Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  The oak is not like any other tree; it is magic, a spell, for him who would turn a black horse into a dapple grey; he has but to give the animal oak buttons mixed with his oats and he will alter his colour in a few days. Thou’rt forgetting, Madelon, the power of the oak over the mind, said Abélard; the oak grove was the cathedral of our ancestors. Not a whit does that surprise me, said Madelon, for who can walk in these shades without awe? Awesome indeed they are, Héloïse whispered, in Latin, and they continued to talk together in that language, for of Madelon’s tongue already they had had enough. A thought of Valeda, the prophetess maiden, came into their minds, of her strange story, and of Cæsar, Cato and Virgil, for all these great folk were associated with the oak-tree. They remembered too that every tree has a spirit that lives and dies with it, its titular deity, and their eyes roved over the aged oaks under which they were riding, in expectation that at some moment or other a gracious apparition would step forth to meet them. But as none came forth, Héloïse asked if the hamadryad was found in oaks or in beeches, for a great beech had just come into view, and it seeming a likely habitation for one, they drew rein and began to recite verses, to Madelon’s great discontent. For the beech, said she, is not as serviceable a tree as the oak, but the pigs fatten finely upon the beech mast, almost as well as upon acorns. What else besides its mast is the beech good for? Abélard asked. Why you, a philosopher, surely should know that buckets and shovels (and the best) are made out of beech wood. We should have been glad of a little beech wood last winter in the rue des Chantres, for not once did we go to our beds without feeling like ice to the knees, as Héloïse can tell you, master Abélard. A beech log is the best of all for burning, better than oak or elm. And is that all the beech can give? Isn’t that enough? she answered, but there is more; the finest charcoal is gotten from the beech. And a charcoal-burner is hereabouts, lopping the trees for his kiln, pollarding, as some call it, Madelon continued; we may come upon his hut at any moment, and I’ll warrant it to be the same as his father and forefathers built before him, beech poles bent together, tied at the top, and thatched with birch bark, a clerical hat it is, for all the world. Without a hole to let the smoke out, said Abélard. Of what use, she answered sharply, would a hole be in the roof to a man who never lights a fire within, always without? But his dinner? interposed Héloïse. His dinner is cooked in front of his hut, where there’s plenty of fuel. A happy man is the charcoal burner, or should be, for he is the one amongst us who can be sure of never going to bed with cold shins. More than that, he is the one amongst us who can get out of this world easiest. Of all deaths charcoal fumes are — Hast forgot ten that hell awaits him who seeks death? Abélard interrupted. I haven’t forgotten that God is good, she answered; and his goodness is always in my mind when I’m saying my beads. But let us not be talking of the man’s soul before we look inside his house and find him lying stark, mayhap. How she enjoys hearing her tongue clatter, Abélard whispered to Héloïse, and Madelon continued to talk all the way across the clearing till they drew rein before the hut. As their shouts brought nobody’s head out of it, Abélard dismounted and looked inside. The nest is empty, the bird has flown, he said, and returned inside to look round for traces of the charcoal burner, finding only some potsherds, the residue of a broken pipkin or crock. These are what remain of him who is gone, he said. But whither, we shall ask in vain. For where are last year’s birds, and where is the man, the wife and the little ones? Let us away, said Madelon, for the wolves may have eaten them, and the ghosts that those lolloppers leave behind are the wickedest of all. But we have lost our path, Abélard answered, and reckoned on the charcoal burner to put us into it; we must encamp here. Not here, cried Madelon, the charcoal burner and his family will be about; not for all the money that you will ever earn will I spend the night here. We shall have to water our horses, Abélard said, and I see no well. Wherever man is, water cannot be far away, Madelon said. Dost not hear a sound of rippling water, Abélard? Héloïse asked, and riding down the shelving ground through the beech wood they came upon a shallow green river rippling pleasantly over pebbles, the low grassy banks putting the thought into their minds that they would not find a better ground for encampment. Nor a better place for a camp fire than the flat stones lying about this high rock, Abélard remarked. A fine shelter it would be for man and beast if a storm were to arise. Let us build these flat stones into a hearth, and when that is done we shall go into the beech grove and return with many armfuls of sticks and dried leaves and build a fire that will keep away the wolves and bears. But we shall have to seek better grass for our horses; here it is sedgy and tough, and our horses will not crop it willingly. I like not to separate ourselves from them, but they are quiet animals and will not break their tethers. He returned soon after burdened with the three saddles, and Héloïse and Madelon having built a hearth, he set himself to the task of lighting the fire with beech branches and dried leaves that had already been gathered for him. Not an easy task, he said, as he flicked steel and flint together, my tinder being none of the best. Héloïse watched the lighting of the fire. Now it catches, she said, it begins; we can blow it into a blaze, and she went down on her knees to blow, amused at the lighting of the fire as a child would be, Abélard chatting gaily of the Israelites coming out of Egypt and finding their way through deserts, just as we are finding ours, casual Israelites of a day and a night, antitypes in a small way of those in the Bible, he said, helping the time away with such light discourse till the evening meal was eaten and Madelon produced her beads.

