by George Moore
Geoffrey, Gerard and Flamietta returned together, the Comte on horseback, Gerard and Flamietta in the coach — Geoffrey would hear of no other departure, and we all marvelled, Abélard said, as we saw them go away together, in our cynical humour believing that the friendship that had ripened so suddenly would drop as suddenly from its stalk. But did it? Héloïse asked. No; the three lived together happily ever afterwards, Abélard answered, and the quarrels rising, for quarrels rise among those who love each other, were settled amicably with skill and tact by Geoffrey; and his fame of peacemaker was extended from his own household to other households, till a proverb rose up in the country that bad beginnings make good ends. But how did it become known that Gerard de Montador had served once in Geoffrey’s kitchen so that he might see Flamietta’s beauty as it passed on the terrace? Alice, the maidservant, told the story, Abélard answered. And after the tournament at the castle of Chaudlieu, whither wentest thou, Abélard?
We wandered from castle to castle, meeting the same knights and ladies, hearing the same stories, singing the same songs, some new ones, of course; but the new ones had begun to seem to me like the old ones, and the Comte de Rodebœuf, a friend at first, began to seem like an enemy. He was not changed towards me, nor was I changed towards him, but my heart was not in all this singing and psaltery, and when the summer was at wane at the end of September, and our wandering not yet at an end, though the woods were red, my heart misgave me; but Rodebœuf would not hear of my departure, and being weak I followed him to his castle, arriving thither among autumn rains and a whirl of leaves. And the winter went by stringing lutes and playing them, writing songs and wondering which Margherita would like, Mathieu’s or mine, for he often sang mine to her when he liked mine better than his own. But though he liked mine better than his, he was sad when Margherita preferred them; she had a fine ear, and my musical turns of phrase were often less trite. We were always going back and forth, they coming to our castle and we going to theirs. It may have been that if Rodebœuf had left me more time for my own thoughts I might have forgotten philosophy and given my life to lute-playing and singing. A man’s fate hangs on a little thread. Margherita de Castel-Rousillon was Rodebœuf’s mistress? Héloïse interrupted. Yes, Abélard answered, and he was about to begin a story about her when Héloïse said: how quiet, how still the house seems. It would seem that we are alone in it, Abélard answered. We are indeed, Héloïse replied. Half-an-hour ago Madelon shut the door behind her, and my uncle is at vespers. At these words a strange disquiet fell upon them, and they stood looking at each other, each with a choking in the throat.
CHAP. XII.
AS THEY CROSSED the company-room towards the window Héloïse put her hand into his arm, and they stopped at the stair-top to listen. No one is in the house, he said; and that he might regale his eyes upon her womanly shapes afresh he asked her to loosen her girdle, and she, being without thought but obedience to him, did so, saying: do not look too closely at me, lest thou weary of seeing me. At which he laughed, and fell to talking of the beauty of many parts of her, till, overcome by a sudden reverence, he seized her hand and kissed it. Sing to me, she said, giving him the lute, and he sang his translation of one of the beautiful albes (dawn songs) of Provence, that one in which the lovers lie together in an orchard, the woman bemoaning the passing of the night, for the day will take her friend from her; her hope is that the watcher will perceive his mistake, and that the dawn is still afar; but she knows that this is not so, and cries: ah God, ah God, the dawn! it comes so soon. In each stanza a new phase of the night’s passing is narrated. The ousels singing in the meadows remind her again of the watcher and force from her the passionate cry: ah God, ah God, the dawn! it comes so soon. The air rises cool through the orchard ways, she drinks it, but it is not as sweet to her as her lover’s breath that only can assuage her thirst, and once more the cry breaks from her lips: ah God, ah God, the dawn! it comes so soon. The lover answers that his lady is fair and gentle and has won many hearts, but to one only is she true, to his heart, which now cries out the passionate cry: ah God, ah God, the dawn! it comes so soon.
