by George Moore
A student raised his hand. May I put a question, master? And the master, with a slight contraction of the brow, resigned himself to the question, and it was debated for some minutes whether Homer’s poems should not be considered as arising out of a new sense come to man, the sense of beauty. Are not the poems concerned with beauty rather than with reason? The interrupter seemed to have brought a truth to light, but the master explained that the sense of beauty implied reason, for beauty means to discriminate, and to discriminate we must have reason; the animals that have not reason do not discriminate, but are guided by their instincts. The interrupter acquiesced, unwillingly, it seemed to Héloïse, and she hated him, for her whole being was drawn to the idea that Abélard was about to make known, drawn as the needle is to the lodestone, wholly without thought, all other thoughts and desires being absorbed in one desire, the desire of the story on the lips of the Prophet; for he was that in her eyes already. This much, however, I will concede to Raymond, Abélard continued, looking towards the student, who blushed with pleasure at feeling the master’s eyes upon him, and as the word concede implied that in the master’s opinion his interruption was not wholly valueless he became at once a centre of admiration. This much I will concede, Abélard said, to Raymond, that Homer’s poems were not the dawn of reason; the dawn of reason arose some hundreds of years later in the East. Homer’s poems were but a beacon fire, or shall we call them the cry of the watchman: the dawn is nigh! for it was four hundred years later, Abélard repeated, emphasising the point, which he seemed to regard as of primary importance, that man leaped, as it were, into a new existence, about six hundred years before the coming of Christ, that man broke at least one of the links that attached him to the animal, and rose to higher state than before: Buddha appeared in India, Confucius in China, a little later Plato and Aristotle in Greece. All these were inspired, and all these prepared the world to receive the great revelation that was to come to the Apostles from Jesus Christ himself in Palestine eleven hundred and seventeen years ago.
The throne is in heaven and invisible, but the stairway leading to the throne is under our feet; we can look back and count the stairs, each one of which is a step in the ascension of man. Each generation mounts a stair, and when a generation mounts several there is a halt for man to draw breath and prepare himself for the next ascension. Eleven hundred and seventeen years ago man reached a great stair-head, Christianity; and ever since we have been calling to the laggard nations to follow us. They have not followed as quickly as we would wish, and to bring them up to where we now stand a new revelation was needed. It has been vouchsafed to us. One hundred and seventeen years ago it was thought that the old world was ended; and men gave their wealth to the Church, certain that the last day was at hand. Nor was their mistake as great as it has been since supposed. If the foretelling had been: the old world by faith alone is ended, the prophets would have foretold no more than the truth, for it has come to pass within the last century that a new revelation has been given to us, and by it all the world may be won to Christianity.
As Abélard spoke these words Héloïse remembered the words of the Chorus in Seneca’s Medea: new worlds shall be discovered in the age to come, the imprisoning ocean shall be thrown open till there shall be no land alone, no ultima Thule. And she longed to rise to her feet and speak them, for they would bring wings to the master’s argument, a flying feather, at least. So did she feel as she sat entranced, questioning herself; carried, in truth, out of an old world into a new one. In her trance, for it was one, she accepted the intellectual and the physical as one, though a few moments before she distinguished between them. Nor was this strange, for the man was not the same; all the defects of parade and artificiality had disappeared, and the faith he was preaching, that reason had come to man’s aid and was about to remould the world, shone out of his pale blue exalted eyes — all she saw of him clearly were his eyes and she heard only his smooth, rich voice; and his arguments mattered little or nothing to her now. So deep was the spell put upon her that if he had told her to mount the tower of the Cathedral and cast herself over she would have done it.
He had passed into the second phase of his lecture, into analysis and discernment, and the disciples were putting questions; she heard him answer every one with ease and was carried out of herself beyond control; drawn along in sensations of fear and happiness, she knew not which, nor what would befall her, till Abélard began to gather his notes from his desk, and while doing so he continued to address his favourite pupils and disciples. She strove to resist the impulse urging her, but her strength broke and snapped like a viol string, and pressing through the crowd, lost to reason, she threw herself on her knees, and catching his hands as he came down from the pulpit, she kissed them. Women did not come to his lectures, and his pupils regarded the interruption as unseemly — if not unseemly at least an uncomely incident, — and pressed forward, thinking that the master must not be subjected to violent demonstrations twice on the same afternoon. But Abélard turned them back, and raising Héloïse from her knees he led her out of the cloister into the quadrangle. His arm was about her, his voice whispered in her ear.