  The moment had come therefore for them to seek their souls in the twilight, and leaving Madelon, already nearly asleep, before she had only half her rosary accomplished, they walked, hearkening to the forest sighing for weariness of the prattling river. As they passed out of the dark beech wood into the grey moonlight they were caught by a sudden awe that brought them back through the birch-trees, whither they had gone thinking to hear the nightingales; but not one was singing, and the stillness set their hearts almost fluttering and sealed the words upon their lips. I am afraid of the forest, Héloïse said, and Abélard sought to calm her fears, saying: the forest is wonderful. Listen to the silence, for silence in the forest is different from any other. But the forest is never silent, Héloïse interposed. It is always mumbling to itself. I am afraid. Shall we go back to Madelon, he asked, or sit here among the ferns? And in answer to her question if he were afraid, he answered that he was not, which was barely the truth, for with the decline of the light the forest seemed to him to have put off its casual associations with man and to have returned to itself, a strange, remote self, nearer to beasts than to man. We are all aliens to the forest, he said, all save charcoal burners and wolf-hunters. Héloïse, who would put the forest and its mysterious mutterings out of her mind, begged him to tell her of the first stirrings of his genius, for there must have been a moment, she said, when it was whispered to thee that thou wast not as other men. I think I always knew that, Abélard answered, but if thou wouldst hear a truthful account of the self that inspired thee in the cloister, I must tell that it first appeared one day at dinner some thirty odd years ago. My mother was filling a large bowl with lettuce, cucumber, beetroot and onion (she made excellent salads) but my father looked upon salads as waste, saying that he did not believe that anybody cared to eat raw vegetables, and being always hard to curb, and restless beyond most boys, I began to argue with him, and he said: Pierre, keep a quiet tongue in thy head. He passed on the salad bowl, and seeing that I helped myself largely, a smile began to trickle into his eyes: Pierre, I checked thee a while ago, but now I give thee leave to plead the cause of raw vegetables. Whereupon I talked for ten minutes, my father not answering, and, hurt by his silence, I fell to thinking that I had failed in argument. It was my mother who, reading dejection in my face and taking pity on me, told me in secret that my father had said to her, when they were alone: I can’t answer for the red-haired ones (my brothers have red hair) but Pierre is wonderful. For the
se words I have never ceased to think of my father with affection. I am sure no boy ever talked like thee, Héloïse said. But afterwards? It seems to me that afterwards I talked to everybody who would listen to me, Abélard answered; taking pleasure in the argument for the sake of it, caring very little which side I took, my pleasure being to quicken dead minds, to awaken thought; for the world, it seems to me, is sloughing its skin of centuries very slowly, almost unwillingly, too lazy to use its wits, liking nothing so well as to lie like a pig in a sty; without reason, the world is no better. It seems to me, he continued, his interest in his portrait of himself waxing as he talked, that I began to look upon myself as a swineherd who, irate, at the sloth of the swine, was moved to prick them up with a goad. Thy simile is a false one, Héloïse replied, for the swineherd would like the porkers to lie and fatten. All similes are defective if pressed too far, Abélard answered, but I cannot find a better image of myself and the world than a swineherd poking a pig out of its unclean straw. I’m sure I’m telling myself truly if I say that I came very soon to see the world as a sty full of pigs that it was my business to compel to rise up and go so that the sty might be cleansed. I like to goad the porkers. But is it cruel to desire a clean world? I begin to understand, Héloïse interrupted, why the Church did not attract thee; in the Church thou wouldst not be thyself. I was always more interested in my own thoughts, he answered, than in the thoughts of any body of men, but this is not egoism, for only one’s personal thoughts are human; the thoughts that we collect are unclean as straw that has been lain in too often, and the fine phrases that Champeaux and Anselm wrap their thoughts in fail to conceal their evil smell. I have often wondered if these men lack the courage to express their own thoughts. It may be that they are without individual thoughts and find their pleasure in trying to cleanse the ideas prevalent in the streets, treating them like dirty brats, whose faces are washed with spits, and whose noses are held between forefinger and