Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  And her thoughts passing from violets, she began once more to consider the story she had to tell her uncle. At what point would she begin to tell it? She would have to tell him the whole of it, so she would begin by telling that as she was about to cross the Great Bridge something stopped her from crossing it. He would ask her what she meant by something, and she only knew that she was turned from her first purpose (which was to go in the woods and gather violets) by a thought that she needed the Virgin’s intercession. She was on her way to the Cathedral to say a prayer, but was turned from this second purpose by the sight of the students in the King’s Gardens, where Alberic and Romuald were indulging in mental gymnastics, laughing alternately at Realism and Nominalism; and it was in the midst of their jocular disputation that Abélard crossed the Gardens, surrounded by pupils and disciples, on his way to the cloister. All this she had told her uncle, and about Gosvin; and of the wonderful lecture on. Faith and Reason she had given such an account as she was able. Her story would therefore concentrate on the moment when she was compelled to press through the crowd and throw herself at his feet. Alas, her uncle would think that she was telling him a fable, a dream that she had dreamed overnight and mistook for reality. She would not blame him, for her conduct was so unlike herself that she did not recognise herself in it, nor would anyone who knew her recognise her in it. The nuns, were they told the story, would deny it, and who knew her better than the nuns? Not even Madelon. Madelon wouldn’t believe it any more than the nuns would, nor could she blame them, for she didn’t believe it herself — yet it was true. How little one knows of oneself! She fell to wondering if the impulse that had compelled her in the Cathedral would arise again; not the same impulse, but similar impulses. Was she subject to these? And was the one that had risen yesterday but the first of a long series?

  Overcome, almost afraid, she sat viewing her future life through her imagination, and so immersed was she in the possibilities that a single thought had evoked, that she did not hear the door open, and was startled almost out of her wits by Madelon’s voice: now whatever is the girl thinking about? Did I frighten thee, Héloïse? Well, these frights are soon over, and as soon as thou hast recovered thy wits tell me the story thou hast been reading. It’s no story, Madelon; I was only thinking. And it not being Madelon’s way to press for an answer, she said: a letter has just come for thee, and I have brought it up. Héloïse thought she detected a faint irony in Madelon’s voice. A letter for me? she said; from whom can it be? I can tell nothing about it, Madelon answered; a boy brought it and went away quickly. Brought it and went away quickly, Héloïse repeated. The letter could not have come from other than Abélard, and the thought brought a change of expression into her face, which was unfortunate, for Madelon’s eyes were upon her. Did the boy come from Argenteuil? wouldst thou have me stand in front of thee guessing whence a letter comes, and it in thy hand, silly? And the answer put the thought into Héloïse’s mind that she had not spoken wisely in mentioning Argenteuil. Her first mistake was followed by a second, for she did not dare to read the letter under Madelon’s inquisitive eyes, but threw it on the table beside her, saying: the letter can wait; I am busy reading, Madelon. But she would not betray me, Héloïse said to herself, so why did I not trust her? And opening her letter as soon as Madelon left the room, she read the brief note that Abélard had sent her, saying: I must write to thank you, Héloïse, for your quick outburst of admiration for my lecture, and I shall be waiting for you in the Cathedral after vespers. That was all. Waiting in the Cathedral after vespers for me, she repeated. Héloïse — who can have given him my name? Alberic or Romuald? It matters little which, she said. What was important was that he knew her name and had written to her. His letter was proof that he did not look upon her as a little fool, so she had been frightened by nothing. He had written her a letter, a letter asking her to meet him in the Cathedral? And she sat lost in an amazed delight at the honour that had befallen her. But why did he want to see her? The reason was not far to seek; he had said that he would like her to attend his lectures, and to make sure of her attendance he sent for her; he wished her to sit under him in the cloister and to take notes like the other pupils, and to put questions to him like the others, though she was only seventeen and had come from the convent of Argenteuil not more than six months ago. But would her uncle allow her to attend Abelard’s lectures? He would be only too glad, he was proud of her learning, but if he had not drunk so much wine last night and had left his bed earlier, she would have confided the story of her conduct to him, and he would have remained in the house talking to her, forgetful of his business in the Cathedral, till Abelard’s letter came, which she would have had to show him, and he would have said: let us go together to see Abélard. Instead of the great pleasure that awaited her, meeting Abélard alone, hearing him talking to her, she would have sat apart hearing Abélard talking to her uncle, a thing that would be no pleasure to her whatsoever, nor to Abélard; he would have been annoyed with her for showing her letter (for if Abélard had wanted to see the Canon he would have written to him); he would have thought her a little fool, and she would not have been able to explain. He might never have written again, never wished to see me, so what a good job it is for all of us that uncle drank that wine, she said. Uncle has spoken about the benefit I could get by going to the cloister to attend the lectures; true, he was talking of Champeaux, but I couldn’t have learnt from Champeaux, I know I couldn’t; Abélard would like to teach me and I could learn from Abélard.

