Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  But these songs are frowned upon? Abélard interjected. Yes, just so, she answered. The Church would have Latin spoken by everybody except the working folk, he replied; for the Church wishes the world to remain in ignorance, reserving learning to itself, as its exclusive possession; a mistaken view, for in spite of the Church the jargon, as the ecclesiastics are apt to call it, has become the language of music, and poetry and music and the arts, I have often thought, are as powerful as dialectics. We have therefore art and reason on our side; and the Church will not prevail against us in the end, though the end be far distant. But why, then, asked Héloïse, do you not lecture in French? I should be understood, he answered, only by a handful, for the French spoken in one district is not exactly the same as in another; the language is in the process of formation, and Latin will dominate the lecture-room for many a year to come. But the language of the future is the French language; even the ecclesiastics are obliged to speak it when they call assemblies to urge the people to enlist in Raymond’s army, and the welcome given to Pope Urban was really given to the French language. I will never speak of the jargon again, but always of the French language, Héloïse said, half to herself, half to Abélard. An awkward silence fell between them, and at every moment it became more acute and intense, till it seemed impossible to break it. You asked me to attend your lectures, Héloïse said at last. And you will come, he interjected, his speech returning to him suddenly. She asked him when he would lecture again, and he answered: not till the end of the week. I am lecturing to-morrow and the next day at Ste. Genevieve; but I am afraid I shall never be able to please you again as I did yesterday. Why do you say that? You will. Each time I shall be delighted more than the last, for I shall understand you better, she replied.

  He would have liked to have kept her thoughts on himself, and to have spoken to her about herself, but his vanity intervened; and wishing to hear what part of his lecture appealed to her more than any other part, he said: you, who were so deeply moved by my lecture on Faith and Reason, may be able to tell me what part of it you liked best; general statements are good; one should begin by liking the whole, but the Nominalists, and we are all Nominalists to-day, believe that it is only through the parts that we have knowledge of the whole.

  You would not have me, a schoolgirl from Argenteuil, advance my reason against yours, master? Not against, he replied; but without repudiating any part you can tell which struck your imagination. Tell me, for to hear will be a help to me. I liked it all, she answered, but the piercing was when you said: it has come to pass that within the last century a new science has been given to us whereby the whole world may be won to Christianity, for then I could barely restrain myself from calling out to you 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. I remember the play, he replied, though it is many years since I read it. She gathered from his tone that he did not like the play or had forgotten it partially, and she did not feel certain that she had done well to mention it. After thinking a while, he said, Jason goes in search of the Golden Fleece and brings back Medea. In a galley, she cried, with Orpheus singing at the prow. A wonderful story, but not more wonderful than your own, which I heard last night from my uncle, all of it except the years when, after confounding Champeaux, you fell ill and went away nobody knows whither. Did your uncle not hazard a guess? Abélard asked, and Héloïse answered that her uncle spoke of England and Germany; England especially, where he said you met Roscelin. And in which country do you think I spent those years? I like to think, she said, that you went in search of the Golden Fleece and found a Medea to help you, for without Medea Jason would not have captured the Fleece from the dragon that was set to watch over it; it was Medea’s mother, the great sorceress, who gave the poison that Jason threw into the dragon’s jaws. So you think that a man cannot conquer unless he has a woman to help him? Abélard asked, and Héloïse, feeling that the question was directed against her, was loath to answer; but her courage came to the rescue, and she replied that it was so in Jason’s story and likewise in St. Paul’s; for it might have fared ill with Paul if he had not met Eunice at Derbe, she said, who, with her mother, carried him and Barnabas to their house after the populace stoned the Apostles, and kept them there for many months. And did not Eunice, she asked, go to hear Paul preach and was converted by him? And did not Paul circumcise Timothy, lest an uncircumcised man should give offence to the Jews, who were in great numbers? And you will not deny, Abélard, that Eunice gave her son Timothy to Paul to accompany him on all his wanderings, even to Rome; nor was Eunice the only woman in Paul’s life, for when he was in great straits for money, did not Lydia, the dyer of purple in Philippi, come to hear him and was converted as Eunice was, and like Eunice, did she not take him to her house? And so it seems to me strange, Abélard, that in all your wanderings you met neither a Eunice nor a Lydia. For you not to have met either puts the doubt on my mind that the women of those days were greater than the women of these, for I can imagine no greater glory for a woman than to be a man’s partner in a high enterprise, such as yours is; to carry the faith of Christianity over the world by means of reason, which has not yet been put to the service of Christianity; for that, in my simple way, is how I understand your lesson.

