Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  A pardoner, Abélard said to himself, whose business lies with troubled consciences, with men and women who dread the punishments in the next world for their sins in this; and looking once more into the long, brown face, he said: of the next world of which he prates so gaily he will soon have practical experience. An opinion this was that Abélard soon found himself obliged to abate, for no sooner was the pardoner’s tongue loosened than his looks began to belie him. Or is it that his greed overcomes his weariness and his wetting? Abélard asked himself, and he listened, with a half-amused, half-contemptuous smile on his lips, to the patter of the relic-seller.

  Wet as I am, tired as I am, I have still a tongue in my head to tell a good story, and I will tell one to you, unless I am interrupting somebody in his story? No one has told a story this day, so if thou’rt minded, tell thine, Abélard said, and the pardoner answered quickly: since the good father bids me tell my story, I will. It is of a woman who coveted her sister’s husband, and coveted him with success, for she enjoyed him in her sister’s bed, a cuckold having been procured by a sleeping-potion. But such love as hers the devil puts into our minds, and very soon he withdraws the love that has tempted us into sin and we suffer much torment in our consciences. Such is the way of men and women, and the woman about whom I would tell you began very soon to hate the man from whom she had not been able a little while before to withhold herself. His face and name reminded her that the temptation she had yielded to had lost her long happiness in heaven and plunged her into endless misery in the gulf of hell, maybe. But what had been done could not be undone except by the aid of a priest, who would shrive her. But the penance he imposed upon her could not be fulfilled, and it is in this penance that the point of my story lies. The woman confessed that she had lain with her brother-inlaw, and many other sins of such tremendous nature that the priest was taken aback. I know not how to deal with you, daughter; you have earned hell ten thousand times over, for of theft and lies, adultery, fornication and incest, you seem to be guilty. I can think of no sin you haven’t been guilty of except murder. The woman bowed her head and began a new story, for even of murder she was not wholly innocent, and the priest, more affrighted than ever, sat trying to think of a penance that would keep the woman quiet for the rest of her life. But her whole nature seemed to him so bent upon the pleasure of sin that he could think of none that would make her soul’s salvation certain. Yet he couldn’t reconcile himself to telling her that he was unable to help her, and forgetful of her body, he sat thinking of her soul, leaving her on her knees all the afternoon while he meditated, she asking him from time to time to pronounce the penance that would insure her soul against burning. The priest sat thinking how this might be done, and the best penance he could devise was to send her all over the country from shrine to shrine, muttering Paternosters and Ave Marias at each one. Only by bodily exercise can her soul be saved, he said to himself, and again fell to thinking, till the woman, unable to keep on her knees any longer, rolled over, crying to him to speak any penance, for whatever it was she would accomplish it.

  It was not till many weeks afterwards, when far away on her pilgrimage, that the truth broke upon her that the penance the priest had imposed, and that she had accepted so joyfully, could not be performed, life not being long enough. Whereupon she cried out in her misery that her soul was lost. Now it was the devil tempting her, for her next thought was: since my soul is lost for ever, let me return to my sinning, for even God cannot punish me more for the sins that I have committed than He will for those that I am ready to commit. The woman’s steps turned from the holy shrine whither they were going to a tavern, and at the first step she took thither a great rejoicing began in hell, all the devils crying as they danced circlewise: we shall get her, we shall get her. But there is a proverb that runs in hell as well as upon earth, that it is not well to think how we shall jug our hare before we have caught our hare. The woman’s soul was not yet lost, but it would have been lost if she had not met me, who was able to tell her that the priest that imposed the penance spoke thoughtlessly, for a penance that cannot be performed is not a valid penance, and can be revoked. I might indeed go further and say that a penance that cannot be performed has never been pronounced. The Church is always practical; her teaching has ever been that the sinner must not despair. So did I speak, the woman was soothed, and the good father present will not gainsay me: despair is the only capital sin. We must never despair; our feet must ever strive upwards, however thorny that way may be, and a relic is a great help. We hold it in our hands, we press it to our bosoms, and forthright strength is given to us. I come to you from the Holy Father, who charged me to ease all troubled consciences. In my wallet I have the Holy Father’s testimony on parchment for all of you to read. He conferred upon me the right to give sacraments, to sell relics. I have it all under his own hand; the brief he gave me is in that wallet, and if you cannot read for yourselves the friar yonder will read for you. The pardoner produced from his wallet a large brief with many seals, which he said came from famous Rome, the city of God on earth, founded by Saint Peter, and it being no part of Abélard’s business to challenge the authority of the relic-seller, he gazed into the parchment and handed it back, his face wearing an expression of astonishment rather than approval, and forthright the pardoner began another appraisement of his wares.

