by George Moore
And so the books were always open, and their eyes bent upon them when Fulbert came into the room. The sight of so much learning pleased him, and he left the room abruptly, afraid to stay longer, his presence proving an interruption in their studies. But once Fulbert returning suddenly to say something he had forgotten, Abélard seized the birch that hung upon the wall, saying: that passage thou hast translated many times always with the same faults. What! What! cried Fulbert, deceived. Always the same faults, said Abélard, and to continue in our faults deserves punishment; whereupon he struck Héloïse twice across her hands. But it were better to strike thee than that Fulbert should suspect us, and the greater hurt, he said, was in my heart, and the heart suffers more than the hands. He kissed her hands and her eyes, and hearing the front door close he took her in his arms. So, Abélard, no woman has pleased thee till I did? and he answered her that till he met her, music and philosophy had claimed him so fully that he had had no thought for life till now. From that day their passion for each other took new forms and refinements; to none did he find her loath. Yet there was a shadow on her happiness, for their desire of one another became so importunate that Abélard could not leave her to go to his school, and she watched the shadow darkening in his face and heard him say that the thought of his school was distasteful, and that he could not overcome his dislike of these lessons.
But thy lessons are thyself, Abélard, she answered, and thou wilt return to me with pleasure, excited by the separation. Have I not earned a holiday? he replied; and art not thou my holiday, Héloïse? But if thou wish it, I will leave thee; and to soothe the pain his words caused, he said: thou art right, I must go, and thine absence will increase my pleasure in seeing thee again. And when he returned and she said: didst speak with inspiration? he answered: no. I unrolled the scroll of memory and repeated the old lessons. But on my way hither, verses came into my head without being asked: love songs that are thou, songs that are I. Then sing to me, she said, picking the lute from the wall. She was the first to hear songs that would capture town after town, delighting all by the charm of the verses and the tunes that accompanied them — all except the disciples, who said in the school: music and poetry have captured our master; he is no longer a philosopher, but a trouvère. And Abelard, noticing his own estrangement from his scholars and disciples, began to think of his own honour and how he might escape from the false and painful position he found himself in, asking himself with what words he would answer Fulbert if the Canon were to surprise them one day in each other’s arms, or if the Canon were to give ear to the gossips who were already busy with their names. It is true, he said, that a man is blind to the evil within his doors and goes his way unaware of the vices of his children and his wife, the laughing-stock of the crowd. But what is known to all sooner or later cannot be hidden from the victim whom it most concerns, and one day Fulbert opened the door with a suddenness, almost a violence, that was unusual, and the lovers were afraid, for it seemed certain that the news of their love had reached his ears. Neither doubted that it was so when he said: Héloïse, I would speak to Abélard alone. I have some orders to give to Madelon, she answered, and left the room, assuming an air of indifference that was not lost upon Abélard.
Abélard, said Fulbert, the common talk about the Cathedral and in the town has been for some time that my niece is your mistress, but these lies have only just come to my ears, and I told him who brought them to me that he had been listening to liars. I am not mistaken in you? No, sir; you’re not mistaken, Abélard answered. Your niece is no more to me than a favourite pupil, which is as it should be, for I have never met such intelligence before as hers, and — Nothing of what is said is true, Abélard? Fulbert interjected. Nothing, sir. At his words the gloom lifted from the Canon’s face, and his voice became lighter. It was my duty to tell what is in every mouth, and it is my duty to tell her, too, though it would have been better that such stories did not reach her ears yet. They reach the ears of all sooner or later. But say once more, Abélard, it is not true. I put my faith in you. Our relations have always been what they should be, sir: those of an affectionate pupil to a devoted master. Give me your hand, Abélard. And holding the door, he called to Héloïse:
Héloïse, come to me. Abélard’s heart seemed to stop beating and he felt the colour die out of his face, for if Héloïse were to admit the truth — his thoughts did not carry him further than a vague sense of horror and shame — yes, uncle, I am coming. He heard her feet on the stairs, and a moment later she was in the room. My dear child, I have come to tell you of the wickedness that is being spoken in Paris to-day, about the Cathedral, and in the street corners and in the taverns; it is said everywhere that you are Abélard’s mistress. How did you answer the scandal-mongers? Héloïse asked, with an unchanging countenance. I answered them that they were liars, the Canon replied. He had intended to lay a trap for Héloïse so that he might get the truth, but the words revealed to Héloïse the knowledge that Abélard had denied the truth, and she answered: uncle, you did well to tell them they were liars. I am sorry there are people who would speak ill of a girl who has done them no harm. She has saved me, Abélard said to himself, and the Canon took his niece into his arms and kissed her. My heart told me it was not so. I did not suspect thee, dear, but hearing that such talk was about I had to come to you both; but you have lifted a great weight from me, and he turned aside to disguise his emotion. And when he thought he could speak without faltering, he said: it will be well, despite your innocence, that Abélard leave my house. Oh, uncle, Héloïse cried, must I lose my friend, my first friend, my only friend, because people speak evil? It is hard, Héloïse, but I do not see how Abélard can remain here. What do you say, Abélard? And Abélard answered: it will be better for me to withdraw. I shall lose a dear pupil, but, Héloïse, your uncle is right, I must leave, and now.