What happened afterwards she never succeeded in remembering exactly, but supposed that she must have followed the familiar streets instinctively without knowing she was following them. It could not have been else, for when she awoke finally she stood on the steps of her uncle’s house ashamed, not knowing how it had all come about.
CHAP. VIII.
IT IS HER step, Fulbert said, as he sat reading, and laying down his book, he waited. But hearing her talking in the front hall with Madelon, he grew impatient. Come, he cried, and tell me thy roamings in the woods. What, no violets! I have not been in the woods to-day, uncle. And she told how at the Great Bridge she was moved to go to the Cathedral to say a prayer to the Virgin for her guidance. An excellent thought! the Canon exclaimed, and was about to add that he wished such thoughts were more frequent in her, but he checked himself in time; and it was well that he did, for Héloïse had to confess that her pious project was swept out of her mind by the groups of students in the King’s Gardens. Waiting for Abélard, the Canon interposed, with some, to be sure, waiting for Gosvin and looking forward to his triumph in disputation, a young man of genius whom Douai sends to Paris in the hope that his dialectic may be enough to stop the spread of Nominalism. To bid the tide retire, Héloïse said, with a quiet smile. So thou regardest Abélard’s genius as a tide that cannot be stayed. Gosvin’s bidding will not stay the tide of Abelard’s success, she replied. Instead of seeking violets in the woods thou wast in the cloister, niece, augmenting by one the swelling crowd of Abélard’s admirers. Yes, I was in the cloister, uncle. And I gather from thy words and tone that he triumphed over Gosvin. Héloïse raised her eyes contemptuously and asked the Canon in a quiet, even voice, irritating him thereby, if Abélard were greater than Plato and Aristotle, to which the Canon replied that none was and none ever would be greater than Plato and Aristotle; but being of tractable humour that morning and disposed to worship the rising sun, he said that Abélard’s genius was an honour to France, and that if he could steer clear of heresy he would rank sooner or later as the descendant of Plato and Aristotle. He comes from thy country, niece, Nantes or near by. An argumentative fellow truly, the son of Bérenger, a soldier attached to the court of Hoel IV., Duke of Brittany, who, it appears, gave up all claim to the family estate so that he might be free to wander the world over, ravelling and unravelling thoughts and entangling opponents in webs of arguments. Many are the stories told about him, and they agree in this, that he has never yet been worsted in an intellectual encounter. But how is this, niece? I never knew thee give a thought to a living man before. How is it that he has captured thine imagination? Did you think it difficult to capture it, uncle? Yours as well as mine would have been captured too had you been in the cloister to-day. And knowing you as I do, I wonder with what words you would have praised him. I was detained in the Cathedral, the
Canon answered, through the fault —
But there’s no need why I should trouble thee with the story; far better that I should hear how Abélard overthrew Gosvin in disputation. It was soon over, Héloïse answered, and after keeping the Canon waiting a long time, she spoke aloud, but to herself mainly: nobody was ever more wonderful. So he demolished Gosvin at once? the Canon interjected. Gosvin! she cried. Yet he is a man of good repute in argument, else he would not have been chosen as champion, the Canon said, and now fully awake, Héloïse began to tell that his aggression was as stupid as it was impertinent. By what right did he interrupt the master’s lesson? she asked. All the same, he was treated none too fairly, being only given an opportunity of saying a few words. Abélard replied briefly, and deeming the argument at an end, muttered, as he turned to his notes, that if Gosvin did not leave at once he would send for a shovel and cinders. The Canon laughed outright; such ferocities of language, he said, were characteristic of Abélard. But the provocation put upon Abélard, she averred, was very great, and I am not in agreement with you, uncle, that ferocities are characteristic of him, for I heard him speak with courtesy to his disciples in the Gardens and controvert with gentleness, stopping to explain by means of a circle his doctrine of Conceptualism. But the Canon gave little heed to her eulogy, remarking casually that Abélard was a master of honeyed words as well as bitter. Enough, however, of Abélard for the present; tell me his lesson. I am not Abélard and cannot relate his lesson. I do not ask thee to relate the lecture but to tell the subject of it. The subject was Faith and Reason, she answered. One that he would treat well, the Canon said, and he begged his niece to relate as much of the lesson as she could remember. But he could not persuade her out of her thoughts, and when he pressed her she replied: I would tell it if I could, but cannot. At last she broke the pause: but do you tell me his story. And if I do? he asked. If you do I will try to remember his lesson, she replied.
