom flocks and herds and men and all the tribes of wild beasts fetch at birth the fragile gift of separate life; yea, and to him are afterwards returned, and, being dissolved here are once again born, every one of them; nor is there room for death, but living they take their station amid the stars, and rise into the height of Heaven...

  So real were her dreams and so thin the reality in which she lived that she did not hear the door or see Madelon, though she was on the threshold. Now what fine tale is my Héloïse dreaming over her book in this lonely room? Madelon asked — a room that I never could abide. I shiver in the morning when I come into it with my duster and I am glad to get out of it back to my kitchen; but it would seem that thou canst not have enough of sitting here with a book on thy knee all through the autumn afternoons, as if they were not sad enough with the leaves going one by one down the river. My word! and talking to thyself, and about what? Maybe, Madelon, thou wouldst like to hazard a guess of where my thoughts were? Back in Argenteuil among the nuns, Madelon answered. And Héloïse replied that Madelon could not have made a worse guess, for her thoughts were among some bees that lived a thousand years ago in the days of the Romans. Wishing the Romans back again, Madelon said, and all for the sake of thy Latin language. But all that we have to say can be said in the language we’re speaking (so says I to myself); the French language in France and Latin if they like it over and beyond the mountains. France for ourselves, so says I! But what about them bees that lived a thousand years ago? They were much the same as the bees that have their hive in the hollow willow down yonder, I’ll be bound they were; or is it that thou hast been reading the contrary in the books the Canon is always putting into thy hands, and which seem such pleasant reading to thee that the meal-times are forgotten and the dinner kept waiting for the end of a sentence? A funny lot we all are here below, says I, as I bend over my pots and pans in the kitchen, loving and hating each other not for ourselves but for what we think about the Latin language or the Trinity. The wrangles that I have heard in this room about the threeness and the oneness, coming to threats, almost to blows, though the majority of them are clerics, good wine-bibbers and cake-gobblers, but with no palate for either as soon as the name of Roscelin is spoken. They are all after him like ferrets after a rat. Often did I say to the Canon: what is the good of trying to please you all with my cakes, for once the name Roscelin is spoken, or for the matter of that the name of William de Champeaux will do as well, you eat without knowing what you are eating, it might be just dry bread and the best wine water from the Seine. Stirs and quarrels up and down the room till midnight and afterwards in the street, holding on to each other’s cloaks and parting worse friends than ever. We used to have pleasant assemblies here till that Roscelin began with his threeness and his oneness, setting everybody by the ears. I used to enjoy making the cakes and setting out the glasses. Ah, and we had songs, too, that I liked listening to, viols and lutes to follow the singer. Yes, and a man that played the vielle so well! Ah, I should like thee to have heard him. My word! He could make his instrument speak. But all that’s over and done for, for to escape the threeness and the oneness everybody remains by his own hearth.

  Héloïse listened, amused by Madelon’s relation of the misfortunes that fell upon the Canon’s assemblies. Once a man gets into solitary habits, Madelon continued, it’s hard to get him out of them. Now that I lay my head to thinking on it I wouldn’t be sure that thou weren’t left in the convent for that the Canon having gotten into lonely habits couldn’t break himself. I know he was often minded to send for thee, but all that’s past, it matters nothing now, since thou’rt the best friends in the world now, as anybody can see for himself. It needs no telling and I am glad of it, but I have my doubts if thou’lt ever get back to Argenteuil, however much thy heart may ache for the nuns; it will break the Canon’s heart should thou wish to go back, though he’ll never say nothing, no not he, but he’ll miss thee, my word! for ever since thou beganst thy Latin chatter he’s like a fish in a net drawn along; and as for those books there isn’t another in the world but thyself he would let read them. I know him and am perhaps the only one that does and I take the measure of his love for thee by the books he lends thee; the one in thy hand he wouldn’t see in another hand for — well, I can’t tell how much would bribe him to let me put it back in the cupboard; he’d be jealous were I to cast my eye over it, I do believe, though he knows that I can’t read. But we being on the subject of reading, I may as well tell that thy reading in this room is wellnigh come to an end, for it is plain to thee, as it must be, that there are only one pair of hands in this house, and it is a big house to keep clean, and I am very particular; the dragging up of wood — but, what need to talk of the trouble of dragging up wood when there isn’t wood to drag up. By troth and faith, a fire in the kitchen is as much as we dare to be having. I am sorry for that, Madelon, Héloïse answered, for it is pleasant to read by this window. Pleasant enough, said Madelon, when the leaves are on the trees and the river flows warm through flowers and reeds, but a shivering outlook in snow-time and the wolves howling almost at our doors. Thou’lt be better downstairs, believe me, for I know what this room is like in winter.

