Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  It is I who am obliged to you, Canon Fulbert, and not you to me, Abélard answered, for hardly an hour of my life was my own in the house in which I lived, so besieged was it with pupils and disciples coming to me from all parts. But here I shall be free of trouble, and there will be time for me to put such poor knowledge as is mine at your niece’s disposal. Any help that I can be to your niece in her studies shall be given willingly. I have heard her well spoken of and it was a pleasure to me to see her in the cloister. She has told you of my lesson, no doubt? She mentioned it, Canon Fulbert answered, saying that everybody thought it was one of your greatest. It was interrupted by Gosvin of Douai, an impertinent fellow, Abélard replied, for the question he put to me was not worthy of a scholar. We have here a fair library of the Latin writers, Fulbert said, and taking his keys from his bag he went to the closet and showed his books to Abélard one by one, begging of him to handle them, saying: here is the Æneid that Héloïse has just finished reading, and the Georgies are here. Seneca is her last love, and before long she will be speaking of Medea to you. I give her into your charge, Pierre Abélard, a girl with much love of her books; an insurgent spirit, too, if last night be characteristic of her. We shall find that out. I give her into your charge and confer on you the right to punish her for her transgressions.

  CHAP. X.

  IT WAS DURING the third lesson that she sat, her eyes wide open, listening, now more than ever intent, for she had dared to confess her doubt to Abélard regarding the importance of the questions now agitating all minds: Nominalism and Realism; and having already learnt much in the preceding lessons, she was not without some knowledge of the answer he would make. He would say that the intellectual quarrel known as Nominalism and Realism led men towards the science of words, the greatest of all, for it was through words that men communicated their ideas one to the other, rising by means of words out of the almost animal to the reasonable state. But he never said anything twice in the same way; and, his eyes and voice compelling the belief of reciprocation in all that might befall them, the silence seemed to swoon about them. It was broken by the sound of lute strings in the street, and giving ear to the song she heard a bass voice troll out a slow, solemn plain-song. He sings too loud, Abélard cried; he overpowers the accompaniment. And flinging the window open, he thrust his head out. How intently he listens, she said to herself, and began to wonder how he could lay aside an important argument so easily for a song.

  After some eight bars, on the completion of the theme, the singer, the bass repeated it, answered by another voice starting a fourth higher with a whimsical set of variations, a rollicking reproof, so to speak, as if the baritone judged his comrade to be overstating his case. I told thee so long ago, but thou wouldst not listen, he seemed to be saying. Anon, a third voice starting again a fourth higher joined in, and the tenor’s phrase seemed to be intended to bring about a reconciliation between the bass and the baritone. Life is never so bad or so good as we think for, seemed to be the burden of his charming rigmarole, which he continued heedless of the lamentable tale that the bass continued to relate, deaf to objurgations and reproofs from the baritone. The piece of music ended here, and Héloïse and Abelard expected the minstrels to begin another. But as if relying upon the popularity of the piece they had just sung, or because it was especially asked for, it was sung again after a short interlude in which many other instruments joined with the lutes, an unhappy accident, however, marring the second performance of it, the baritone delaying to intervene with his counsel — an accident that was rectified by Abélard, who sang a new set of variations from the window. Héloïse was afraid that his entry into the concert might provoke a quarrel, but it was accepted cheerfully, and the minstrels sang other pieces, Abélard joining in several and winning applause from the crowd and the musicians themselves, who generously cheered the stranger while picking up the money that he threw to them.