At the time of which I am about to speak I was not Canon of Notre-Dame, but I remember hearing that William de Champeaux was never tired of saying that he had never had a pupil like Abélard, and his praise ran on the lines that Abélard could develop an argument in several directions, drawing from it unsuspected thoughts and ideas. But the lad had no intention of repeating and reshaping his master’s thoughts, and Champeaux, it is said, had to yield to him in argument more than once, which made an enemy of his master and many of his master’s disciples. But enemies mattered little to him, for he could learn anything he pleased in half the time that anybody else could, and his daring was so great that men gave way before him as men will do before victory, accepting him for the sake of his success, bowing before him as before a conqueror. At that time he was a mere stripling, and anxious that his friends’ hopes of him should come to pass, he began to look round him for a school in which he should be master. And Melun, an important town near Fontainebleau, seeming to him suitable, he settled there. At once his school became famous, and it was at Melun that his talent began to take wing; England, Germany, Italy, sent students, and encouraged by the good fortune which he now believed was his for ever, Abélard left Melun for Corbeil. The choice was a lucky one, maybe a wise one. However this may be, Corbeil became soon after, like Melun, a royal seat, and at Corbeil he was nearer Paris, ready at any moment to carry the citadel by assault. Which he did, Héloïse interjected. Yes; but no sooner had he succeeded in establishing a school at Corbeil than his health yielded to the strain he had put upon it and he was obliged to give up everything and to go away for a long rest. He travelled, it is said, in Germany and England; some hold that it was in England that he met Roscelin, but it is not known for certain, for he never speaks of these years, and the secrecy he keeps regarding them has set many tongues wagging. A wonderful man, uncle. But go on with your story, for it is as wonderful as —— — Go on with your story, uncle. Well, niece, he reappeared after some four or five years. But if thou wouldst understand his reappearance I must tell what befell William de Champeaux in the meanwhile. Leave Champeaux out of it, uncle; tell me about Abélard. The story of one cannot be told without the other, the Canon answered testily. ‘I must tell the story in my own way. Champeaux, fallen into years, was living in as much seclusion as a man of great reputation may; but he was persuaded to open a school again at St. Victor, and one day, while lecturing to his pupils and disciples, he caught sight of Abélard among them. His heart misgave him, and it is said that he found difficulty in continuing his lesson till Abélard came forward to reassure him, saying: I have come to ask permission to attend your lessons, master. Champeaux could not exclude him from his school; to have done so would have been a confession that he was not able to meet him in argument; and it seems to me that the story I am telling of his irruption into Champeaux’s school brings into view the spiritual adventurer who left his home in Brittany to meet men in disputation and overthrow them, the pitiless logician who cares for nothing but his art. But his turn will come, as it comes to all who are carried away by pride and believe their destinies are written in the signs of the zodiac.
At first he was full of deference, but it was only a mock, for Champeaux’s doctrine was the very opposite to Roscelin’s, and Abélard began to press him back with arguments clear and striking, worsting him in his own school and obliging him to retire from the position he had taken up.
After this second victory, Abelard’s position seemed more than ever secure; his doctrine acquired greater force and influence, and many of those who attacked him before passed over to his side, won by his personality and eloquence. He conquered where nobody else dared; his enemies were afraid to meet him; he was so skilful in argument that he could attack both sides equally well; Realist and Nominalist went down before him, and he came to be spoken of as the new Socrates. But this was unendurable, and William de Champeaux assembled all his partisans and friends, all the congregation of St. Victor, and challenged him to a decisive argument, one that must bring ruin to one or the other. Abélard was victorious? Héloïse asked. Yes; but in the middle of his triumph, or perhaps I should say at the moment when his triumph was complete, another idea seems to have come into his head and he left public life without telling anybody he was going. This second withdrawal was well calculated, a matter of some three or four months, a period long enough for the people to feel how much his presence and teaching meant to them. In three or four months he was back again, before the wonderment ceased. He entered Paris as a conquerer, triumph after triumph drawing crowds from all countries; Germany, England, Italy, came to listen to Abélard, the renowned philosopher of Europe.