The perfection of the poem, its words, its tune and the singing of it raised Héloïse’s truthful eyes, and she fixed them on her lover, who, singing softly in her ear, his breath fanning her cheek, moving the soft down on her neck, repeated the first stanza:
In the orchard and beneath a hawthorn-tree
The twain lie hand on hand and knee to knee
Until the watchman cries, the planets flee,
Ah God! ah God! the dawn! it comes so soon.
The troubadours have written many beautiful verses, he said, but none more perfect than this song. The orchards, she answered, were coming into flower when we met, beloved. The orchards are still in flower, and to-morrow we might be lying under the summer skies hand on hand and knee to knee, seeing the stars through the leaves and feeling the breeze grow colder as the night passes into dusk. Every morning the ousels are singing in the hawthorns, but we are not about to hear them. The season is passing; soon the ousels will cease to sing and we shall hearken to the cuckoo. Ah God, ah God, the season goes too soon. But the season is still with us. Abélard, if I had not met thee should I have lived out my youth and virginity and gone down into old age without knowing love? If thou hadst not come, should I have loved another? Thine eyes tell me that thou thinkest another would have satisfied me if I had not seen thee, yet it seems to me that thou wast always part of me, and if chance had not given thee to me all others would have seemed worthless. Abélard, thou art a great philosopher, yet these things thou durst not make plain. It cannot be that I could have loved another as I love thee, but thou hast loved often and loved much before thou sawest me. I love thee, Héloïse, and we must take the love that God gives us. If a boy loves a married woman he learns from her much that she would not have been able to teach him if she had not learnt from others, and he should be thankful to his predecessors — But I needed no teaching, Héloïse interrupted, for I knew love from the moment I saw thee. Thy name affrighted me when I first heard it, stirring a sense of fear in me. I remember it all now. But no, it was not fear, Abélard, but the ringing of my heart telling the destiny that awaited me. Is it true that I should have lived all my life without knowing what love is if I had not met thee? I wonder. Love is the singing string in a woman’s life. Hear it, Abélard, she said, taking the lute from him; that is my string; life would be like the lute without it. Should I have dreamed a love and been faithful to my dream, Abélard? Has such a thing never fallen out that a man should hide himself away from reality, almost spurn it, so that he might bring himself closer to his dream? Such a lover may have been, Héloïse, for love takes strange turns, weaving strange stories, making fools of men and heroes, too. But of such a lover I know naught, Abélard answered. Ah, there was one Godfrey Rudel, a true knight and a good singer of songs, sought after by ladies, but who denied himself to all for the sake of his dream. Did women seek him for his beauty, his art, or for his renown? Héloïse asked. And Abélard replied that Rudel was not ill-favoured, tall and slim, and walking with a stoop, deep in his dream, seeing his princess far away more clearly than the women about him. To win her love, he said, I must go to her pure; she would divine an impurity were I guilty of one, and would deem me unworthy of her love, as indeed I should be. With such answers he strove against those who would rob him of his purity, thereby humiliating the lustful and the capricious by his faith that her name would be made known to him in good time. And how came the announcement to him, tell me? Héloïse said. Through a bard from a far country, singing in a court of love of Idena of Rathmoule, who waited far for her lover in Ireland. At these words: Idena of Rathmoule, a light of dawn came into his face; he withdrew from the hall, and soon it began to be whispered throughout the assembly that tidings had come to Godfrey of his princess far away.
