Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  If I sing the skipper will know that we are fugitives. From an angry uncle, Héloïse said, and she sang the tune under her breath.

  CHAP. XIX.

  WHEN ABÉLARD OPENED his eyes the summer dawn was breaking, soft as the bloom upon a peach, and on raising himself upon his elbow he overlooked the ship from bow to stern. Héloïse and Madelon lay side by side, wrapped in their cloaks, deep in slumber, and the slumber that had overtaken the crew in the bow seemed hardly less deep. A long day is before us, and only five or six leagues between Beaugency and Blois: even if the wind should fail us, those stout fellows now sleeping will be working at the oars, bringing us easily to the wharf at Blois during the course of the afternoon; that is why they are with us, in case the wind should drop. His head fell back upon his pillow, and when he awoke again the sun was bright upon the river, all dancing silver, and the boatmen were eating their breakfast before making ready the sails for departure.

  You would do well, said the skipper, good sir, to seek your breakfast in the town. The inns are open, and there is no need to hurry back to us after breakfast, for these summer days are long. You will dine at the inn at Blois and sleep in a bed, if you wish it, but it seems that none of you have slept too badly upon the deck. And when all the skipper had said was related, the cunning of the peasant awoke in Madelon, who said that she would feign sickness, and keep watch; for should the sailor, who has received his money, weigh anchor and return to Orleans, our plight would indeed be a pitiful one. I will keep watch, and you will bring some food back with you when yourselves have eaten and visited the town. And her words seeming wise to Abélard he made them known to the skipper, who shrugged his shoulders and said: it is just as you wish it, sir, and continued his own breakfast, leaving Héloïse and Abélard in doubt as to their conduct, which they soon forgot, so excellent was their appetite when the king of fishes, the shad, was laid before them: of more delicate flavour than the bass, better than the turbot, a fish that makes the sole seem common, said Abélard. The shad comes, he continued, to us in his prime in May; the glory of the Loire is the shad. Some mutton cutlets brown from the grill, smelling sweet of roasted fat and gravy, revived their appetites; in the sauce there was a flavour of onion, and they forgot the shad for a moment, and he did not return to their thoughts till a dish of asparagus was eaten and they sat together finishing the bottle of white wine for which Beaugency has always been famous since vines first came to France. And after this nutritious breakfast they went out into the town, gaping and gazing at the storied houses, very like those they had left behind in the rue des Chantres. It seemed to them that they could find happiness and contentment in any of the beautiful houses that they came across, one of those they had caught sight of coming up from the wharf, houses overlooking the river, from whose windows, Héloïse said, we could catch sight of our ship, for we would not be without one; and when weary of the hearth and the home we would loose and sail past all the towns that we shall see on our way to Nantes, past Nantes and down to the sea. And then? Abélard said. And then, she replied, we would dash over the sea waves as Jason did. Like Orpheus thou wouldst sing at the prow. New horizons would open up and I should have seen the sea, a thing I have seen only through Madelon’s eyes. She has spoken to me of the sea, telling me of the great rocks it roars about and the caverns it has worn among the rocks, but — Here we are at the fortress that the skipper told us to go in search of, Abélard interrupted, the Tour de César, and having walked round it they made their way back through the narrow intricate streets to the river, pausing under the trees of the Mail to indulge their eyes with all the bend of the river and the bridge, as beautiful as the bridge at Orléans. The river is more beautiful here than it is at Orléans, Héloïse said; it wears a welcoming look, seeming almost to take an interest in its travellers and its towns. At that moment the bells of Saint-Cléry began singing, and the sound was borne by the breeze over the great wide smiling river. It would be beautiful to live here, Héloïse said again. But we must not forget Madelon’s breakfast, Abélard remarked, thereby breaking the spell of the moment. We must go back and fetch her some breakfast at the inn at once; which they did, and found her hungry and glad to receive what they had brought her. The skipper, too, was glad to get away, and when they had passed under the bridge he bade them notice how deep the water was, how it whirled, creating dark whorls here and there, like those one sees in glass, great knots such as one meets in trees. Whirlpools, he said, these are, that have sucked down many a swimmer. As he talked the wind caught the sails, and they were carried past long, narrow islands and yellow sandbanks lined with tall reeds. It is among the reeds yonder that the shad loves to lie and bask, a fish worth catching, the skipper said. Well worth catching, Abélard answered, as we know well, for we ate of one to-day for breakfast.