  Her thought of him brought him before her eyes, and his image set her thinking of the little quarrel overnight between herself and her uncle regarding his appearance. He was short, it is true, but strong and well knit, with fine shoulders. A noble and kindly brow bespoke his vast intelligence and placed him above all men and made all men jealous of him. She had heard him spoken of as proud; she knew many who were proud without just cause, but he was proud — could it be else, since he was acknowledged by all the world as the greatest philosopher of his time, perhaps of all time? She had heard it said that he could not brook an interruption, but she had seen other people fly into a rage about trivial things; Mother Ysabeau, for instance, when a novice came in to ask her a question, interrupting the addition of a column of figures. It was said that he resented contradiction, as well he might, for he knew that all he said was true and could be proved; nor could she blame him for the words he had uttered against Gosvin, offensive though they were. It was part of his genius, and if we are to have genius we must put up with the consequences of genius, a thing that the world will never do; it wants geniuses but would like them just like other people; how stupid the world is, it never can understand. And she stood like one at bay, hating the world for its inability to appreciate Abélard, working herself up into a rage, saying: never is he praised for his kindness, his tolerance; yet these qualities were manifest no later than yesterday, when a student interrupted him in the middle of his lecture to ask him if the Iliad were not more beautiful than reasonable, by no means a stupid question; and that was why Abélard had been at pains to answer the student, to lay aside his own thoughts and apply himself to discovering an answer, which of course he did. And how well he explained that it was reason that gave us beauty; saying that the animals may have preferences, but can have no thought for beauty, for they have not the power to compare one thing with another. And he discovered this wonderful answer in the middle of his lecture, returning to his lecture, easily picking up the thread just where he had left it. How wonderful!

  She awoke suddenly though she had not been asleep, and her first thought on returning to herself (she seemed to have been absent for a long time, for how long she did not know — a few seconds or a few minutes) was to rue the time she had spent over the Latin poets; how much better it would have been if she had given half the time to the Greek philosophers. Plato was always in his mouth; he reverenced Aristotle, but Plato was almost a God in his eyes; and having acquired the right to ransack her uncle�
�s library as she pleased, she opened a closet and sought for the Timœus, and spent a couple of hours poring over it; but her mind was so distraught by the prospect of meeting Abélard in a few hours’ time in the Cathedral that she failed to fix her attention for long on any page of it. Aristotle is easier, she said, and returning the Timœus to its place, she took down the Categories, hoping that he would fall in with her mood better than Plato. But her attention wandered from Aristotle as it did from Plato, and she was soon thinking of another philosopher, one of whom she had heard Sister Josiane speak in the convent (Sister Josiane rarely spoke of anybody else), an Irishman who came to France three centuries ago; a petulant, irritable man of violent temper, afterwards killed by his pupils in England, who could bear his despotism no longer. Sister Josiane pressed this man’s writings upon all and sundry, and if she had hearkened to the Sister she would be better able to meet Abélard in the Cathedral and talk to him befittingly, but —— — Her thoughts seemed to fall into nothing, and she sat for a long while unaware of any thought, in a lethargy, a stupor, from which she awoke surprised to find herself in the company-room.

  CHAP. IX.

  SHE HAD NOT told Madelon from whom her letter came; she had refused to read it in front of her, afraid of her searching eyes, but Madelon never stopped till she knew everything; patient as a cat she watched and waited till she knew, but she never made any use of her knowledge. She can’t bear, Héloïse continued, to be ignorant of anything that is going on in the house, that is all, and uncle is often afraid to speak, walls having ears and speech too, for Madelon — How else is it that she knows next day what was said overnight in the study?... I’d like to get out of the house without her knowing it. And choosing the moment when she thought she might leave without encountering Madelon in the passage, and with all the streets well in her mind that she must take to avoid meeting the Canon on his way home from the Cathedral, Héloïse hurried on, a little vexed and anxious, for why, she said, did he give me a tryst so late in the evening? And why did he choose the Cathedral? It will be as black as night, maybe. But I shall miss him if I stand thinking; and she hurried on through the by-streets, arriving at the Cathedral without being stopped by anybody she knew.