  And Héloïse followed Madelon downstairs to the room in which they had their meals. I don’t know what there is in this room to find fault with, Madelon continued. With a fire here and a fire next door, thou’lt be able to read at thine ease, warmer than a great many, for only the nobles who live in great castles amid woods manage to have fires in more rooms than one.

  The sun is leaving us, it is true; these are the last days of sunny weather, Héloïse answered, and beguiled by the rays that fell through the round windows, they sat down to talk, according to their wont, of past times, which was easy for them to do, Madelon having had the suckling of Héloïse till her milk dried, having tubbed and dressed her in her infancy, and having been the one to take her to Argenteuil (much against her will she had done this, it will be remembered), and the only one from Paris to see her during the next seven years, running backwards and forwards on her short, quick legs, a basket on her arm in which was always a cake, and in summer and autumn fruits. The joy that these visits awakened could never be forgotten and the thrill that the name used to bring was still quick in her, as she did not fail to notice, carrying her back in spirit to childhood, when her uncle spoke it suddenly as he came up the stairs; and her face lit up at the use of the familiar second person singular of the verb, which she would not, could not forgo. The stiff, stupid You would spoil all, she said. And you, Madelon, how are you? Madelon laughed, saying, we are accustomed to Thou and Thee, and sitting in the house alone, the autumn sun diffusing a pleasant atmosphere of indolence and warmth through the thick glass, Madelon uttered her thoughts incontinently: I don’t see thee, try as I will, in a black habit, a rosary hitched to thy girdle; try as I will, I can’t manage it. Canst see me more easi
ly walking about the pleasure grounds of a great castle? Héloïse asked. Troth and faith, I can indeed; and what would prevent me from seeing thee there? I who saw thy mother before thee in the grandest castle in Brittany. And Madelon’s rage at the injustice done to the young Comtesse boiled over, and the story of her expulsion and disinheritance was told over again, the story in its last ravellings gathering into Madelon’s mind the thought that if the Comte and Comtesse came to Paris they could not do else than seek out their granddaughter. If that should fall out, my stay in the rue des Chantres is ended, Héloïse said. Madelon pondered on this question, getting almost a little drowsy over it. If they don’t come, others will, said Madelon at last. But I am not beautiful enough for any of them. Thou’rt well enough, Madelon answered, and the straying talk of women idling the afternoon away was soon back again whence it started, whether Héloïse was going to a castle or a cloister. The Canon may live yet for many years, but a man of sixty is not sure of his life. None of us are sure of our lives, Héloïse answered, and the words started a memory in Madelon of a young man, a student, who used to come to the Canon’s assemblies and died without any warning illness. Héloïse would have liked to have heard more of this young man, who played the vielle and sang, but Madelon could do no more than follow her own thoughts: the young man is dead and little use it will be for us to waste time over him. We have been very quiet of late, but if thou’rt to remain here the whole winter the Canon will have to do something for thee, and anxious enough he is to please thee; and thou must look to thy words, for thy learning is his brag, like the egg is the hen’s; he do cackle over thee at the Cathedral, so it is said, and will be having an assembly for thee soon enough. The latter end of October is our usual time.