The Canon stopped speaking so that Héloïse might ask him some questions that would lead to a further unwinding of a story which had begun to seem to him more inveigling than he knew it to be before he began it. But Héloïse said nothing, and after waiting for a question from her, he said: where are thy thoughts? My thoughts, uncle, were — I do not know exactly where they were. I suppose I must have been thinking. Can one think without words? Ah, now I remember; I was asking myself if Abelard’s story would have revealed to me the man whom I saw and heard in the cloister — If thou hadst heard his story from me before seeing him? Yes, uncle; and her face still deep in a cloud of meditation, she confessed that it was not until she heard him in the cloister that she began to see that what she saw and heard were not two different things but one thing, for he would not be himself without — Without what, niece? the Canon asked, for he was amused by Héloïse’s embarrassment, and to continue it he added: his beauty? The sneer threw Héloïse off her guard, and she answered that nobody could call Abelard an ugly man. A stocky little fellow, the Canon persisted. And he would have said more of the same kind if Héloïse’s face had not warned him not to proceed further with his teasing. He spoke instead of Abélard’s forehead, which he admitted to be of the Socratic type in its amplitude; but he averred that the likeness between the two men ceased at the forehead, for whereas Socrates was of the ascetic temperament, Abélard was by his face not
ably a free liver, a disparagement that seemed to Héloïse like a challenge. She asked the Canon to mention a feature that would testify to the truth of this, and the spirit of battle being upon him he could not keep back the words: his singing of French songs. You never spoke to me before of Abélard as one divided between free living and philosophy. Nor is it many minutes since you were speaking of him as the intellectual descendant of Aristotle and Plato; your present sneers of him cannot be else than an attempt to anger me, and we would do better, mayhap, to talk of matters on which we are agreed. The Canon did not answer her, but sat perplexed, anxious at least to tell her that this unseemly quarrel was accidental. He began to explain that in speaking of Abélard as stocky he had been led away by his love of banter. Héloïse’s face stopped him in the middle of a sentence, and instead of finishing it he went to his cupboard and returned with two books; he handed her Virgil and began to read Tibullus, and this act was so graceful and conciliatory that Héloïse could barely restrain a smile when their eyes met.
The storm was over, but a storm leaves disorder behind it, and her uncle’s disparagement of Abelard made it impossible for her to continue sitting opposite to him, though she knew that his sneers and sarcasms were intended to provoke her or to put her enthusiasm for the lecture (which he judged to be excessive) to a test. He was forgiven, but his presence was an irritation, and she sat thinking how she might leave the room without rousing her uncle’s suspicions that she was angry; and to save him from all misapprehension she continued to read the Eclogues a while longer, till at last, unable to bear the strain, she rose to her feet abruptly and bade him good-night, saying that she felt tired and was going to bed. A very long and dragging hour it has been, but it is over at last, she said, on her way to her room, and as she could think better lying than sitting, she undressed, turned over in her bed, folded her arms, and began to ask herself why she had omitted to tell her uncle what had befallen her in the Cathedral. The words were often on her lips, but they were checked and passed over, which was unfortunate, for it was nearly certain he would hear the story from somebody present, Alberic or Romuald; and besides these there were others who were on friendly terms with him and came to the house in the rue des Chantres. As soon as he heard of her behaviour he would come to her and say: what is this story that I hear about thee, bursting through the disciples at the end of the lecture and throwing thyself at his feet? What answer would she make? At last it became clear to her that she must confide the whole matter to her uncle when he came downstairs next morning. But she was down before him, and after waiting some while, she and Madelon started forth for the market, their baskets on their arms, thinking that the Canon would be up to meet them when they returned. But though they were an hour away, the Canon was still abed when they returned, having drunk more wine than was good for him after we bade each other good-night, Héloïse said to Madelon, who answered that on these occasions the Canon was unfit for the transaction of any business. He will sign any papers that are put before him, and it is my duty to deny him to callers; we shan’t see much of him before three o’clock. Her words hit the mark; it was a little after three before the Canon left the house, without Héloïse hearing him leave it, and when an hour later she asked Madelon for news of her uncle, Madelon answered: he has gone to the Cathedral; he left here about an hour ago, and thou must have been deep in thy book not to have heard him, for he banged the door behind him. There is often much noise in the street, Héloïse answered, and she returned to the company-room, thinking to continue her reading till her uncle returned, for her mind was still fixed on confiding her trouble to him. And if she got tired of reading she would go to the woods and come back with the violets that she did not gather yesterday. He will smell them from the doorway, and will be pleased to find them in his study, she said.
