by George Moore
When the scales make daylight and sleep equal in hours, she said, and just halve the glow between light and shadow, set four bulls at work, O man; sow the barley fields right into the showery skirts of frost-bound winter. No less it is time to cover in the earth the flax plant and the corn poppy and to urge on the belated ploughs while the dry soil allows it.
But one cannot read verses such as these and forget the violet-scented vale, and the priest, accompanied by a sleek Tuscan boy blowing an ivory flute, leading a goat to an altar under God’s own sky, she said; but it was in the autumn always that thanksgiving was made for the fruits of the fields, for it was then that the orchards and vineyards gave up their fruits. It is true, she continued, that the spring shower is as needful as the sun and there should have been thanksgiving for it, and unable to recall any she wondered whether, if she fared far enough, she would come upon some bluebell wood where the ancient rites were practised.
CHAP. VII.
ON REACHING THE Great Bridge she stopped like one upon whom a spell was laid, and she could not do else than abandon the ramble in the woods, for it came to her memory that the King’s Gardens were open to the public on Thursday, and that students assembled there for discussion. Soon the swallows will be here, she said, building under the eaves, and she repeated Virgil’s lines all the way up the rue des Chantres, passing the Cathedral without seeing it, her feet leading her instinctively to the Little Bridge that connected the city island with the left bank. Clerks and students were coming over it. For what are you coming hither? she asked, and heard the news that Abélard’s enemies thought that they had found at last a champion whom they could trust to withstand Abélard. But the one they have found, the scholar said, is but a barking dog that should be driven off with the stick of truth. All the same I’d like to hear his story, said Héloïse, and the student began:
Abélard’s opponent is Gosvin, a young man from Joslen’s school at Douai, and one full of pluck and resource in argument, whom Joslen, his master, tried all he could to dissuade from his resolve to go to Paris and challenge Abélard in disputation, telling him that Abélard was even more formidable in criticism than in discussion, not so much a doctor as a wit; that he never gave in, never acquiesced in the truth unless it was in his favour; that he wielded the hammer of Hercules, and never let go, and that he, Gosvin, would do better to unravel his sophisms and avoid his errors than to expose himself to laughter. But as he could not be dissuaded his friends and comrades accompanied their David, cheering him most of the way hither; and now all Douai is praying for him, so it is said. Abélard knows nothing of it. Gosvin has a few friends, and as soon as the master begins his lessons Gosvin is to rise up. You’ll hear it all in an hour’s time in the cloister. From another she learnt that Gosvin was a stripling of six and twenty, slight as a child, with pink and white complexion. And Abélard? she asked. As the student was about to answer her, he was accosted by another student, and Héloïse gave ear to him, thinking he was about to speak of Abélard. But it was of the fine weather they spoke, and not many words were exchanged on this subject when the rumour anent the cloudless sky provoked the sally: a sky that you do not often see here, but which we see so often in Italy that we weary of it. How proud the Italians are of their sky, cried another. Is not then the sun the same everywhere? Héloïse asked, and it was this simple question that raised the discussion which she had heard her uncle say, the evening the philosophers almost came to blows, was one of daily hap in the Cathedral Gardens. The same sun? a student asked. Have a care. Did not the master tell us that qualities are real and that the species are as real? Of course, cried another student, things are not words, and whoever denies it falls into Roscelin’s heresy.