  Here is a piece of the sail of Saint Peter’s boat which carried Our Saviour Jesus Christ on the day that the storm arose on the Sea of Galilee, the day that He walked upon the water as if upon dry lard. And here is another piece of the same sail. Three small pieces are all I have left, but I sell none for less than five shillings, which is a small price to pay for a great benefit. As none of the gleemen had five shillings to spend upon a relic, they sighed, afraid that their souls might be lost; but as soon as the pardoner produced the candle-end that the angel lighted in the tomb over against Golgotha, they forgot their souls, and their minds were gathered in admiration when the pardoner exhibited a feather from the tail of the cock that crowed the morning that Peter denied Christ three times. He exhibited these relics without putting a price upon them, for the price of the candle-end and the cock’s feather, and of all, the ointment that Mary Magdalen spread over the feet of Christ, were far beyond any money in the inn that day. And what is this? cried one of the gleemen: a tress of the Magdalen’s hair? No, not the Magdalen, said the pardoner, but a curious tale hangs by this tress of hair, and I will tell it to you. This tress of hair belonged to a woman who prized her hair more than all other things. She spent all day combing and brushing it, rendering it sleek with ointment, till God in His great goodness was sorry for the woman who wasted her soul in vain attendance on her hair; so what do you think He did? He took the woman’s sight away from her, and from that day she was unable to see her beautiful hair or to attend to it. It became matted and unkempt, whereupon the woman, whose whole life was now given up to God, was much grieved and affected by the thought that at the special judgment which awaits everybody on the day of their death she would appear untidy before God. So God, taking pity upon this poor woman, gave her back her sight; but no sooner was it given back to her than she returned to the attendance of her hair, forgetful of all things but the men who admired her for it. But God, knowing in His infinite wisdom that there was a core of good in this weak woman, and determined to have in heaven the soul which she was about to lose, took her hair from her. But what matter the loss of my hair if it be restored to me when my body is raised from the dead? she said. Henceforth all her life was spent praying that her hair might be restored for God to see it on judgment day. She became one of the greatest saints ever known; and now that you have heard her story, look into this tress, every single hair of which is worth a penny, and a penny is not too much; everyone here has a penny, or should have one, to spend on the hair of a great saint, who lived in a cave for five and twenty years and is now standing near to the throne of God. What is this? cried one of the wayfarers; a piece of stone? Yes, a piece o
f stone, answered the pardoner, of the carven statue of the Holy Virgin which stands in a niche in the chapel of Rocamadour. A pious workman was mending her crown one day, but the ladder he was standing on was unsafe and gave way beneath him, and he would have been dashed to the ground if the Virgin had not taken him in her arms and saved his life. So great a miracle as that could not fall to any man’s lot without it becoming a great power over his life. He left his bag of tools at the foot of the ladder, and wandered away like one bereft of his senses. One of the Church’s greatest saints he became, and this statue is one of the most famous in France, worthy of a great pilgrimage. It would seem, pardoner, that all thy relics are worthy of ten times the price thou askest for them, Abelard said, and having so many holy relics thou wilt be glad to hear that the greatest relic perhaps of all has been discovered by the Crusaders in Nazareth, a phial containing a pint of the Virgin’s milk.