Héloïse turned to the window and picked up a book: never shall we read Virgil together again, and the Canon answered: now I will leave you; Abélard will tell thee that it is as I say, and he will be able to make plain better than I that his absence is necessary if an end is to be put to this evil talk.
They waited for the door to close, but when it closed Abélard did not take Héloïse in his arms for shame of the breaking of the trust that had been imposed upon him. But Héloïse, knowing only love, was thinking wildly of how the days would pass apart from Abélard. It is hard that we should be divided just as we have become used to each other’s thoughts and ways, and each needful to the other, she said; when thou art with me life is full, and when thou art away, empty as a desert. It cannot be, Abélard, that we shall not sit in that window-seat again arranging plans, plans in which I had a share; didst thou not say that I could help thee, and will it be that somebody else takes my place? Abélard did not answer, and they stood each a melancholy gazing-stock for the other. We must wait until the scandal dies, he said at last; now I must go. But why shouldst thou be the first to say: I must go? she cried. Do not make the parting worse than it is, Héloïse, he answered. Wouldst then that we should part, she replied, as if the parting were but a welcome diversion in our life? Héloïse, the strain is too great, I cannot bear it; my tears will flow if I strive to endure it longer. Only this I have strength to say, that this parting cannot be for long; for those who love as we do cannot be parted. We shall always be united in thought, and thought is a great magnet, Héloïse. I have often spoken to thee of reason, now I speak to thee of faith; good-bye.
CHAP. XIV.
IT MIGHT HAVE been better that we had confessed the truth, he said, as he sat alone in his old lodging, dreaming of Héloïse, unable to sleep, his mind torn by thoughts of his love and his duty towards Fulbert. Everything seemed crooked, and life was a greater load than he could bear, but he would have to bear it. The night went by and the dawn came, and he said: I shall have to prepare a lesson to-day and another lesson tomorrow whilst Héloïse is —— His thoughts died, and soon after, or long after, he awoke, asking himself of what he
had been thinking — his long absence — and then he fell to thinking of the last lesson he had given in the cloister, for it would not do to repeat what he had said a few days before: he must repeat something he had not said for many months. But he could only think of Héloïse, and suddenly the thought came upon him of the words she had used and the act that had followed. Her words were: I will have no partial love from thee, the risk is mine; and he fell to thinking how the Canon had burst in upon them, the questions he had put to them, and their denials. And while recalling those last moments in the rue des Chantres, he remembered that he had had no thought in the few minutes left them to take leave of each other to ask her to send him a message saying: the danger is past. Now if it should befall him to have gotten Héloïse with child, how would he help her, what would be the next step? A fortnight went by in fitful anxiety, and as the next week brought no news of her he welcomed the letter that Madelon brought to him, certain that it contained the good news. While reading it he became aware suddenly that Madelon’s eyes were upon him. She may be reading my face, he said to himself, and it might be well to cast the letter aside carelessly and so deceive her. He was about to do this when he read a few lines lower down: Madelon knows all and can be trusted. So the contents of this letter are not unknown to thee? he said, raising his eyes and looking her straight in the face. Héloïse tells me that we can trust thee. I hope indeed that I can be trusted to do all that I can to help her in her woman’s trouble. Poor damosel, whom I knew in her cradle and who has been ever since in my care, more or less. All the years she was at school at Argenteuil, I never let one pass without going to see her and bringing her cakes and fruit, and that is ever since her father was killed in Jerusalem after finding the spear that pierced good Jesus’s side. It is said that the spear is coming back — But, my good Madelon, we have to think how we have to save the good damosel. Yes, indeed we have, interrupted Madelon. For when the news reaches the Canon’s ears he will be beside himself, tearing at his hair and talking all kinds of wicked things of how he must be revenged upon you, good sir, and going out of his mind perhaps and drowning himself in the river, for the store that he puts on that child is more than anyone can tell. And what wilt thou be saying — what, Madelon? Of course I shall be saying whatever comes into my head — that none need know about the baby, and that everybody has babies, and it is the fault of nobody, for it is in the nature of things that the little lambs shall skip. Should I be far amiss in saying these things, sir? Thou hast thine own words and ways of saying things, Madelon. But our damosel asks me what she is to do, and I would know what thou hast said, and