  And the men talked of the eating of shad and the drinking of Beaugency wine, Abélard admiring, while he talked, the sun driving shafts of light through the dove-grey clouds that enhanced the extraordinary silky blueness in the sky that day. The river, he thought, is in harmony with its sky and with its grey-green landscape. There is nothing a man would change, for God was in a good humour when he made France. A puffing little wind brought them into view of some shallows, and the skipper said that the Loire often shifted its sands and made steering difficult, and Héloïse cried: look at the herons wading in the silt. And look, Abélard answered, at the gentle folk coming towards us on horseback with hawks on their wrists. But they are not going to hunt the herons? she asked; rooks or crows or choughs or jackdaws or magpies, but not herons? The beater will send up the herons, Abelard answered, as soon as the hawks are at pitch, and almost as he spoke the herons were driven from their fishing, and ascending high into the air the beautiful grey birds tried hard to keep above the hawks, knowing that their safety depended upon their doing so. But the swifter wings of the hawks carried them higher, and the ladies and gentlemen watched from their palfreys the stooping hawks, always forced to glide aside, for the spear-like heads of the herons were deftly raised to meet them. At last, with closed wings a hawk fell swifter than any arrow upon a wearied heron, bringing him to earth. The other heron, seemingly swifter of wing than the hawk, promised more exciting sport, and part of the company went away in pursuit, part remaining to capture the successful hawk. The falconer will find him tearing the heron open, Abélard explained, looking round from time to time, fearing an intruder, but recognising his keeper, who will approach very quietly, lest he should frighten the hawk. — The hawk will allow himself to be taken by the jesses. And what will become of the heron? Héloïse asked. His brain will be awarded to the hawk as recompense for his flight, and some serf will boil or roast the heron for his supper. A wonderful match it was, Héloïse said, and I would like to see another flight, though the beautiful grey bird with long neck and head like a spear is dear to me. And then they talked of the other birds that the hawk might be entrusted to capture, Abélard saying that the best sport of all was afforded by the magpie, a cunning bird that flew from hedgerow to hedgerow with much wiliness before he was driven into crossing an open space where the hawk might strike. And there was talk, too, about the ducks and snipe that the hawk could catch if he were at pitch; and what is meant by being at pitch, Abélard said, is when the hawk is high in the air, which might well be called at pounce, for the falcon does not fly after his birds, overtaking them like the goshawk; he waits on high for the birds to be put up for him, a good hawk understanding the game as well as the falconer. As their ship drew away on a fair wind they talked on about the keeping and breeding of hawks till the subject became wearisome, and their eyes roved over the grey-green valley, seeing long herds of red cattle with many bulls among them, for, said Madelon, there’s nothing that the wolf fears so much as the bull; he may bite the bull’s legs, but that matters little to the bull, for he very soon treads the life out of the wolf; and if a number of wolves come out of the forest to attack the herd, the heifers put the calves inside the ring, and then t
he bulls chase the wolves hither and thither, helped sometimes by the heifers, for a heifer will put up a good fight to save her calf. But the sheep? said Abélard. Well, the sheep know their danger and come into the circle if they get the chance, so while protecting their own heifers and calves the bulls save the sheep from the wolves, who never get more than a yoe that has wandered too far in search of a straying lamb. But do not the bulls fight each other for the possession of some beautiful heifer? They do indeed, and sometimes kill each other, which is a great loss, for no herd or flock would be safe but for the bulls. There’s more forest in Brittany than here, and there’s a good deal here as you can see for yourselves; it pops up, for, however much you may strive to clear away the forest, wherever forest has once been it is likely to come up again. One year’s seed makes seven years’ weed, as the saying is, and it will take many centuries, perhaps thousands of years, to free France from forest and wolves. An acre of forest gone means a wolf gone with it.

  We shall be alongside of the wharf at Blois in another half-hour if this wind holds up, a vexing, puffing wind it is, that carries us a little way and then leaves us, said the skipper; but it comes again; look, and their eyes following his hand they saw a great hill rising steeply above the river, and began to think of their dinner in one of the inns at Blois. Wilt thou come with us? Abélard whispered to Madelon.

  No, she said, but thank you kindly, master and mistress; I will remain where I am, having no dependence upon our skipper, who would play us a trick if he could. Go to your dinner, but do not forget to bring back some for Madelon. Is it, Héloïse asked, because she knows that we would like to be alone that she refuses to come with us, or does she suspect the skipper? That we shall never know, Abélard answered, for Madelon herself may not know the reason of her obstinacy. But we must get the name of an inn from the skipper.