thumb. But thou, Abélard, wouldst cut the brats, throats and throw the corpses into the river, Héloïse remarked; and Abélard thought he detected a tone of regret in her voice. I would like to humble the swine in their own sight, till to escape from my sarcasms they would throw themselves over precipices into the sea. But if they did, their heads would bear them up, for their heads are but bladders. I think thou art sorry, Héloïse, that I am so immodest a man. And if that thought has come into thy mind I cannot blame thee for it, for it’s often come into mine. Time and again I have tried to check myself, to conform, but no man checks himself or even conforms, if he be a man. And because thou couldst not conform thou art not a priest, Héloïse said, half to Abélard, half to herself. As a priest I should not be myself, he answered. But once a priest, she said, thou wouldst speedily be made a bishop, and from bishop to archbishop thou wouldst rise quickly; a cardinal’s hat would soon be thine, for the Church cannot pass over men of genius; they are too rare to be passed over, and once a cardinal the papacy would fall into thy hand like a ripe plum. In St. Peter’s chair I should be less than I am now, Abélard answered; there have been hundreds of popes but only one Abélard. It was on Héloïse’s tongue to say: a man cannot spend his life wandering in thickets by himself, springing on the unwary from time to time, and as if he discerned her unspoken thought, Abélard said, speaking to himself as much as to her: it may be that I have been myself and nothing but myself for too many years, and there is a time for everything, for personal and collective endeavour. It may be, too, that the time has come for me to make my peace with the world, for one of our oldest proverbs is, that an old monkey pleases nobody. But can we change ourselves?

  We are always changing, it seems to me, Héloïse answered.

  We are always changing, but we do not know in what direction we are changing. If we did.... I would believe that thou lovest me, Abelard, she said at last, but thy mind is the dearest thing in the world to thee, dearer than life; dearer than I can ever be. Abélard was moved to dispute this, saying that he taught philosophy for money and nothing else. We all speak many vain words, she answered, and a man may be better judged by his acts. If thou wert moved to philosophy only by the money’s worth, how was it that thou didst part with thy lands, throwing them to thy brothers like an old coat. Thy lands were given away so that thy mind might be saved, a mind that would dwarf in Brittany. And it was to save thy mind that thou didst turn from the priesthood. It matters naught to thee that there is no advancement outside the Church. And it was for thy mind’s sake that a deaf ear was turned to the women who came before me. It was not lest a wife might rob me of some of my mind, he answered, that I am unwed, and since, O subtle Héloïse, thou wouldst see thy Abélard from end to end like a valley seen from a hill-top, I will tell thee that the young seek new lips always, never caring to kiss the same more than three or four times, and you women are as easily wearied as men, and seek change as often, for it is our mortal fate to seek till we find. At last thy love came, and I believe it to be the sum of all my early desires and aspirations, a love that will abide in me always, for it is a truth that whosoever has loved in his youth does not return to love. We can drink of the love draught but once; whether we drink it in youth or in middle age matters little. In middle age the wine is headier; and he who drinks at forty never escapes from the swoon and intoxication. How wonderfully thou speakest, Abélard; how wise, oh, how wise, she said, laying her hands on her lover’s shoulders. But thou must not turn from philosophy, for I love my philosopher, who is greater than Plato or Aristotle. But what is that sound going by? she asked. A nightjar, Abélard answered, seeking its food; it will be gone presently. But any sound is better than this stillness, Héloïse replied, and as if in answer to her a long wail as of a soul in agony came out of the heart of the forest. It is but a brown owl, Abélard said, but its cry is the most melancholy in nature. And since thou art afraid of the forest and its cries, let us return to Madelon. Hush, Abelard, speak no word, but look; and, raising himself on his elbow, it seemed to him that he caught sight of a grey form slinking across the moonlit glade. A wolf, maybe, Abélard whispered, and thinking of what other animal it might be, they returned to Madelon, whom they found dozing by some embers; on these were thrown quickly some dry wood, a great fire was built up, and Héloïse was assured, in Latin, that they need fear no attack from the wolf. Wolves attack men only when they are in numbers, and driven to it by hunger, Abélard said.