  At that moment the words: Sancte Thoma adiuva me, came from a far-off corner of the kitchen, and on looking thither every face changed colour, for nobody was to be seen. Be not afraid, said the pardoner, and he went whither the voice had spoken and uncovering a cage revealed to the company a grey bird with a red tail. This bird, said the pardoner, prays continuously, and his favourite prayers are Paternoster and Ave Maria, the two prayers most closely associated with our holy religion. The bird is among my merchandise, and if I do not put him up for sale in this kitchen it is because of the price that I am obliged to ask for him, having paid a very high price to possess him and spent many years rearing him in piety, if not in faith, though there is some reason to believe that he has faith in God. Let none think that a terrible heresy is involved in this belief. The Church will take into account that his utterances are often so fitted to the occasion that it is hard to doubt that he attaches some meaning to his words. A good, pious bird he is, without doubt, one that has never been known to indulge in evil speech, a habit that birds of his class often indulge in, not perhaps of their own fault but because of the society into which they have drifted. My bird’s vocabulary I will guarantee to be altogether ecclesiastical, and his repertory includes not only the prayers I have mentioned but some Latin hymns. I will guarantee him to repeat the Veni Sancte Spiritus without a fault; also the Regina Coeli, and — Forgive me, good pardoner, but my self, and I think all here, would be glad to learn from thee why thou wert at pains to teach the bird prayers; for his own profit, or for ours, which? After having said our prayers we are allowed by the Church to think of other things, the pardoner answered; we cannot think always of heaven and hell, and I am truly grateful for the question that has been put to me by the good father; a more intelligent question I have rarely heard, for the value of that bird is in the fact that he prays all day. At the present moment, it is true, he is silent, but there can be little doubt that he is learning prayers, thinking them over in his silence, for he’s always learning new prayers and brings out a new prayer when one least expects it. He is never satisfied, as we are, with sufficient piety; the word sufficient is unknown to him. I will avouch it, for by long living with my speaking bird I have been led to believe that he dreams prayers; our dreams are but echoes of thoughts that we have forgotten, that or something quite different; our dreams may be therefore memories of evil desires and acts, but my bird has no knowledge of evil. His dreams are pure dreams, his sleeping hours are prayerful, and the natural affection of the bird leads him to offer up his prayers for his master, for, poor bird, he knows well that himself cannot go into heaven, being but a bird. If my bird be not as I tell you, how else may we explain his love of his prayers, unless indeed we suppose him to be an angel incarnate. But that savours of heresy, and I would not advise anybody among us to harbour such a thought. My bird is but a bird, I don’t offer him as anything else, but he is a unique bird, one that prays without ceasing, and his prayers will save his master’s soul from the many thousand years of purgatory which his master’s soul may be earning in this life. If that be so, these years melt away before the bird’s prayers as wax melts before a fire. But a bird’s prayers are not answered, Abélard interrupted. Good father, your question is an excellent one, and for it I thank you, for I have proof that a bird’s prayers are granted. The one misdeed chargeable to this bird is that finding the door of his cage open one morning he flew across the fields, but he had hardly crossed the first before he was pursued by a goshawk, and seeing that he could not escape by swiftness of wings he screamed aloud: Sancte Thoma, adiuva, and no sooner had these words passed his beak than the goshawk fell dead. Good father, the story I tell is the truth. Mine own eyes saw the bird pursued and saw him return repentant at having attempted an escape which nearly ended in his own death. That day he recited a chaplet of Paternosters and Ave Marias. How then — Ah, scepticism always appears, I regret to say, in the religious; I read it in the good friar’s eyes. Good friar no doubt he is, but his eyes are sceptical eyes. I, who have travelled far and seen all kinds and sorts of people, can read the thoughts that lie behind the eyes. Our friar is sceptical, as all friars are, of my miracle, a fault of all the religious, who believe only in their own miracles. I will say, therefore, no more about my bird.