  From the terrace of the inn he recommended to them, and on which they dined later, they could see a great prospect, the forest of Blois and the marshes and scrub of the Sologne. It put thoughts into Héloïse’s mind of the herons they had seen chased by the hawks that morning. One of the mated birds will never fish again in those marshes, more beautiful to a heron than a vineyard or a rose garden, she said. Both may have been killed, he answered, but let us not forget Madelon’s dinner in our sorrow for a heron’s death. Whereupon a basket was purchased, and with it on her arm Héloïse wandered with Abélard about the steep streets of Blois, up and down the many staircases that led from terrace to terrace, filling the basket with dainties, for Madelon remained at her post in spite of the skipper’s efforts to persuade her to go ashore to listen to some gleemen who were seeking to attract a crowd at the bridge-head.

  Wilt sing a song, Abélard, and shame these gleemen as thou didst shame those who came to sing in the rue des Chantres? said Héloïse, and Abélard, though afraid that if he were to play the lute he would betray himself to the gleemen as being no friar but one of themselves, could not keep himself from talking to his whilom companions of the road, thereby awakening suspicions of him and prompting them to offer him a lute on which he accompanied himself so well that one of the gleemen said: no friar art thou, but a brother, whereat Abélard laughed and answered them: before I was a friar I was a gleeman like yourselves, but the grace of God was vouchsafed to me and I laid down the lute; and the songs that I wrote in my unregenerate days haunt my mind and give me pain. That is why I am now a wandering friar, for were I to become a priest my fate might be to end in a bishopric, and what then would be my sorrow were I to hear my own songs of old days sung before me? A joke thou art putting upon us truly, for no bishop or gleeman art thou, cried a player on the gittern, for if thou wert a gleeman thou couldst play the gittern and the sackbut. I can play both, Abélard answered, rejoicing inwardly in the imbroglio he was weaving; on all the instruments you can bring to me: the lute, the vielle, the gittern, the sackbut, or the virginals, bring them all. Give him thy gittern, Jacques, cried another gleeman, and we will see what he will do with it. And Abélard striking a chord upon it, they cried: that is a fair one. And Abélard striking another one: that is a fairer one still, they said, and now we believe that some part of thy story be true. A lutanist thou art for certain, but of thy friarhood we will say nothing. So said the vagrants, mingling with their talk so much laughter and rough jests that a hermit on his way from the river to his cell stopped to listen to them. Many lutanists pass this way, he said, but seldom a better one than this friar. Whereupon Abélard and the gleemen laid their minds to the preparation of a concert, but just as they finished playing some opening chords and were about to sing, a sound of voices was heard in the distance and afterwards the thumping of staves in the roadway, a sound well known to the gleemen, who said: pilgrims are coming, and they will give us a fine audience. Nor did the gleemen speak more than the truth, for tired of their own singing the pilgrims were glad to stop to hear music less mournful than their own; and they enjoyed the minstrelsy, forgetful of death and burial, till the sound of a bell coming towards them reminded them of the approach of a disease easily contracted.

  A leper is on his way hither, let us begone, they cried, but Abélard said: a leper is in need of music as well as you. And when the sick, sad man came into sight, Abélard hailed him cheerfully: wouldst hear music, good friend? he asked. And the leper replied: I would indeed, for I was a gleeman before I was a leper; but my fingers have gone from me and now I can do no more than to rattle a bell to warn people of my approach. There were gleemen here just now, but they fled from me like all mankind; I heard lutes. But they have gone. If I had a lute I would sing to thee, good friend, Abélard said. I had hoped to hear a little music, for while listening I would forget my misfortune. The leper began to weep. I would sing to thee, Abélard said again, if I had a lute, and my singing and playing is as good and better than that of those who have run away; but I have no lute. But if you were a gleeman you have exchanged the motley for a friar’s hood. I have done that, Abélard answered, for life is brief and eternity is long. Give me bread, said the leper. We have none, Abélard replied, but will leave some money on this stone. None will accept money from me, the leper replied. Then since I have no bread and money is of no use to thee, I’ll sing thee a song. A true gleeman you are, though you wear a friar’s hood, and I thank you for your music and will sing it on my sorrowful way. Since thou thinkest well of my music, good friend, do thou do the musician a service. What service can I do you, sir? the leper answered. Thou who wanderest all over the country must know the inns, Abélard said; tell me the best inn between this and Tours, which marks our journey’s end. You will find, sir, no good inns between this and Tours, but a good monastery, with kindly monks, who will let you and your sisters in Jesus Christ sleep in the guest-chamber. There is too little straw in the leper chamber, but why do I complain, for I have to face evil and eviller days till God takes me. The bell tinkled out of hearing, and Abélard, like one in a dream, returned to the ship. The breeze, said the skipper, that has just sprung up will take us to Tours before evening, if it lasts.

