by George Moore
CHAP. XV.
ON THE DAY appointed Abélard was at the Little Bridge an hour before dawn, watching the stars, wondering how long it would be before they began to pale, rise higher and vanish out of sight. The watchman’s voice crying the third hour told him that his hopes would not be fulfilled for yet half-an-hour. He must have dozed in the saddle, for he remembered nothing after the watchman’s cry till, rousing his drooping head, he saw the towers of Notre-Dame showing above the murk in which the city lay buried and was inspired to think of the coming day as rising out of the night like a phantom, grey and empty, unreal, almost vindictive; soundless, too, he added; for the owls are back in their tower, the fox has gone to ground; not a chitter in the jasmine; and we shall be far away in the country before the daws come out of the hollow boles.
But why am I astride of the mare, wearying her with my weight? he asked, and dismounting, he stood in admiration of the strength of his young chestnut mare: well worth the money I paid for her, he said, five or six years old, of great girth and up to almost any weight. Then his eyes falling on the tufty fetlocks, he remarked: how short she is from the fetlock to the knee, with chest and shoulders like a bull; a pretty head, a winning countenance starred white. He liked to hear her whinny when he approached with the nosebag, and to see her fling it from side to side in her greediness when it was strapped behind her ears. A good feeder, he said; a little long in the body, but finer quarters and hocks would be sought for in vain. His eyes turned to the two grey hackneys, and he saw in them good roadsters, sound in wind and limb, who will, he said, take us to Orléans without a breakdown. We needn’t press them, for Héloïse will not be able to ride more than four leagues a day; Madelon, perhaps, for she was used to riding in her childhood. Four leagues the first day, three the second; on the third we shall have to rest longer. After that, riding will come easier to Héloïse.
The horses continued to feed, and when the watchman cried the fourth hour Abélard looked across the bridge into the dusk, and seeing two figures in black hurrying towards him he began to unbuckle the nose-straps. Are we late? said Madelon. I was here before daybreak, Abélard replied, and that was about three-quarters of an hour ago, maybe an hour, but the horses are now baited and ready for the long march that lies before us. As he spoke these words, he overlooked his travelling companions, admiring their garb, the long Benedictine habits that would allow them to pass for nuns; himself in the surcoat and hat he wore would be taken for a friar — a friar conducting two nuns from convent to convent we shall be to all eyes. I will pull up the girths a hole tighter, he said, turning to Héloïse, for I do not want thee to find thyself under the horse’s belly. Find myself under the horse’s belly! Héloïse cried. Master Abélard, such talk is likely to frighten one who has never been on a horse, as you should well know, and Abélard answered Madelon that he had spoken thoughtlessly (indulging himself in a joke), for there was no danger of such a thing coming to pass. For, you see, he said, turning to Héloïse, the pillion is attached by a strap going under the horse’s tail and by another strap round his neck. And the talk turning on the greater fatigue it was to a horse to carry a woman sitting sideways than to carry one astride, it behoved Madelon to speak of her habit to ride astride. But thou art a nun for the time being, Madelon, and the religious should never be seen astride; it is not befitting them, who are taught to keep their legs always in one stocking. Come, let me lift thee on to the pillion and strap thee into it, Héloïse. Hoist Madelon first, she said. Madelon caught at the bridle like one who knew how to use it, and Abélard turned to Héloïse, who quivered with the wind or with alarm, she knew not which, asking why the horse whinnied, and why he laid back his ears. Now if he should run away, what am I to do? He told her that that was not possible. For thou’lt ride between us, and there will be two leading reins on thy bridle; one will be in my hand, the other in Madelon’s, and little by little thou’lt learn how to turn the horse to the left or to the right, to rein him in and to urge him forward. But I am foretelling the fortunes that await thee a week hence. Be not afraid, and of all believe that I did not bring thee out of Paris to lose a life that I hold more precious than mine own. His words heartened her; and she felt that she could confide herself in all such things to Abélard, but even so, it was hard to be calm, for if the horse did not put back his ears he whinnied; a rabbit darting suddenly across the path awoke him from his dream, and uttering what seemed to Héloïse like a frightful snort, he jostled to the right, once almost overthrowing the horse that Madelon rode. He chooses to bump Madelon’s horse, Héloïse said, because he is smaller and thinks he can overthrow him; he never bumps to the left, for thy horse is too big to be upset, and he looks upon every heap of stones as an enemy. Abélard answered that it might be well for her to change horses with Madelon, for a stumbling horse is tiresome to ride. But he wished to get away from Paris quickly, so nothing more was said about changing horses; and the little cavalcade rode on in silence, the world unfolding field after field unperceived, Abélard’s eyes being always on Héloïse’s horse, watchful lest the awkward animal should trip and unseat her, and it was not till the first timid ray struck across the roadway, revealing in its passage some budding larches at the corner of the brown wood, that his eyes were diverted