  Have I then for a master a great singer as well as a great philosopher? Héloïse asked. And somewhat heedlessly Abélard answered her that it was many a year since he joined in troubadour minstrelsy. But a craft is never put aside altogether, it’s always on the watch for us, he said; and looking round the room, and spying a lute hanging on the wall, he went to it. It lacks some strings, but Fulbert must have some if he be a lutinist. Do not leave me, Abélard, to seek them, but tell me how it was that you could devise variations on a theme heard for the first time. Not a difficult thing, he replied, for the words and the music of the song are mine; and if my song pleased thee, let me sing thee another. But to sing I must have a lute. No, do not go, she cried, and her senses inflaming suddenly, her lips sought his, but the sound of footsteps parted their mouths in the middle of a violent kiss, and they fell perforce to a pretence of study, sitting without raising their eyes from their books, listening. Dost love me, Héloïse? Raising her face from her book, she answered: thou knowest well enough that I do, for thou knowest my heart better than I know it myself; and her truthful eyes set wide in her face were fixed upon him in an innocent yet searching gaze. O Pierre, I am very happy. If thou lovest me, I am happy; kiss me again and as before. Others have loved thee — it could not be else — many. But thou wilt love me and forget them? Yes, I will love thee, Héloïse, he cried. Wilt thou forget all and shall I have all thy love? My love is thine, he answered, present and future. Whereupon she lay upon his shoulder, her eyes half closed, saying: my uncle told me of the surrender of thy lands to thy kindred so that thou mightest be free to wander over France teaching the people. Is it a true story? It is a true story, Héloïse, he answered. I am glad, she murmured, for I would have thee as thou’rt in my mind, one that was called to a task. I always knew that my bent was philosophy — he began, but at that moment footsteps were heard again about the stair-head, and the lovers were at pains to gain their several seats in time to escape the notice of their visitor, who might be the Canon or Madelon. It was the Canon, and he almost stumbled into the room, talking thickly of minstrelsy in the streets disturbing scholarship. A thing which must not fall out again, for your lessons are — He stopped speaking and stood rooted, gazing at them, till they began to fear that their guilt was showing in their faces. Your lessons are, Master Abélard, priceless things in all Fransh; that is how I think; and your pupil, Master Abélard, how does she think? Proving herself to be worthy of your attention, is not that so? If not, Master Abélard, you must punish her. A little touch of the birch on our hinder parts... good for all of us, especially the young. A thing they know well in convents is the value of — a touch of birch about the buttocksh. Ishn’t tha’ sho, Master Abélard? Am I not right? Maybe the taste of it lingers in my niece’s mind or elsewhere, and maybe not, for good accounts of her always came from the convent; and good pupil wants no birching. But good pupil and good master need a tankard of good wine. The right of every Frenshman is good wine; and we are all Frensh here, thanks he to God, except Madelon, who is a Breton, but a good Breton; you hear me, don’t you? A good Breton. The Canon stood by the great table, a flagon in one hand, surveying the distance between him and the table at which Héloïse and Abélard were sitting in the window, doubtful of his legs, they were that which was drunkenest in him; so unloading the Canon of the flagon and of the tankards, Abélard took him by the arm and helped him to a seat by them, saying that the honour he craved was to pour out wine for a canon of Notre-Dame Cathedral. It is a greater honour, Fulbert replied, for canon to drink with philosopher than for... for... philosopher to drink with canon; to be sure it is, for there are more canons than philosophers; but there’s more difference between one canon and another than there is between philosophers, so it is hard to say — You ‘gree with me, don’t you? And understand me to say that there’s many feet between Abélard and any other philosopher, Champeaux, Roshlin — mice, says I, mice, mice! Mice get in everywhere, Philosopher Abélard, but great men have to climb up steeple on to vane, up yonder with Plato and Arishtotle, and to drink — An honour, my word! to drink with philosopher bi
gger than any Plato — a Realisht he was, or Arishtotle, who was Nominalisht more or less. Am I not right, Philosopher Abélard; am I not right, niece! A lucky girl thou’rt to have the greatest philosopher in the world to teach thee. A lucky girl, a lucky girl, Master Abélard. Let us drink to the health of ph’loshophers. She tells me you spoke of Buddha and Con... Con... Confucius, and afterwards of Plato and Aristotle, ending of course, for where should we end but at the end of the spire, the shummit, the top of all... And on these words the Canon’s head fell across the table.