  You speak well, Héloïse, very well indeed for a schoolgirl from Argenteuil, and do credit to the nuns that taught you and to the uncle with whom you live; you apprehend my lesson better than another and are from this day my favourite pupil. Other examples of men who owe their fortunes to women might be given. It is true that Æneas left Dido behind to go away to Italy to accomplish the will of the Gods. And you, Abélard, she said, were like Æneas, who left your Medea on the shores of England maybe? There was no Medea, he answered; I fought my battle alone. And it was on his lips to tell that his battle was only just begun and that a woman might come to his aid to win it, but it seemed to him out of keeping to speak words which would certainly be misunderstood; and his mien becoming graver, he said: I wish I had thought of Seneca’s words, they would have given additional point to my lecture; for Tiphys was a prophet though there be no new worlds for our ships to discover. The world within us has been enlarged, horizons have been thrown back; and when you return to my lessons you will understand that I always try to exhibit the genius of the Latin poets, for it is part of my teaching that wisdom was not invented yesterday. All my quotations from Seneca and Lucan are made with a view to showing that antiquity was aware that righteousness springs from within and not from without. The spring never runs dry — not altogether. It flows in him who pleads that faith may not divorce reason, as it did in Seneca when he taught that a right action should be performed independently of any desire to please the Gods. And you will remember that Cato declined to consult the Oracles when he went to Africa to defend the republic against Cæsar, saying that he knew what was right and that advice from an Oracle was not needed. The spring was in humanity always; stones were thrown into the spring-head and the spring was closed for a time, but never for long. The history of mankind might be reckoned by the opening and closing of the spring. A thousand years ago Our Lord Jesus released the spring again, and new life was given to the world by it, and at the end of another thousand years the spring is again open. All may drink and be refreshed, and all may hope, for the science of dialectics has been returned to us, the science of reason, he said; and out of this science be began to build a world of dreams, in which faith and reason would walk hand in hand, a wedded couple, two mighty forces that together would rescue the world from evil. Which, dear child, would disappear were we not loath to use our reason; why we should be afraid of reason it is hard to say, for it is the quality above all others that divides humanity from animality.

  Héloïse listened, ravished by the voice that came to her out of the darkness, by the sound of the voice, by the ideas, or by both, she did not know, for she heard him as one hears in a d
ream; and the awakening was painful, though his words — that he could not talk to her any longer without seeing her — were a compliment to her. Let us go into the cloister where we can see each other; nobody comes to the cloister at this hour. And it was hand in hand that they picked their way once more through the groups of penitents, finding their way almost instinctively to the cloister where their eyes could distinguish the cherry bloom and the figure of Ste. Geneviève showing through the dusk of the quadrangle, and when she looked up in his face he was pleased to see in her a woman that appealed to his passion as much as to his reason. For though by no means beautiful, he said to himself, she is better, for she is to my taste, and forgetful of Faith and Reason, he thought how her figure might be: delicate and subtly made, he said to himself, without harsh angles; and he was near to taking her in his arms, so ardently did her ruddy complexion and her brown silky hair appeal to his senses; and he admired the thick braids wound above the nape. A neck, he said, that carries the head as a stem carries its flower. And she too was satisfied with what her gaze gave back to her, for she read a fixity of purpose and an idea in his brow, and she could not doubt but that he bore the mark of a high destiny.

  So you spend your evenings with your uncle reading Seneca? he said, and she answered: I read Seneca in the morning when he goes to the Cathedral; in the evening I read Tibullus, for my uncle took Cicero from me; he wanted to read the Academics again. So you read Cicero, Abélard replied. I have only read the Academics, she interjected, and that being a work that Abelard did not know even as well as he knew the Medea, he asked her to tell him the plan of the work; and when he had gathered from her that the plan of the Academics was to set one inference against another, he said: a most earnest work it must be from your description of it, one to which I must give my attention at once. His mien becoming graver at that moment, she inquired: of what are you thinking, master? A thought has just come to me, he replied, that a book might be written in which the inferences of the Fathers might be set one against the other, as Cicero set the inferences of the philosophers. I shall read the Academics before I see you again, and do you look into them too, if you can get the book from your uncle. But shall I see you again, or will you forget me? she asked, looking up into his face. A man does not forget a girl — but I must not pay you compliments, else you will say that I am laughing at you. Within the next few days you shall hear from me.