from his charge to their spires, whose traceries, he said, show delicate as the groined roofs of the new cathedrals — his meaning not being plain to Héloïse till an hour after, when an old Romanesque church, lying low, almost squat, served him for an illustration, and he made it plain to her that the round arch was superseded by the pointed; for it allowed the builders to build higher, to raise their roofs to over a hundred feet, thereby inspiring the worshippers to lift their thoughts as well as their hearts Godward. The Romanesque church represents faith, he said, and the new church faith enforced by reason, a little exordium that filled Héloïse’s eyes with wonder and her heart with reverence, though she would have wished to hear of faith and reason at some more suitable time, for at that moment the green streak of morning was passing away and rose-coloured clouds were beginning in the sky. A lovely day is preparing, she said, and the trouvère getting the better of the philosopher he forgot faith and reason, and said: the beauty of the larches is enough. But his apology was not to her taste, for she felt that any concession from him was out of keeping, and answered that it was reason, not faith, that helped men to an appreciation of the spring for itself. She put it to him, asking if it were not true that if we fail to turn to reason each spring-tide must seem like a separate act of God. Her words were pleasing to him. I will not deny that the words Faith and Reason exalt me, he answered, for they represent a battle that is in progress between the Church and human nature, but I am often afraid that when I meet people they will say: ah, he will talk to us now about faith and reason, and instead of speaking about what is nearest my heart, I speak of other things, for though no one would believe it, I am at heart a shy man.
As in a bird, the spring awakens the singer in thee, Héloïse said; and I have thee always in mind going forth with the great Comte de Rodebœuf on horses, attended by gleemen. A merry picture that spring morning summons, Rodebœuf and thyself riding from castle to castle, watching the trees coming into flower and leaf; first it was the larch, he’s always one of the earliest; see, the hedges are blossoming on this side of the path, but on the other side they are not so far advanced. The trouvères, he said, love the spring, and the flowers and the birds owe much to us, for we know all their calls and feathers, petals and leaves; we have them all by rote, birds and flowers; our hearts are uplifted when we see the white glint of the chaffinch’s wings; and we stop to admire the handsome little bird when he comes down to the runnel to drink; and our eyes are ever on the watch for the flowers as they arise in the hedge bottom, after the long, dark winter. Our thoughts arise, too, like the flowers; like them we come out of a dark winter and we think of it when we catch sight of the purple of the ragged-robin in the wood. Flowers and birds owe much to us, for without us they woul
d be nameless, except to peasants; everybody knows the violets, oxslips and primroses, but only the trouvères have eyes for the stitch wort, jack-in-the-green, country wench and ladies’ smocks. He did not know the names of the flowers in Latin, and the French names gained Madelon’s attention. How is it, she asked, that with all the learning that ye have in abundance, ye were short of the Latin and had to speak French when talking of the country-side? Because French is the language of our roadsides, I’ll warrant neither one nor the other can put the Latin name on chaffinch, and maybe the name of the wren is not known to you, and if it be known it’s only because it chimes with other words that it is your craft to put into your songs. Put a name, philosopher, on the tree we see at the corner of you wood coming into yellow. Madelon, Madelon, thou must not speak to Pierre Abélard as the philosopher, though he be a philosopher, Héloïse cried. But why should I not take a lesson from her in the things she knows better than I? Abélard interposed. Thou askest what is the yellow tree at the corner of you wood; a fair question, and to my shame, Madelon, I cannot put a name on it in French, nor yet in Latin. It may be that at closer view, she said — But no, Madelon, neither at closer nor at distant view, Abélard answered, can I tell it. A sycamore it is, said Madelon, and a yellower tree there is not in all the springtime, which the trouvères call the green springtime. But the spring is not green, but yellow. Tell me if you birch be green or yellow; near by is an aspen deeper in colour than the birch; both are yellow. Let your eyes run along the roadside and tell me if the crown of the King of France is brighter yellow than the gorse. Those who sing about the springtime have no eyes for its birds or flowers or trees, except as matter for rhymes. I’d have it from you, which is the poet, he that loves the woodland for itself, or he that makes rhymes out of it? The rhymester gets the credit, though there isn’t one among you all who knows that every tree has flowers, except, perhaps, the fig. Does the oak bear flowers? Héloïse asked, and Madelon answered that if she were to look into, all the greenish chains she would find flowers; and at the word greenish, Abelard said: I think we heard the word greenish, Madelon. Whereupon Madelon replied tartly that she had not denied that there was green in the springtime. Green there is but not much. The corn is green in the spring; the buttercups hide the grass, and the meadow over yonder, she said, is almost as golden as the gorse; and I would have you tell me why all poets speak of the springtime as green. She waited for Abélard and for Héloïse to answer her, but got no answer from them.