A contentious statement this was, one that soon called forth a challenger who said: if the qualities exist beyond the things with which we associate them, the colour of the flowers exists apart from the flowers; and if the Italian sky is of one colour and the French sky of another, there are two skies. If one sky is cool and grey and the other blue and burning, it seems hard to deny that there are several qualities of sun — two suns. But we know that there is but one sun, cried several voices, and the students agreed that the question was one that should be put to the master. But another student held that the question was too simple to trouble the master with, and in answer to many he said: there is an excellent white wine in thy country, Alberic, and there is an excellent red wine on thy hill-sides at Beaune. But what is wine? A species, and liquids are the genus. Now the species is a real thing. It is the vininess that makes the thing, the wine, just as humanity makes the man. But white wine and red wine both are species of the same genus, liquid, and they both are the same in the possession of vininess; therefore, red wine and white wine are the same. But we can go farther. The genus is also a real thing. The genus liquid exists in water, just as it does in wine, and the genus is the truth. It is the essence, and therefore wine is the same as water. I hope you all understand that wine and water are interchangeable. I suppose it is all right, and I’ll try to swallow this conclusion, though I choke. Another example: Pacquette is blonde; Madelon is dark. Both are of the species — girl. They have it... the essence... that... how shall I say it... puella virgo... I give it up. For who shall say that they possess that which —
Of a sudden the voices ceased, and, turning her head, Héloïse saw a short man, of square build, who, although well advanced in the thirties, still conveyed an impression of youthfulness; for though squarely built his figure was well knit, his eyes were bright, and his skin fresh and not of an unpleasing hue, brown and ruddy. The day being warm, he walked carrying his hat in his hand, looking round him pleased at the attendance, and it was this look of self-satisfaction that stirred a feeling of dislike in Héloïse. He seemed to her complacent and vain; and she did not like his round head, his black hair, his slightly prominent eyes: solemn eyes, she said to herself, and I like merry eyes; the only feature that forced an acknowledgment from her was his forehead, which was large and finely turned. But her admiration of it passed away quickly in her dislike of his blunt, fleshy nose. His name had often been mentioned in her presence, she was even familiar with it, and had she thought about him at all she would have imagined a thin, finely cut profile, sensitive nose and pointed chin. She could not imagine Aristotle or Plato — Plato still less than Aristotle — or Seneca, or Virgil, or Ovid, or Tibullus (but these last were poets), converging to the type that Abélard represented so prominently. She had seen his broad, almost clerical, face before, dimly, it is true, but she had seen it in certain prelates, and the thought rose up in her mind that that philosophy wore an altogether different appearance. But as soon as he spoke her feelings about him changed as the world changes when the cloud passes and the sun comes out. The voice had much to do with the transformation, but not all; it gave beauty to his very slightest utterance; and the phrases that caught upon her ear were well worded. He speaks good Latin, she said to herself, and the words had hardly passed through her mind when another thought whispered to her: were Plato and Aristotle dandies? Half-an-hour must have been spent in the donning of the laces at his cuffs and another in choosing the buckles of his shoes. But her criticism of his apparel was quickly swept away again by the sound of the smooth, rich, baritone voice, and this time she perceived that the voice was accompanied by an exquisite courtesy, and that the manner in which he walked addressing those who gathered about him to admire and to listen was kindly, although it was plain that though familiarity from him would be an honour he would resent it quickly in another.
The students gave way before him; he smiled upon all, waved his square hand, stopping before one who, on the approach of the master, strove to obliterate a circle that he had drawn on the gravel with his stick. On seeing the circle and divining the use of it, Abélard stepped forward from his admirers and held a little court before proceeding into the cloister to hold his greater court. A circle, he said, is a figure in which all the lines drawn from the centre to the
circumference are equal; and of the lines there may be any number. But some of you would say that I can add another hundred lines and another two hundred lines, but a moment comes when no more lines can be added, and this puts into the arguer’s mouth the question: does the circle exist? Hence all the difficulties that we know of have arisen, for the circle does not exist in substance. But it exists in the mind, and the mind is something, therefore the circle exists. On these words, amid many acclamations Abélard resumed his resolute gait, exchanging words with those whom he knew, smiling encouragingly, inviting all to follow him to the cloister.
Héloïse fell into the crowd of pupils and disciples that followed him to the cloister — herself the newest — and from thence into a sort of classroom, a vaulted hall with many benches in front of the pulpit and one long bench fixed to the oak-panelled wall. The pupils took their places on the distant benches, the disciples on the benches grouped about the pulpit; Héloïse sought an obscure corner, and her eyes followed Abélard as he went up the five steps that led to the pulpit, and saw him spread his notes on the desk in front of him. But no sooner had he done this than a stir, almost a quarrel, began in the hall, certain pushing their way in and others opposing them. And among these intruders she caught sight of Gosvin, recognising him by the description she had had of him from the students in the Gardens. Now what is the meaning of all this? Abélard asked, and he was answered by Gosvin. I have come from Douai to Paris to thine own school, the little man answered, to get an answer from thee at the request of the students. It would be better for thee to learn to hold thy tongue and not interrupt my lesson, Abélard replied. But I have come all the way to challenge thee to discussion. From whose school? Abélard asked. From the school of Anselm of Laon, Gosvin replied. Hold hard, cried one of the disciples, rising suddenly to his feet. Who is this ill-conditioned fellow who comes from Douai thouing and theeing the master? Who indeed is he? cried several voices, and in a moment a dozen were ready to fling the little impertinent without the doors, and would have done it if Abélard had not interposed. My lesson ended, I will call on the youngest among us to answer you. Douai shall thou and thee Paris while Paris employs the more formal you. At these words Abélard’s disciples and pupils released Gosvin. It may be that the youngest is able to answer my arguments as well as the master, but Douai has sent me to meet Abélard in disputation. The disciples rose from their desks, some five or six, and whispered that Gosvin was of good repute in disputation, and urged Abélard to hear him lest a bad impression might be created and their enemies return to Douai with stories. Speak, Abélard said, turning to Gosvin, and Gosvin, unabashed, began:
I am here to overcome, to put to flight, those who hold the false doctrine that there are no substances but individuals. Wilt hear me? he asked. And Abélard answered: have I not said that I will hear you, but be brief, for the question is of little interest here, it having been unriddled and judged long ago; but speak, my boy; only one condition do I make, that you will leave the hall as soon as you have gotten your answer. Now speak.