  The pardoner’s voice was mournful, and excited pity, and won most of the company from Abélard to himself, and they begged of him to tell them more about his speaking bird, which has, said Abélard, uttered no more than four words up to the present. The two men stood looking at each other, Abélard seeing a man of middle height, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, with a great mane of black hair in which there was here and there a streak of grey, and in his forked beard, too, which was thick and black as his hair, there were a few grey hairs. Abélard saw a long, sun-tanned face with grey, piercing eyes watching him under bushy eyebrows. The pardoner’s forehead was broad, the cheek-bones were high, and in his nose, of comely curve, were nostrils long and open. Abélard judged him to be a man between forty and fifty years, but still in the prime of life, able for a day’s work with anyone, whether it was a day’s mowing or a day’s travelling in a forest, a pack on his back. The only sign of age was in his neck, which was full of veins and sinews. A good traveller he must be, for his trade demands it, but his legs are slender for long marching; and his feet? Abélard asked himself, and his eyes went down to the pardoner’s feet, and he considered them well. Good travelling feet, he said, but his ankles are slender like a woman’s. A high instep, he added, and continued: a man who spoke the truth when he said that he had travelled far, and can read men’s thoughts from their faces. One who can tell the morrow from the aspect of the stars and sky, one like the pedlar who came upon his trade by instinct, one unlike the pedlar in this much, that the day will come when he will hold his merchandise in less esteem than heretofore. A saint, maybe, in the making.

  CHAP. XVIII.

  THE WOMEN, WHO were still standing in their wet clothes, got a scolding for their imprudence. We shall not start tomorrow, he cried after them, and his fears were realised, for the news next morning was that Héloïse’s cold was passing from her head to her chest. I knew that we should not be able to start to-day, Madelon. I cannot think how thou Couldst be so stupid as to let her stand in her wet clothes. Go to her, attend upon her, let her have warm drinks, get her well; thou knowest that every day here is a danger. Madelon bowed her head, and Abélard turned to the gleemen with whom he sang and with whom he watched the weather, always in great anxiety lest the Canon might be following them with hirelings. Ah, if he were to overtake them in this inn!

  His courage and his pride in himself were great; he stood so high in public esteem and his pupils and disciples were so numerous that he did not believe that anybody could prevail against him. But Fulbert was a canon of Notre-Dame and had many adherents. They would not be safe till they reached Orléans, and in obedience to the impulse of the moment he called up the staircase for news, and the answer he got from Madelon was that Héloïse was in her bed and would not be able to travel for the next few days. On the third, on the fourth, and
on the fifth days the answer was the same, and when they rode from the inn on the sixth Madelon was still in doubt whether their departure was altogether a wise one. Women like Madelon only think of one thing at a time, Abélard muttered; and she has forgotten the Canon, who may be at this moment enquiring us out at Étampes. But we are on horseback at last, and not more than an hour’s ride from Orléans, he added, judging this to be so from the appearance of the forest, which had begun to dribble into fringes and scattered clumps of trees, as a city does into villages. All the country that lies before us, he said, was once forest, the residue of the great wilderness of Sologne, the desert lying along the left bank of the Loire whither the King and his nobles go for hunting. The clearances we are riding through were forest once, but corn is now all about us, a green country to-day, a yellow country in two months’ time. But he spoke into deaf ears, for Héloïse’s thoughts were not on the plain before them but on the kindly forest that had sheltered them, and her eyes falling at that moment on an oak, she said: is there anything in the world more beautiful than an oak showing against a blue sky? A moment after she added, speaking almost to herself: a young man before age has warped him. A masculine tree the oak certainly is, Abélard replied, and forgetful of her remark, began to speak his own thoughts, saying that the green country about them stretched without further interruption from the forest they had left behind to the very banks of the Loire, which they would come into sight of at the end of an hour’s ride. Almost the first rise in the ground will show the river to us, and Héloïse answered: and I shall be glad to see the river, for one wearies of plains and low horizons. I like wide expanses, with hills in the background.