Though misfortunes may betide us, Héloïse, said Abélard, at the end of a long silence, we shall not forget this happy morning. We shall not forget it, Abélard, Héloïse answered, and storing it among their memories, they rode through a pleasant undulating country, now all white with bloom from pear and cherry trees, breaking the silence rarely, very often riding a quarter of a league, perhaps even more, without speaking, Abélard pondering what his life would be when he returned to Paris, Héloïse, whose eyes were rarely off him, wondering what his thoughts might be, so absorbed was he in his thoughts, as well he might be, for he had begun to ask himself if Fulbert, after the rape of his niece, would tolerate his (Abélard’s) authority in the schools and if he would not seek means to bring about his overthrow. While thinking these things his eyes often went to Madelon, who rode without noticing the country they were riding through, sitting on her pillion, he said to himself, forgetful of the fields that are green and the fields that are yellow, thinking only that Fulbert had always been a good master to her and that she liked to do her duty towards him. But she had betrayed him. She is thinking, he added, of Fulbert returning to his house, wandering from empty room to empty room, his eyes at last catching sight of the letter they left for him. Madelon’s thoughtfulness at last claimed Héloïse’s attention, and she, too, fell to thinking of her uncle, her picture of him bringing into her face a pensiveness that forced Abélard into further talk about birds and flowers. Listen, he said, to those three birds in a cherry-tree, all singing together. But I would know the names of the birds, she replied; canst thou tell them to me? The bird with a flash of white in his wings is a chaffinch, Abélard answered, but I don’t like his song; he has wearied us with it, for he and his fellows have never ceased to utter it since we left the Little Bridge, trolling it out in every fir, a wearisome run of notes ending on a defiant little flourish; over and over again he repeats it. I have forgotten the Latin name of the bluish bird, a stocky little fellow with a harsh cry, but lean thy head to me and I will whisper it in French. She bent her head over, and in a kiss Abélard whispered: titmouse. And the bird whose note is single? she asked. He whispered: greenfinch.
Sometimes a hundred or two hundred feet passed under the horses’ hooves without a word being exchanged, and these silences were not less sweet than speech, for each enshrined the other in thought and worshipped before the image. The last silence was the longest, and it was not broken until the horses entered a rooky wood, tall boles rising fifty or sixty feet from the roadway, the nests in the high branches, and a great clamour about them. The wayfarers stopped to admire the parent rook crawling gingerly into the nest with some snail or grub for the squeakers within it. There is even a young rook or two on the edge of the nests; a precocious season truly, he continued, pointing to a fledgeling that had ventured far out along a branch. And what are the rooks saying to him, since thou knowest them so well, Abélard? They are telling him that he must return to the nest till his wings are stronger if he would not fall to the ground and become a prey to prowling cats and foxes. At that moment the droppings of the rooks becoming more numerous, Madelon cried: I will not wait here to be covered with filth, and she struck her horse with her heels, bringing the other horses after her. The next thing they saw were some lambs skipping up the banks and butting each other, as glad to be alive, Héloïse said, as the lambs were when thou and Rodebœuf set forth on an April morning many years ago. I remember those lambs of old time, Abélard replied, and the clamorous rookery in the trees over the castle gates. On that day even the sheep joined the lambs at play, but now they are feeding more industriously, for the grass is not as forward as it should be, despite the warm rains we have had. The lambs can afford to play, for they feed from the udders; and at that moment a lamb’s belly gave him warning that hunger was nigh upon him, and leaving his mates he galloped to his dam, thrusting his nozzle against the full udder as if he would drink it dry in a draught. How patient the yoe is with him, for he is her own; but were another lamb to come she would drive him away. It is all very wonderful, Héloïse said, and putting aside thoughts of germination, she said: a wonderful day that was when you two went forth and gave a display of singing in the castle of — I cannot remember the name — and before Abélard could tell her the name, her thoughts had gone back to Virgil. But all we see to-day Virgil saw more than a thousand years ago; and the Georgies rising up in their minds, each tried to outdo the other in quotations, saying: match that if thou canst, till at last Abélard said: if the Georgies were lost we could recover them all from our memories, for where mine failed thou wouldst come to my aid, and together we could give back to the world the book it had lost.