  It’s blacker even than I thought for, she said, as she pushed through the swing doors; so black it was that she barely escaped falling over some penitents kneeling within the shadows of the first pillars, and as she advanced into the Cathedral she came upon other groups of penitents, all so immersed in God that they lay indifferent whether the passerby lost her feet or kept them; and indifferent to them as they to her, the girl sought her lover through the gloom of the pillars, peering and stopping to listen but not daring to call his name aloud. At last a voice spoke her name, setting her heart beating violently, for though she could not see the face she knew the voice was Abelard’s: it was good of you to come. Good of me? she repeated; but I wanted to come. If there was only a little light. And still picking their way through penitents, they moved up the church, guided by a rim of daylight high up in the roof. I was so glad to get your letter, she said. Tell me why you were glad to get my letter, he asked. You must know very well, she answered, for it is not difficult to guess; because I was ashamed of my conduct and afraid that you would think me a little fool. But I could not help myself, for what you said sounded to me like a prophecy, and it is one. Neither you nor your disciples laughed at me, did you, when you returned to the lecture hall from the cloister where you left me? Laughed! he said, and the accent of indignation that he put upon the word convinced her even more than his letter that she had done no more than to obey a fortunate impulse. You were so kind, so thoughtful, and you understood where many another would have failed to understand; but of course you understood, I am talking nonsense; you understand everything, even Héloïse, which is but natural, since you understand Plato and Aristotle. And then, encouraged by his eyes, which she could just see in the darkness, she began to tell him that as soon as she reached home the Canon asked her how it was she had brought no violets home from the woods: and I answered him that I hadn’t been to the woods but to the Cathedral; and after telling him about your lesson and giving as good an account of it as I was able (a very poor account of it, it is true, for it was all in a tangle in my head and I could not unravel it yesterday, not even as well as I could to-day), I put questions to him about you, and he told me all your story; how you had given up your lands to your brothers and sisters so that you might be free to wander the world over teaching; and the story seeming to me like some Old Testament story I was carried away by it, almost as I was by your own words. But did you tell him, Abélard asked, that you pressed through the pupils and disciples as I came down from the pulpit, and — ? No, she said; I did not tell him that I threw myself at your feet and kissed your hands, but afterwards I saw that I had done wrong in keeping back anything; I suppose I was ashamed to tell it, but I am ashamed no longer, I glory in it; for if one is not to give honour to the greatest philosopher in the world, perhaps the greatest of all time, to whom? But, she continued, after a pause, it fell out that I couldn’t tell him, for to-day — We shall be able to talk better in a side chapel, Abélard said, interrupting her, for penitents were moving about them, and though Héloïse spoke in a very low voice he was afraid that some part of their talk might reach other ears than his. Penitents, he said, are apt to forget their sins when there is anything to overhear; and taking her By the arm, he led her through the church. Not this way, she said; there is a side chapel where we shall be quite alone and where there is a little light; and as she was leading him to it she tried to continue her story, but he said: wait, for I shall be able to listen to you better in the side chapel. As soon as they were in it, he said: you were telling me that you were unable to tell your uncle — That I threw myself at your feet? Yes, she said; I intended to tell him this morning, but he was still in bed; and every morning I go to the market with Madelon, our servant — And when you returned, Abélard interjected, the Canon had left for the Cathedral? No; he did not leave till the afternoon, and I was reading in the company-room, waiting for him, but he left the house without my hearing him. But you told him on returning from my lecture that you had seen me? Yes, she answered; there was no reason why I shouldn’t tell him I had been to the cloister. No, there was no reason, Abélard said. But if you would not like me to tell him that you wrote to me and asked me to meet you in the Cathedral — I shall meet the Canon to-morrow or the next day, and think that my account — Would be better than mine, she interjected. Of course it would be. But how fortunate it was that I did not hear him leave the house, for if I had, I should have had to show him your letter and he would have stopped and talked to me, and perhaps would have come with me; and he and you would have talked together, and I should have been left out, listening to my uncle, who is often very talkative. You read Latin, he said, every evening together. Now who could have told you that? Alberic or Romuald, of course, who often come to my uncle’s house in the rue des Chantres. And they told me, too, he said, that you came last autumn from the Benedictine convent at Argenteuil, the favourite pupil of the nuns there, and that you are already known in Paris as la très sage Héloïse. The nuns have praised me to my uncle, and my uncle is proud of my learning, such as it is, but what is it compared to yours? Nothing at all. But I do love the Latin language, and am wondering why we are not talking it instead of the jargon, and why you asked me to meet you in the Cathedral?

  The Cathedral is very dark, he answered; and I have many enemies. Is that why we are talking jargon? she asked; because none would believe the story, if it were put about, that the great philosopher Abélard met the learned Héloïse in the Cathedral and held converse in jargon. But you must not speak of the French language as jargon, he answered; it was not until the last century that the language of the people, spoken only in the fields and in the market-places and on the high roads, but never written in, found its way into literature. Have you not heard of the Chanson de Roland? And a languag
e that has an epic poem written in it cannot be spoken of as jargon, the songs of France are all written in French. Have you not heard of the troubadours and trouvères? Héloïse answered that she had heard of the trouvères and the troubadours, but knew nothing of their songs, and Abélard continued to tell her of the progress of the French language: spoken today, he said, in all the castles of the nobles. But you speak it in the rue des Chantres. I speak it to Madelon, and Romuald and Alberic speak it when they come to the rue des Chantres, in the corners. But it is frowned upon by the canons who come to your house from Notre-Dame, Abélard replied. I forgot just now when I said that I had never heard a song in French; some of the students sing in French ——