  And early next week, on a Monday or a Tuesday, Madelon bounced in on Héloïse, who was reading in the Canon’s study in his absence, crying: now what did I tell thee? Before he left the house this morning he was asking me what day would be most convenient for him to invite some friends in for music. Now which day did I think? All days are the same, says I: Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. Then Wednesday, says he, going out. And on Tuesday afternoon Héloïse and Madelon were busy making cakes and considering the wine that should be decanted for the feast.

  Despite the great loss of firewood there would have to be a fire upstairs, so Madelon said, the weather having turned suddenly colder; and for the appearance and the cheerfulness too, she added. He’ll have all his own friends, patriarchs, of course, but he’ll add some students for thy sake, for thou’lt like to talk to somebody of thine own age, which is but reasonable. Héloïse had never talked to a young man yet, but it seemed to her that an understanding of Virgil was far more important than age. So you all think when you come from the convent first; but Lord! thou’lt soon be looking round to see if they be looking after thee. And now I warn thee, talk of thy Virgil and thine Ovid, but let not the names of Roscelin and Champeaux or Anselm or Abélard pass thy lips, for no sooner are these names mentioned than the place is like a rick of straw with somebody dropping lighted tinder about, for a word more or less will do it, and in a minute the fire will be jumping hither and thither, crackling, flaming, leaping; and if it doesn’t blaze, smoking in sullen ill-humour, setting everybody coughing. That’s the way it is with us, she cried, and Héloïse laughed at Madelon’s farmyard imagery, and gave ear to her warning, hearing from her that Virgil and Ovid would come in handy, as good as a shower of rain to put the fire out. Now mind me, the moment thou hearest any one of those names spoken, begin to ask him that speaks it about the bees that I heard thee talking about to thyself the other day, and in a few minutes all danger will be over.

  Héloïse bethought herself of some other notable passages besides the bees: a description of a storm that drives the galley on to the shore and Æneas and the crew wading through water filled with sand and encamping in a cavern. Æneas going forth in search of food meets a herd of deer and shoots seven. Such a story, Madelon thought, might turn the thoughts of their guests from Abélard and Champeaux. And let thy thoughts be on the cakes and wine and the songs they are going to sing, reminding them that for eating and drinking and singing they’ve come, and not at all for disputation. Héloïse promised, and her tongue was never off the wine and cakes, as she pressed them upon the guests, and so insistent was she that the dreaded names seemed to have been forgotten by everybody. Nor was the next assembly in the rue des Chantres less agreeable. It went by like its predecessor, leaving behind a fading memory of cakes and wine, delightful songs and lute-playing, and talks of the Latin poets to which everybody contributed a few words, some too many. But the evening came when the talk was laboured, when he and she spoke to their neighbour without having anything to say that interested themselves or their neighbours, and the guests rose to sing in the depressing feeling that themselves were not moved to sing much more than the audience to listen. The same guests, the same cakes, wine, music and talk, but how different, said Héloïse, and the Canon replied to her: it is always thus; one week we are up and the next week down, and the evening passes tediously. Let us hope that we shall be more lucky next week. Let us hope so, indeed, Héloïse answered, for I have no heart for a repetition of the last evening just gone by. How it stuck, how it clung! I thought we should never come to the end of it. Our poor guests, how dolefully they departed. Of that I’m not sure, the Canon answered; they enjoyed the wine and cakes. But no, uncle, the wine and cakes were the same but the enjoyment was meagre. One evening we’re up, another we are down, the Canon repeated. We must hope for better luck next week, and let the wine and cakes be distributed more plentifully. Héloïse thought that she had pressed the flagons on everybody, but the next week she was still more insistent in her invitations, and her guests, catching her light-heartedness, began to drink, eat, talk, laugh and twang their lutes impatiently. This will be one of our best evenings, Héloïse said as she dashed into the kitchen, saying: more cakes and fruit are wanted. Wine we have enough for the present. She stayed to chatter with Madelon, and though she was but a few minutes away she was aware, as she came up the stairs, that something doleful had happened in her absence, for she heard neither laughter nor the sounds of lutes, but single voices, and very soon began to apprehend the cause. The words that caught on her ear were: all energy at last becomes identical with the ultimate substance, God, Socrates becoming God in little, and Judas himself identical with both.