  We have a long day’s travel before us and would do well to sleep as far into the dawn as we can. Whereupon the three rolled themselves into their cloaks and slept till the grey silent dusk of day awoke them one by one, Abélard being the first to awake; and he lay thinking between waking and sleeping for a long time, wondering when the birds would begin to sing. All were asleep in the branches, and the animals that he had heard moving in the darkness overnight were fast in their burrows and lairs. At last he heard Héloïse’s voice. Art awake, Abélard? she asked. Yes, he answered, and Héloïse whispered: Madelon is still asleep, let us not awake her. But hearing them telling their dreams, Madelon awoke. I too dreamed of horses whinnying, she said, and instinctively all three sprang to their feet and hastened down the river bank, afraid to speak their thoughts. Our horses are safe, God be merciful, Abélard cried; for being in advance of the women he caught sight of them first, grazing peacefully about a dead wolf and her cub. If the horses could speak, they could tell a tale, said Madelon; and they continued talking through a cloudy morning of May, puzzled to discover in their imagination how the wolf and her cub had come by their deaths, all wearing thoughtful countenances till midday, when a likely explanation of the mystery came into Abélard’s mind. He was about to tell it to Héloïse, but a cry from Madelon checked the story on his lips. We are well at the world’s end, she said, and looking round they saw a blasted oak and a few pines at the end of a desolate track filled with great rocks.

  Truly a desolate place, Abélard said, visited only by the winds. And the witches, said Madelon, who come hither by night on their broomsticks
to assemble under that tree. After a little while it fell out that two ravens should come out of the forest and alight upon the white branches. I will not ride past them, Madelon cried. Abélard too was afraid, but conquering his emotion, he seized her bridle. Tell thy beads with bowed, devotional head, he muttered, and the power of the ravens will be taken from them. We owe Madelon a good deal, Abélard said, in Latin, and we are paying with our patience all that we owe her. A troublesome old thing, he grunted, and began to tell Héloïse that the dead wolf might have had a den by the river, but scenting rain — The sky was clear at midnight, said Héloïse. Animals have a foreseeing that we have not, he answered. To-day is all cloud, it will rain before night, and if not to-night, to-morrow. But go on with thy story, Pierre. Afraid that her den would be flooded by the rising of the river, the wolf remembered the hollow beech up the hillside. She seemed to be carrying something, a cub more likely than anything else, for she returned the way she came for another (as many as three and four go to a litter) and while carrying the last cub, or the last but one, my thought is that to avoid some scent that the wind carried down to her, that of a bear maybe, she came through our horses and was kicked and trampled to death, for horses like not the smell of a wolf. Thy sleep was disturbed, Héloïse said, by horses neighing. Yes, but they seemed to me to be screaming rather than neighing; it was the screams of the horses that put it into my head that the wolf and the cub met their deaths under their hooves. It may have fallen out differently, he continued; nature is rich in imaginations. However the wolf and the cub met their deaths, Héloïse answered, certain it is that a cub, or maybe two, are starving in a hollow beech-tree, and one or more may be starving by the river. Those by the river will drown when the river rises, Abélard said. We are fairly lost in this forest, Madelon cried, drawing rein, and the twain forgot the wolf cubs in the dread that a long roaming might be their fate, trying to keep in a straight line by the trees but turning in a circle always. It was yesterday we lost the track, Abélard said; let us keep our eyes on the ground, for tracks there are always in the forest. Any track is better than no track, be it the hooves of deer or of cattle, or of the wild ponies that abound in the forest. At most we may rouse a wild boar from his lair, Madelon muttered.