  Had it not been for that last tankard we might have guided him to his room, Héloïse said, and bending down, she spoke into her uncle’s ear. Abélard lifted him a little, but he fell back, and there seemed to be no hope of pushing or carrying him across the room. I will fetch my cloak, Héloïse said, and place it for a pillow under his head. May I go with thee? Abélard asked. No; stay with my uncle. It might be well to wake up Madelon, she said, in a loud voice, adding in a whisper: he often rouses out of a stupor and gazes round the room wide awake. At these words Abelard’s face darkened. Have a care, Héloïse whispered to him as she escaped from him, for he may be watching us; and when she returned with her cloak she begged Abelard to lift the Canon from the table so that she might place it under his head. Abélard, I beseech you! she cried. May I not kiss thee before we part? he asked. Wouldst thou be parted from me for ever? she replied, but his passion inflamed her and she gave him her mouth. But the nectar of thy tongue — he cried. Nectar! the Canon said, lifting his head from Héloïse’s cloak; a fig for all the nectar in Olympus. Give me wine. He gazed round, seeing nothing, and the lovers ran to their different beds. But he may be roused, Abélard muttered, returning. As well try to lift a mountain, he said, and allowed the Canon to fall back over the table. Not a particle of hope, he sighed, and returned to his bed to fall asleep suddenly. How was it that sleep came so quickly? he asked himself, when his eyes opened. And what awakened me? The birds on the sill, the dog in the street? And considering the question, he lay between sleeping and waking till he remembered that the drunken often rouse at dawn and stagger to their beds. If he has roused a bit, I may be able to lead him to his bed. But no such luck awaited his eyes; the Canon lay where they had left him, snoring among the tankards. Abélard bethought himself of a wet towel, but it failed to rouse Fulbert for more than a few seconds, and he returned to his bed, to awaken later to the sound of lute strings. And after listening, he said: somebody is stringing, or striving to string, a lute, and as he opened his door the Canon came into sight sitting on a stool, one leg tucked under him, the lute on his knee, seemingly too drunk to find the right pegs, and as he turned wrong ones a string snapped. The devil has got hold of the world by the leg or by the cat’s gut, he muttered, and was about to throw the lute aside when Abélard came forward to point out that the gut was not so much to blame as the Canon seemed to think, for it had had the grace to break close to the bridge. If you will allow me, sir, and taking the lute out of the Canon’s hands, he retied the string and began to tune it, singing the required note, finding it first in his mind, afterwards on the string. A fine ear, the Canon said, it is that remembers the pitch all this while away from music. But who broke the strings? They were but five when I awoke, so I went to my drawer where I keep them, and broke one myself; quite true, Master Abelard, that I broke the string, but the other strings? Maybe I broke them too, he muttered, as he refilled his tankard. The poison of yesterday is the remedy of to-day, he said, and seemed annoyed when Abélard began to plead that he must finish his dressing. But who will tune the lute? Abélard heard the Canon ask, and a minute after he heard another string snap. I hope he hasn’t broken the lute, he said, as he pulled on his hose; for it is a beautiful instrument. And so heedful of it was he that he started from his room to see. The Canon was gone, and picking up the lute that had been recklessly thrown aside, he examined it. He has broken all the strings but two, he said, laying it down, but the lute is safe: delicate as an egg-shell, he said, as he hung it up. And meeting with Madelon at the foot of the stairs, he learnt from her that the Canon was lying down after drinking much cold water. Maybe there is as much water in his belly as wine, she said, and busied herself setting food before Abélard, who ate in silence, exchanging no words with her till he rose from the table saying: when my pupil Héloïse comes from her room, tell her that I have gone down to the river for meditation. I will tell her, Madelon answered, but am I to say that she is to join you, master? Yes, he answered; and with the intention of preparing a discourse, he bethought himself of the warmth and sweetness of the morning: enlivened, he said, with a gentle breeze laden with a faint fragrance of daffodils; and pacing a pathway chequered with the pattern of budding branches, he tried to pick out a subject from among the many he had stored away in his mind. But the almost inaudible gurgle of the river distracted his thoughts from his search of a subject to Héloïse herself, who was truly a wonderful child, a surprising being, more surprising now than the day she threw herself at his feet, and more surprising last night than she was when she kissed his hands in public; those kisses revealed an exalted soul, but last night’s kisses an almost barbaric passion quite unforeseen, and he pondered on the sting of lips so innocently red. An innocent kiss, in spite of its sting, he said; for Nature spoke through her lips, and with, he reflected, a very delightful accent.