what advice given? I have told her, Madelon replied, that there is nothing for it but for us three to take the road to Brittany, for are we not all Bretons together, and coming from within a few miles of the same part? We three should take the road together, for the ride through the Orleans forest is a long one and full of danger in winter, the wolves being hungrier in the snow than in the sunshine. So if she is not to be frightened out of her wits with fear that the Canon should suspect anything, as well he might, for there are women that show the child in four months just as there are women who don’t show it until the eighth — I was like that myself, standing behind the tables so that the Canon shouldn’t see my belly, and should be loath that our little damosel should be put to the same strain as I was. The ride is a long one, and she is better able to bear it now than she will be in six months’ time. The floods in the Loire sweep the country in winter, picking up trees and steads as easily as wolves do lambs, even whole towns. Do I not know the Loire, having lived by it all my life till — but we won’t speak of that again. If we don’t start out on our journey now we shall have to ride the most of it, and the leagues are long between Tours and Nantes. It is true that your folk are nearer this way, but it is only a few miles between Nantes and Le Pallet; about ten or a dozen I am reckoning it. No more is it than that. So we may count it from Paris to Nantes a matter of three or four hundred leagues or thereabouts. Three weeks’ jogging on a pack-horse is neither good for a woman in the family way nor the baby. So methinks Héloïse cannot do better than to start at once, she and I together, for she will never find her way there alone. Nor would you, though I put much faith in thee, Madelon, Abélard said, faith in thy courage and truthfulness and common-sense to help you out of the difficulties you would meet on the way. But I must go with you, and we must start at once. Not at once, said Madelon, but in a week from now.
Why is that? asked Abélard. The Canon is going away to Soissons for a few days, Madelon replied, and won’t he be in a tantrum when he finds his niece, and with her his old servant, who has looked after him all her life, gone. But we will leave a letter for him telling the truth, for we might as well all three murder him as not to do this, for it would be the same thing. We will leave a letter, Abélard replied. And when does the Canon leave for Soissons? The first day of next week, on a Monday. On Tuesday morning I shall be waiting for you by the Little Bridge with the hackneys at daybreak, for none must know of our departure. I will come in a friar’s garb, and between this and then thou canst fit, cut and sew a nun’s habit for Héloïse; and thou must wear a habit. Two nuns and a friar we shall be riding towards Orléans on Tuesday morning. So be it, sir, and though I am leaving the Canon, who will be breaking his heart for me and his meals, it will be pleasant to be in charge of our damosel, going with her to our own country, for are we not, as I said before, sir, Bretons together? We are three Bretons, Abélard interjected, and on Tuesday morning we shall be riding towards our country. Thou hast much talk, Madelon, and whilst listening to thee I am thinking as well as listening, and it has come upon me that our ride to Orléans will be a slow one, for although thou hast ridden many a pony over the hills of Brittany, our damosel, as thou callest her, has never been astride, nor yet sat on a pillion. It will be slow indeed, sir, but our damosel being no more than seventeen will learn riding easily, for at that age the limbs are supple and soon fall to any labour that may be set upon them, whether jogging on a pillion or gripping a pony’s side with the knees. She will soon fall into it, but let the pony be a quiet one, a slow pony, one loath to move out of his walk. Even a walking pony can do ten miles a day, and the Canon will hear nothing of this for about three or four days, so we shall be in Orléans before he returns to his empty house. I am sorry for the good man, for he has been a good master to me and I am leaving him in a great trouble, and I had always looked to myself to be by his side to console him —— With such words, Abélard interrupted, as God’s little lambs will skip. Now thou art laughing at an old woman and her talk. But isn’t it true, sir, and it may well be that if you skipped with her it is because you did but a little skipping in your early days. Sooner or later we all skip, and myself is a token. One foggy night it was, and —— A story that will beguile our ride, Madelon. But now I would have thee return to Héloïse with the good news that if we do three leagues a day, we shall be in Orléans in five days from Tuesday. She will be a bit stiff after the first day but I will give her a hot bath and, as you say it, sir, we may reckon on being in Orléans the next week, not that I am much good at counting, but as an old woman makes it up on her fingers it will be about that. And twenty leagues takes a lot of catching up, and the Canon will not know which road we have taken, nor guess perchance our journey’s end.