Madelon, how is it, he said, that thou findest no joy in the springtime? The birds do not seem to delight thine ears, nor the skipping lambs thine eyes, and the yellow meadows pass by without stirring thee into speech, except to say the trouvères speak of the green meadows whereas they would speak of the yellow if they had eyes about them. Having no language but French, said Madelon, and being no rhymester in it, I have no thought for the buttercups in which the cattle are standing knee-deep, except that the fences seem weak and hardly able to keep the sheep on the bare fields. And why wouldst thou keep them on bare fields? Héloïse asked. For the sake of their own precious lives, for were they to get in among the meadows full of vetches they would swell with wind and die if none were ready with lancets to relieve them. And is it not as well to think of such things as to stand under a rookery listening to all the squeakings and sq
uawkings up in the branches, and getting your eyes filled with filth for your pains? You think that I have not been watching you and guessing a great part of your talk, though it was in a foreign language; making a genius of the little chaffinch, who rattles through a dozen little chitterings ending up with a kweek-kweek. Neither chaffinch nor rook is worth a fine spring lettuce made tasty with oil and vinegar and hard-boiled eggs and beetroot; nor is the song of any blackbird or thrush equal to spring spinach or asparagus; nor would either of you be listening to a lark if a dish of asparagus were waiting. No more than Madelon would herself. But do not think that I am without thoughts for the early cauliflowers. I love the spring as well as any gleeman or gleemaiden living, but I love the spring in a more natural way, for they love it only for their rhymes, whereas, being a cook, I love it for my belly and for other bellies. Now is there anything more natural than the belly? For all that crawls and swims and flies and walks on two feet or on four has a belly; we are bred in the belly and we live by our bellies; no sooner is the lamb out of the yoe’s belly than he’s up against the udder, which is part of her belly; and we are as dependent upon the lamb as the lamb is upon the yoe, for we, too, have bellies to fill and the lamb fills them excellently well, and never better than in the month of April, above all other months the month for lambs. For though I would not disdain a lamb in the month of March, an April lamb is sweeter, but leave the lamb till June and July and you’ll be eating what is neither lamb nor sheep; even May is a bit late for the lamb, for while you have been praising green leaves that serve no purpose whatever, especially those of the beech and the oak, for even the goat, that is a hardy feeder, likes them not, I have been thinking that the lambs we saw a while ago should be on the spit before another month, else the flavour of the meat will be lost. I know well enough that all I am saying seems hard to the poet, who goes about with his nose in the air, sniffing the hawthorn breeze and putting rhymes to it, and I will tell our philosopher poet who is taking us back to his country, which is our country (for if not altogether a Breton, thou’rt half a one, Héloïse), that the finest eating I have ever known, and I have known some good eating in my time, was a lamb that had lost his yoe. She was taken by a wolf, and he’d have died, too, before the next wolf would have taken him, for he was near gone before I brought him into the house and put him in a basket and fed him; he used to put his nozzle into my hand and follow me about everywhere, but Lord! if we were to give away to those feelings, we would be worse than the village idiot, for the lamb the yoe nourishes was given to us to eat. Did not the Lord himself say to Peter: kill, and eat? and Abelard, who knows the Bible better than any man alive, maybe as well as the Pope of Rome himself, will tell us what part of the Bible the three words come from. The words thou hast in mind come from the Acts of the Apostles, Madelon, and I will go with thee thus far, though I could not cut the throat of a lamb that I had brought up in a basket by the fireside and that thrust his nozzle into my hand and followed me about. But if you’d nobody to cut it for you, you’d cut it fast enough yourself, Master Abélard, for you wouldn’t eat him alive, would you? Madelon asked; and if we didn’t eat him, and left him to multiply his kind there would be no lambs, for we would have so many lambs that there would be nothing left for us to eat, and we’d be calling the wolves to rid us of the pests. Now, aren’t I right? said Madelon; come now, you two who are disposed to laugh at poor Madelon who knows no Latin, deny it if you can that she speaks the truth on this morning better than you do yourselves.