  It was pleasant to sit recalling her pale brown curling hair, wound so gracefully into a knot above the nape, the pale grey eyes that seemed out of keeping with the rest of her personality; and he fell to thinking that to find so much passion in a child was strange, almost unnatural, and then his thoughts took a different turn, and passing from her mind to her body, he remembered how shapely she was (or seemed to be) under her gown. Her breasts would have been in his hands last night had it not been for that drunken uncle, and his thoughts going still deeper, he said: more child than woman, more woman than child. Which is it? he asked himself; and his imagination taking fire, he began to dream of the perfect shapes he would one day find under her nightgown, and then to think how a mere accident may rob a man of his pleasure. But the memory of her kiss reassured him, and he applied himself once more to the task of trying to discover a subject for discourse in the Cathedral that afternoon. But his thoughts were soon back rifling her body, and the words that they would exchange as they lay side by side, the ecstasy and the turmoil of the senses, the ebbing of desire and the recovery of it again....

  But why does she not come, he said, to meet me, instead of leaving me to lose my day in arid meditation? And singing a provincial air, he returned to the rue des Chantres, arriving in time to hear Madelon bringing the dinner from the kitchen, and the Canon talking of the great discourse that they would hear during the afternoon in the cloister. The different dishes were pressed upon Abelard, and he was asked if he had met an inspiration under the willows. The murmur of the Seine irritates instead of soothing, and my discourse to-day will be a failure, Abélard answered. The Canon refused to believe that such a thing could happen. All the same, Abélard’s presentiments of a failure in the cloister were fulfilled, the Nominalists agreeing among themselves that the day was not one for a public argument between Abélard and Champeaux, nor Abélard and Anselm. Nor even between Abélard and Gosvin, cried a severer critic, as he left the Cathedral. These criticisms would not have added anything to Abélard’s perceptions of his failure if they had reached his ears. No, do not flatter me; to-day I was stirring up old memories, skimming the froth as it came to the surface — And he broke away almost abruptly, leaving his friends wondering, asking each other what offence they had been guilty of, never guessing that his head was filled with songs and lute accompaniments and that he must talk with his ancient comrades if only for an hour, and breathe again the air of a tavern in the rue le Pet du Diable. Likely enough, I shall find those of yester night, he said, as he pushed open the door, singing one of his own songs. But who is he that sings without a lute? An old comrade, he answered, and he c
laimed their company, telling that when they last sang in the rue des Chantres he had joined in from a window, singing a new set of variations over his own theme. So they drank and sang together and told each other stories till the day waned, until it came upon one of the lutinists to say: why not sing thy song again under the window of thy lady-love? But now I am a philosopher, Abélard answered, and the lutinists said: we will give thee a cloak and a lute and thou wilt sing this time the melody itself and we the variations. Abélard replied: be it so, and disguised as a gleeman, he repaired with them to Canon Fulbert’s house, where his singing and lute-playing soon gathered a multitude ready to pay for their pleasure and, inadvertently, to keep the Canon waiting for his supper.

  This is the end of taking in lodgers, to be kept waiting for supper half-an-hour beyond the time, the Canon fumed, unable to give ear to the music. Uncle, Abélard is among the crowd perhaps, listening to the singing, and will return as soon as it is ended; nor must we believe that the pie is spoilt because Madelon fusses. But my belly, the Canon said, does not fuss without reason; and that man keeps it waiting. The bells have rung the seventh hour and will ring the half-hour presently; yet he keeps me waiting. Whosoever takes in a lodger regrets it. He puts me past my patience. But a lodger to whom students from all countries come should enable you to extend your patience. It does not, Héloïse, and if Abélard again keeps me waiting for my supper — You will take him to the door, uncle, Héloïse interrupted, and tell him never to return again, and be sorry for your impatience afterwards. Now listen, the Canon said, are those street singers here again? And going to the window, uncle and niece listened to the song the bass had sung yester evening under the window, now sung by the baritone. Abélard’s voice, Héloïse said to herself, and her heart was delightfully flattered that Abélard should come and sing under the window disguised as a gleeman. He has borrowed a hat and cloak, and is singing for me. A beautiful voice, said the Canon, which I should enjoy more if Abélard were not driving my belly to the uttermost of its strength; a rich baritone, soft as velvet, and not raised beyond the range of the voice. I hate a baritone that sings beyond his range. Hush, uncle, for I would listen to the end of the piece. And I would listen too, the Canon replied, were I not thinking of the excellent hard-boiled eggs that that crust contains, and the wine whose fragrance is so mocking to the nose — O uncle, let me listen.