My good friends, I have sung my last song here, he said, when he returned; if I sing again it will be elsewhere. All asked
: but wilt thou not return? No, he answered, his voice touching a sort of ecstasy, I go to my fate. But why should not thy lady return with thee? he was asked. To this question he gave no answer, and walked henceforth by the harper’s side, hearing from him that Idena of Rathmoule lived in a castle by a lake in a forest, and that she always said that a song would come to her from over sea. Godfrey asked if Idena was wedded, and if there were singers in her own country to proclaim her beauty. The harper could make no answer, or would make none, but his silence made no change in Godfrey, who said to his friends: the time has come for me to bid you farewell. It was then that his friends saw that his eyes were hollow, without light, and they muttered: she has cast a spell upon him from afar, a sorceress she is who desires his death, not his life, whom he will not live to see. But though he melted on the voyage almost out of human shape, he reached the distant island alive, and on reaching it the harper was sent forth right to the lady’s castle to tell her that a knight from the far land of Provence had heard her name from O’Moran, the harper, and recognising her as his fate he had come to her without knowledge of how she would receive him, certain, however, that he was obeying the will of God. The lady stood elated by her luck, saying: God is good; He has sent me my dream lover; and at once the preparations for meeting him were begun. But these took a long time, Godfrey waiting anxious but growing feebler as the days went by, till at last it came to be doubted by himself and his physicians if he would live long enough to see Idena with his bodily eyes. But it was granted to him to see her as plainly with these eyes as he had seen her with the eyes of his soul. So thou hast come to me, he said, from thy western castle, beautiful as in the dream. And thou art the Godfrey I saw in my dream, she answered, for the dying Godfrey was hidden from her. Reality and dream had turned to one, and on being told that Godfrey was near to death, she fell upon her knees and prayed that his life might be spared. But there are bonds that cannot be loosened, and Godfrey’s turn had come. All life now, she said, has ended for me; and going to a nunnery, she lived in prayer and abstinence, dreaming always of their meeting in eternity, till she fell sick in her turn, and physicians assembled about her bed. To their grave words of warning, she answered: why all this sadness, for am I not going to him who is waiting for me? Of all my life this is the most joyful moment. Till the very last she continued to give instructions regarding the great tomb which the masons were still building for them. Abélard ceased speaking, and it was Héloïse who broke the pause that followed the narrative of the life and death of two great lovers: canst tell me if our destiny is as beautiful and as sad as theirs? Thou canst not tell, Abélard, though thou art a great philosopher. We are but blind mice, and philosophy does not help us in the straits of our lives. Thou dost not know whether if Godfrey had foreseen his death he would have sought it in Ireland or lived his life shabbily amid the vines and olives of Provence. Godfrey, said Abélard, would not have lived his life shabbily, for that is the sin against the Holy Ghost. Come what may, I should have gone to thee, Héloïse, and on these words a great silence fell between them, and when the silence became strained he broke the pause, saying that he did not know why they were not out and enjoying the sun. Héloïse answered: we are not sitting under the willows, lest we should be seen by the folk coming and going over the Great Bridge; I have often longed to go for walks with thee. And these words awakened the thought, never very far away from Abélard’s consideration, that sooner or later he would have to leave Fulbert’s house to take Orders.
To break this second silence, more irritating than the first, he spoke of the river so idly lapping itself to the sea, but in no hurry to reach it. A wise river truly, for the season is pleasant here, the air full of circling swallows. A happy month indeed they have had above the river. A long way above it, Héloïse said, for the swallows do not come down to the river till rain is nigh — And we have not had a shower for nearly two months, Abélard interrupted. Two months of summertime wearies us, for we are northern folk, and too much sun makes us unhappy. Our taste is for a few lovely days, and then one or two drenching rains to brighten the foliage and kill the flies. But we need not, said Abélard, fear the folk coming and going over the left bridge; the bridge is empty now. Moreover, why should we not walk together under the willows by the river’s edge? Let us go, she said; but bring thy lute with thee, Abélard, for I would have thee sing some more albes. But why sing albes in the evening? Abélard asked. I’ll bring the lute and will sing a beautiful serventes, and they descended the stairs into the street, talking of Bertram, one of the great singers of Provence, and she heard Abélard say that he would sing one of Bertram’s beautiful serventes to her, telling how France is to-day a land of song; how everywhere voices are singing praise of young leaves and flowers, singing like the birds, without thought that the world has risen out of winter, singing happily without knowledge. Then the cause of thy laying the lute aside, Héloïse answered, was the knowledge that there are many singers and but one philosopher. Abélard’s eyes smiled in recognition of the compliment, and he said: our winter was truly a long one, five hundred years, but man has begun to use his reason again and religion must conform to man’s new condition, and it is because religion must be serious (by serious I mean reasonable) that I laid aside the lute. But will the Church allow religion to be reasonable? she asked. It is to save the Church, he answered, that I sacrificed art for phlosophy. Sacrificed art for philosophy, she repeated; alas, was the sacrifice necessary? Will the world be as beautiful again as it was in Virgil’s time? It was in many ways more beautiful than ever it will be again, he answered, but we cannot go back, even if we would. Jesus was born and taught in Galilee. I know not how it is, Héloïse answered, but I never could take any interest in religion. Never take any interest in religion? he repeated, deeply concerned, for her words seemed to Abélard an avowal of her whole nature. And they did not speak again for a long time, and when they rose to their feet the stars were springing in the sky, and they wandered home feeling that the hour of love was approaching for them both. But suddenly, on their way home, Héloïse broke the silence: Abélard, I have forgotten to point out to thee the kingfisher’s nest; it is on the bank below us.