I will put my argument simply and into the space of a few lines, saying that if there are only individuals then there are Peter, Paul, John and so on, but no humanity. Horses, too, have names, so have dogs, albeit there is no equinity or caninity; and the relation between any man and any horse and any dog is the same as between any man and man and horse and horse and dog and dog. But this being thy doctrine, we in Douai would hear how comes it that we speak of the community of mankind.
The question that you have put to me is even simpler than I had expected, Abélard answered, and it almost shames me to answer it, but since I have promised an answer, hear it. Humanity, equinity and caninity, we say, do not exist as things separable from men, horses and dogs, but we do not deny that men resemble one another, that horses resemble one another and dogs resemble one another. The names of the species indicate the resemblance, which is greater than the resemblance of all to one another as animals, and there you have the reality of species and genus indicated by the names men, horses, dogs, animals.
No sooner had Abélard ceased speaking than Gosvin began again, but before he had uttered many words Abélard, with stern face, answered: thou hast my answer, interrupt my lesson no longer, else I shall have to ask my pupils to remove thee among some cinders on a shovel. On these words the hustling began, and the little man was pushed to and fro, almost carried out of the hall, crying back all the while: but I haven’t yet ended, I haven’t ended, while heedless of the outcry, Abélard applied himself to his notes just as if the scene had already faded from his mind, ready to begin his lecture as soon as the disciples returned.
The two poles of man’s moral existence, he said, are faith and reason. But it is not our object to-day to inquire which is the more important. We wish rather to affirm and to show that both are equal and that the work begun by faith can be continued by reason; that, in fact, reason was given to us to continue it. Faith and reason are the theme of to-day’s lecture, and the relations which each bears to the other; but before proceeding into discrimination I would call your thoughts to the consideration that faith and reason projected themselves into literature, taking a final form in the same century, as far as can be known about the sixth century before Our Lord Jesus Christ was born in Bethlehem. It was fifteen hundred years before this great event, the greatest that ever happened in the history of the world, that the Bible began to come into literary existence — in other parlance, nearly a thousand years before the Babylonian captivity in Palestine the story of man’s birth and fall was communicated by God to his Chosen People, a stiff-necked, rebellious people, as himself has called them, accepting the revelation without enough apprehension of the honour that was done to them, disobeying the law that was given unto them for their preservation at all times, until God in his anger resolved to destroy the world, but was moved to spare the world and to accept the atonement proposed by his Son, Our Lord Jesus Christ.
The second communication of God’s will was received by the Apostles, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, from Jesus Christ himself.
I must ask pardon for calling to your thoughts truths so well known to you all, but it seems to me that for a plenary understanding of to-day’s lecture it was necessary to remind you that the Bible, unlike Homer, is entirely dissociated from man’s imagination; the Old and the New Testaments are both messages from God to Man. In saying this I am on sure ground, none will dispute it; none except the Infidel from whom our armies have succeeded in rescuing the Holy Sepulchre. None will dispute except the Infidel that the Bible, being inspired by God, must be accepted by man through God’s own gift, faith. We accept the Bible without discussion. It is our duty, of course, to interpret the Bible; it is the duty of the Church, for God has given us the Church, as well as the Bible. I need not labour the point any further, and will pass on to a matter less trite and commonplace than that the Bible is a work of Divine inspiration, to a matter that has not yet been considered, brought into relief, by anybody that I know of: that while the Bible was coming into existence, at the same time a great poet, the greatest the world has ever known, was brooding and writing the Iliad and the Odyssey. And these poems, though they came less directly from God than the Bible, are also a gift from God in something more than the trite phrase implies: all things come from God. Inspiration has never been denied to the Iliad and the Odyssey. Homer was inspired; he received his gift from God, and though the inspiration was less direct than the inspiration that was vouchsafed to Moses, still it must be held that he was inspired. I do not know if the point has ever been disputed. Virgil, too, was inspired, and perhaps his inspiration was even more direct than Homer’s, for did he not predict the coming of Our Lord? It is a remarkable fact — remarkable — I choose this word with care — remarkable that the great work of faith and the great work of reason should have been written in the same period, for Homer lived perhaps a thousand years before the birth of Our Lord, about the time of David or Solomon, who continued the Bible.