  Within the next few days I shall hear from him, Héloïse repeated, as she picked her way through the rue des Chantres, thinking of the Academics. Where is the Canon? she asked Madelon, who opened the door. Asleep in the company-room, Madelon answered. And where hast thou been? Héloïse did not find a prompt answer, and Madelon returned to her kitchen saying: there is a lover or a liker about. And next morning she marvelled greatly at the assiduity with which Héloïse sat poring over her book, for as soon as the Canon left the house she was immersed in Cicero, forgetful of all things except to obtain Abélard’s approval, committing some pages to memory, and going to meet him in the Cathedral on the third day, certain that she would be able to answer all his questions. She expected certain questions, and was eager to speak her answers to them, but Abélard seemed to have forgotten Cicero and was much concerned to know why she had not been to the cloister to hear his lesson yesterday. I am not ashamed, she answered, of what I did, but much as I would have liked to have gone to hear you, shyness prevented me; I was afraid of the eyes of Alberic and Romuald and others. Do you know, it is a pity that I yielded to that impulse. It’s always a pity, he answered, to take the world into our confidence, but if it hadn’t been for that impulse we might never have known each other. But we should, living in Paris together, she answered; we could not have gone missing each other for long, unless indeed you left Paris again to hide yourself from everybody. My dear Héloïse, he said suddenly, this is the last time we shall meet in the Cathedral. You speak, she cried, as if you were bringing me welcome news. I hope that my news will seem welcome when you have heard it, he answered; and he told her that he had heard from a common friend that the Canon desired to make his acquaintance. Nothing will give me greater pleasure, was my message to the Canon; and on the following day it was our lot to come upon each other on the steps of the Cathedral. If our friend were here now he might make us known to each other, I said, addressing him, at which we laughed heartily and fell into pleasant talk. A pleasant man is Canon Fulbert. There is no need for dismay, Héloïse, but for rejoicing rather. At parting I happened to speak of the difficulty of preparing my lessons, so noisy was my lodging. Whereupon the Canon, who, by repute, loves money dearly, told me that a great part of his house was unoccupied. Come and see it, he said, and if it pleases you to share it with us —

  We shall see each other every day, she cried. We shall assuredly; and I shall be your private tutor, for I mentioned that much time remained on my hands after preparing my lessons, leading him to ask me to give you some of my spare time; at which request I made pause. But will you, master? He wishes for your advancement in learning as much as he does for the money I shall pay him, and lest I should prejudice my good fortune (for a pupil like you is indeed a great good fortune), we must part now. It would not be well that we should be seen together. Do not speak to your uncle of these two visits. But I have told him of the lecture, master. Did I do wrong? No; for it is well to be truthful about what cannot be withheld from our enemies, and mine are many, and my reasons for giving you a tryst here would be difficult to explain away; so you will not speak of these meetings to anybody. We shall meet as strangers to-morrow — Not as strangers, Héloïse, for we have never been strangers. It seems, he said, that I have had you in my mind always. And I have always been striving after you, master, unwittingly striving.

  After parting with her, Abélard called Héloïse back to ask her if she had a story to tell that would explain her absence. She had none in her mind, but did not think she would be asked questions. Madelon will not betray us, she answered, and returned in the hope that no questions would be put to her. The Canon is very angry, were Madelon’s words, whispered quickly in her ear as she crossed the threshold. Go to him at once and tell him a good story of the fields and posies. Then Madelon knows, Héloïse said to herself, as she crossed the living-room. At her footsteps the Canon flung open his door, and unable to restrain his words he walked about the room, his large nose more than usually prominent, saying that he had not foreseen such folly as her venturing out in the evening, exposing herself to all dangers. But of the dangers you speak, uncle, I have no knowledge. On these words he cut her short, asking her where she had been; and hardly waiting for an answer, he stormed on again, and it would have been better, perhaps, if she had not attempted to tell him that she had walked under the willow-trees to hear the nightingale singing, for it was there that many robberies had been committed. But, uncle, why so much ado? So much ado! he cried, and possessed of a sudden idea, he turned: go at once to thy bed, child, and without any supper. May I not take the Academics of Cicero with me? No, he answered; an unmerited return is thy disobedience. But you never told me, uncle —— Little thou knowest of the means I have been seeking for the completion of thine education. And Héloïse, shocked at his anger and at the deception she had been led into, went to her room ashamed at what had befallen her, finding excuses for her uncle’s anger but none for herself, till Madelon told her next morning that the Canon had locked up all the manuscripts before going to the Cathedral.

  She began to feel that though she had done wrong her uncle was not free from blame. So I cannot even be trusted with a book, she said; willing to admit that her uncle was within his rights to send her supperless to bed for having left the house in the evening, but what she could not admit was his taking her books from her; for what reason? That she had left the house in the evening without asking leave was no reason. But after all, it didn’t matter; Abélard was coming to live with them and then he couldn’t forbid her his books. The Canon is on the stairs, Madelon cried, and Héloïse
’s face lighted up, for another step caught her ears. It is Abelard’s, she said to herself. Pierre Abelard, this is my niece, of whom you have heard, the learned Héloïse of the convent of Argenteuil, the best Latin scholar they have ever had, which I will guarantee her to be. She reads and writes Latin and speaks it as well as any of us in the Cathedral. Now, my dear child, let us forget last night. Héloïse did not answer, and turning again to Abélard, he said: at nine o’clock she was under the willows listening to the nightingale, a place where footpads and dangerous characters loiter, and now she is sour because I sent her to bed supperless. Héloïse, it was for thy good that I spoke angrily to thee. My words are often harsher than my heart. Now wilt thou hear the good news that I have brought? Harken: — Abélard, the great Pierre Abélard, the renowned philosopher, has done us the honour to accept a lodging with us, and he hopes that this quiet house, for we are quiet here, will enable him to finish a work which will be of great value to the world, and it is for thee to profit by this great chance of getting instruction from him. It is indeed, Abélard, a great good fortune to myself and to my niece that you are able and willing to come and live with us.