CHAP. XIII.
ABELARD, SHE SAID, one day, though she struggled against the words that overflowed her lips in spite of herself: Abélard, is it true that the time has not come to return to thy good friend philosophy? A question that at once set him telling her that his present bout of singing and lute-playing was in accordance with the general humour of the world; and failing to satisfy her that even the exception to the rule must return to the rule for fortification against eccentricity, he reminded her that for years his life was given over to work and nothing but work. Thou are my recompense for those patient years, he said. Héloïse found it hard not to accept this plea, but her heart misgave her. Abélard, she said, thou art the great philosopher the world has been waiting for; I would not rob the world of thy gift, even for my own pleasure and thine. Wouldst drive me away from thee into the schools again? No, Abélard, I would not, she answered; but it cannot be harmful to remind thee of thine own words. Hast thou not said many times that there is no advancement for a layman, and the meaning of this is that thy career is in the Church. Wouldst then, Héloïse, have me leave thee? Leave me? Héloïse answered.
I would not have thee leave me, but I would have thee a great man. But, Héloïse, thy love for me is not because I am a great philosopher? Answer me, Héloïse: if I had been a mere minstrel wouldst thou not have loved me? Abélard, a riddle thou art putting to me, for can I think of thee else than as a great philosopher? Was it not as a philosopher that I first saw thee? Was it not as a philosopher that I learnt to love thee? But, Héloïse, I should have loved thee as a peasant girl. I know naught of man’s love of woman, only how thou didst love me, Héloïse replied. How did I begin to love thee, Héloïse, and what prompted my love? I would hear the truth, for I have no knowledge of it. I only know that I love Héloïse. Thine eyes took pl
easure in me, though I am not as beautiful as many another; still I was made for thine eyes. So it is only through the eye that I love thee, Héloïse, and all thy learning counts for no part of my love? Abélard, thou are pleased that I can talk to thee about thy lectures and appreciate them, and I am glad that my Latin is learned enough to put thy manuscripts into closer accord with the ancient language. Am I saying too much, Abélard? Not enough, Héloïse; thy help is valuable; together we write Latin better than we write it singly. I fetch thee ideas and thou’rt apt with a turn of phrase more like Cicero and Seneca than any that I can devise without much thought. Always kindly towards me, she answered, and disposed to speak well of the humble help that I bring, if I bring any.’ But, Héloïse, he said, let us not forget the subject of this talk, that outside of the priesthood there is no advancement for a layman. Which wouldst thou prefer, for me to be renowned among men or to be thy faithful lover always? I would prefer thee to be great, for then I could watch and rejoice in thy triumphs. Thou art my triumph, which is not unnatural since I am a woman, a satellite. It is hard for me to believe that thou wouldst sacrifice thy love for a vanity, he answered. There would be no sacrifice, since my desire is to hear thee well spoken of in the world, she said. And would that be enough? Abélard asked; to live contented apart, hearing of my triumphs? And if there were no triumphs, wouldst thou cease to love me? Abélard, I cannot think of thee apart from triumphs. Thou hast given more thought to thy love than I have given to mine, he replied. The words: there is no advancement for a layman outside of the Church, may have been spoken by me, but if so they were spoken without application of them to myself. They were treasured up in my mind, and used to mould thy love of me, to shape it to an idea, that the man must be glorious for a woman to love him. But love is an end in itself and not a means to an end. Thy learning was but a condiment. I should have loved thee though I had found thee in ignorance of Virgil, Tibullus, Ovid, and the