  Very soon they began to pass by yellow sandbanks and green islands, with osier beds; deserted islands they seemed all to be, save for one cow, which came down to the water’s edge and gazed at the passing boat with moist eyes. Does she wish, Abélard asked the skipper, to come on board? No, the skipper answered, but they have forgotten to milk her. We might perform that kind office for her; and landing one of his sailors with a pail, the animal was relieved of her pain. But of a theft they are certainly guilty, Héloïse said. Children may lack milk to-night, Madelon added. We shall lack a breeze to take us into Tours, the skipper muttered, and he began to wonder if the dropping of the wind was sent by God for their punishment. The wind freshened a little but dropped again, and with the sunset it died languid on the river opposite a great monastery that tempted Abélard and Héloïse on shore, this time with Madelon, for, he said, we are within a few miles of Tours, and it would not be worth the skipper’s while to cheat us; moreove
r, he would have to get out his oars to do so, for there will be no wind to-night to take him up the river. And no doubt yonder is the hospitable monastery the leper spoke to us of, Abélard said to Héloïse, as they made their way up the stately park. But neither their knocking nor their words, spoken through the grating, persuaded the porter to open to them. The monastery is closed for the night, he said; and they protested in vain. The monastery is closed for the night, the porter answered again and again, and slammed back the slide, leaving the friar and his nuns to find their way past the great firs, whose shelving branches seemed to be the roosts of innumerable peacocks, ghostly birds in the mild moonlight, whose long white tails set Madelon crying: ghosts or angels! let us away; and her cries, awakening the peacocks, set them all screaming, till Abélard began to think that the angels beyond the stars could not fail to hear.

  CHAP. XX.

  HELOÏSE HAD WOOED sleep continuously and from side to side, but the hot, breathless night kept her awake, and at last, too weary to try to sleep again, she rose from the deck and, leaning over the taffrail, looked down the river, now wide as a great lake. A scent of peppermint and sedges came across the water, and from time to time another scent roused her, and she turned to ask Abélard whence it came. But Abélard slept, and it was Madelon who told her that the pungent odour was of the sea, blown up from the great estuary by the fitful breeze. For on these wide waters the breeze never wholly dies. She could hear it stirring in the reeds that filled the bays and inlets of the green islands, keeping the sleepy ducks awake; and her thoughts being set any whither and no whither, she remembered that she had seen wild ducks at sundown swimming in and out of the reeds followed by downy broods. A heron too had come down the sky and settled himself in a quiet corner to take his rest on one leg (his spear-like head hidden under his wing), for it is thus that birds rest themselves. From birds and their habits her thoughts moved on to flowers, for they were nearing the month when the river wears yellow and white lilies in all its quiet backwaters, and the dikes out on the marsh are lined with long-bladed leaves, whose austerity is atoned for by a furled blue flower of delicate hue. How beautiful the earth is in May, she said, surpassing by far the heavens; and her eyes sought the twin towers of the cathedral in the grey moonlight, for on the morrow they would go straight to the Cathedral to ask for tidings of Denise, Abelard’s sister, and Alan, his brother-in-law. Or maybe they would have to call at all the inns, for they knew no more than that Denise and Alan would be in Tours at the end of May. For it was she who wrote to Abélard saying that as they had not seen each other for some years, it would be well that they should contrive to meet at Tours, a sort of half-way house. All families, she said in her letter, should forgather from time to time. And Abélard was overjoyed, writing: we will meet in Tours, thereby setting Héloïse wondering why he liked to meet his family in Tours rather than in Nantes. She had noticed that he talked of his relations with feeling and interest in Paris and that it was not till the time approached for him to meet them that he sat apart brooding (if he were not asleep), his gloom increasing and his customary gaiety failing him altogether on the way from Blois to Tours. He likes to talk of his country, she said to herself, and he takes pleasure in remembrances of Brittany and its people, but any thought of finding himself standing in its fields distresses him. How is this, why is this, and will he ever tell me? Does he know himself?