  It was plain to all that the Nominalist was not fighting fairly by thrusting theology into Dialectics, but since he had chosen to do so he must take the consequences, and everybody knew that the consequences were that the Realist would do likewise. Ah, you are quick, pupil and disciple of Pierre du Pallet — who is Pierre du Pallet? Héloïse asked; Abélard, the Canon whispered — you are quick to turn what I offered as an analogy into an argument of heresy against my person. I will meet you on the same ground and with the same weapon. Will you tell us if this concept, this image in the mind of man, of God, of matter, for I know not where to seek it, be a reality? I hold it as, in a manner, real. I want a categorical answer. I must qualify — I will have no qualifications, a sub stance is or is not. Well, then, my concept is a sign. A sign of what? A sound, a word, a symbol, an echo of my ignorance. Nothing then! So truth and virtue and humanity do not exist at all. You suppose yourself to exist, but you have no means of knowing God; therefore to you God does not exist except as an echo of your ignorance! And what concerns you most, the Church does not exist except as your concept of certain individuals whom you cannot regard as a unity, and who suppose themselves to believe in a Trinity which exists only as a sound or symbol. I will not repeat your words, pupil, disciple, whichever you are pleased to call yourself, of Le sieur Pierre du Pallet, outside of this house, for the consequences to you would be deadly; but it is only too clear that you are a materialist, and as such your fate must be settled by a Church Council, unless you prefer the stake by judgment of a secular court.

  The spiritual exaltation in the e
yes of the rival philosophers that had lighted the way of the disputation was replaced suddenly by a fierce animal hatred, and they would have sprung at each other’s throats if the attention of each had not been distracted from the other by a great turbulence that had just risen up in the street. The students have broken out again, the Canon cried, and every cheek paled and all ears were given to the riot. It grew fainter; and the philosophers, becoming certain that it was no more than a street broil, prepared to spring at each other, and would have done so if Héloïse had not thrown herself between them. Would you shame our house and be carried home, philosophers that you are, on stretchers like riotous students? She cut a fine figure standing between them, and although still frightened lest the riot should return, the guests broke into laughter, the philosophers included, and the danger within doors was averted. But without the din seemed to be returning from the river, wherein not a few young men have met their death, the Canon said, and then the riot seemed to subside, and the Canon continued: no more than a quarrel proceeding from wineshop to wineshop. Let us hope so, several voices muttered, and began to ask each other how they might manage to protect themselves on their way home, and if it would not be wise to return in company. The plight of those who had to cross the Little Bridge was the hardest, and several times it was asked if the crowd was scattering, and the guests, who had descended from Madelon’s balcony to the ground floor, ran up to the balcony again and came back with the news that the night was falling fast. We cannot stay here all night, somebody said. The Canon protested, and somebody answered: if we are not to remain here we had better seek our cloaks, and while engaged on the donning of them stories were told of the murders and robberies that had been done by students during the great outbreak of a month ago, when a battle, begun at the corner of the rue Berneuse and the rue Fosse-aux-Chiens in a wineshop, a student having attempted in it the rape of the taverner’s daughter, nobody being left in the house at the moment but the girl, was fought all over the town. It was at the moment when the student had torn open her bodice that the taverner entered, and in the fight that followed up and down the stairs the student received the thrust of a knife: and it not being a mortal wound he staggered to the doorway calling for help, whereupon many students forced their way into the house despite bars and bolts, but not before the taverner escaped to the roof, from whence he called for help. Come all ye traders to my help, he cried; and glad they were of the occasion to wreak vengeance on the students.