residue. I know not why I loved, nor how I loved, but abandoned myself to it, content that much might be well lost if one thing were won, thereby gaining reproof from thee, who said that my present lessons are but repetitions of former lessons. Thou makest the most of the argument, for argument is thy business and thy genius, Héloïse answered, but my heart tells me that I am right, that I am the lover and not thou. With the skill of the great dialectician thou wouldst have it that thy honour and glory are but the selfish ends that I seek. So our life may be argued about, for it is or may be but a passing phase of another life. Every moment of our lives, Abélard answered, is but a passing phase. We do but cheat each other, Héloïse returned; and as is common to a man, thou must lay the burden on me, for thou knowest well in thy heart, as I know in mine, that in giving thee to the priesthood I only give part of thee. Our separation need not be for long; a year at most. Wilt thou wait here for me in content, counting the days till I return to thee? And how soon after my ordination may I return to thee? Why not at once, Abélard? At once, Héloïse? Are priests not as other men? she said. Nature made man for woman and woman for man; Nature abides, dogmas and doctrines come and go. Thy words come to thee easily, Héloïse, as easily as tinkling from the bell. It is hard for me to associate thy words with thee, for what art thou but a child? But thou art always thyself, just as the bell is itself always. None taught thee to think. Thy thoughts do not rise out of books, but are natural to thee, and that is why they seem so wonderful to me, who have learnt to think out of books. A courageous nature is thine without alloy, speaking always out of itself. Héloïse, I shall always love thee, for thou art myself, an Abélard that might have been. Only in philosophy are we divided, for thou hast little taste for philosophy, yet thou wouldst have me a philosopher. To be a philosopher thou must be a priest, she replied. A priest, he answered; the words sound like a knell in my ear. I ask thee, she said, to be a priest, Abélard, so that I may retain my love always, it being all that I have in the world. Let it be so, Héloïse; a priest I will be, and will begin to-morrow to inquire out how my ordination shall be accomplished. To-morrow! Héloïse cried. See, thou art frightened already, he answered. No, I am not frightened, but I would not have thee leave me till thou hast been my lover wholly to the very end. I will come to thy couch to-night, Abélard, she said; and two hours later he was waiting for her, and she came into his room and lay down beside him, her face telling him that she had been weeping and had washed her tears away. They began afresh, and she clasped him voluptuously yet in sorrow, saying: dear, I am to lose thee, and so refuse all partial love from thee. But if thou shouldst find thyself in child? If that should be my fortune, she answered, I will bear it without complaint, for he will be thy child, and the suffering he will bring me of the flesh, and the shame, will help me to endure the sorrow of our separation. And this night, this night, thou shalt not break away from me, and thy seed shall flourish in me if God wills it so. I will have thee, Abélard, wholly, altogether, for I was born for thee and thou for me, with God’s forbearance and perchance his blessing. Before I yield myself I must have thy promise that our love shall be complete. Let me find God’s blessing in it, he said. She gave her mouth, and they lay a long while in each other’s arms, to lie again and again possessed of love of one another. Only now do we belong to each other, she said, all that went before was nothing. We have answered Nature’s bidding, he answered her, and it is as thou sayest, there is but one mutuality in Nature’s law, and as thou sayest, all that went before was nothing. But now that what had to be has been, we must be careful of our secret, for enemies are about, and until the Canon leaves the house we may not kiss. But we may sit together, she said, with books before us.
