Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  From time to time the lapping of the water against the ship’s side reached her ears, and she had forgotten everything but running tide and evanescent distances, when Madelon’s jarring voice begged her to lie down beside her and try to get to sleep. To-morrow will be a big day for both of us, she said, lifting her head out of her rug; Abélard will be by to see us through it, but hell be anxious to get back to his lecture hall in Paris, and — Sleep seemed to have fallen on both of them suddenly, for when their eyes opened the river was laughing silver under the sunny sky. We must be at Tours, cried Madelon, and the women began to talk of the search they would be engaged in for the greater part of the day perhaps. We shall have to ask, Madelon said, at the cathedral first of all, and then at all the inns. Therell be weariness enough in our legs, I’ll warrant, before we find them. And it was just as she said, walking till midday from inn to inn, from church to church, meeting blank faces and vague answers, the upshot being that the innkeepers and clerics had not heard of any travellers from Nantes answering to Abelard’s description of his sister and brother-in-law.

  It was on one of these journeys up and down and round about the city of Tours that Héloïse and Madelon heard Abélard calling them back, and turning they saw that he had stopped to speak to a small woman and a tall man. Whom may these be? said Madelon, and a moment after Abélard began to tell how he had only just escaped passing his sister in the street without seeing her. If it hadn’t been for Alan, he said, who is as tall as a steeple, we might have walked once more all the way round Tours missing them. Alan and Denise waited for Abélard to tell them who Héloïse and Madelon were, but he could not tell Héloïse’s story in her hearing, and being embarrassed as to how he should begin it, he spoke some vain words, breaking off suddenly, saying to Héloïse: Alan will walk in front with thee and Madelon; I have important matter to talk with Denise. The words: with Denise, drew Héloïse’s eyes to Abélard’s sister, in whom she discovered very little real likeness to Abélard. The very last person I should have thought to be Abélard’s sister. And as she walked on in front with Alan and Madelon, the words: Abélard’s brow shorn of its significance, came into her mind; Abélard over again with all that is noble and inspiring left out. While speaking on matters of no interest to her, she remembered that her lover’s eyes were penetrating and far-reaching, and she contrasted them with Denise’s eyes, which she was constrained to admit were not unlike his, but shallow, almost foolish eyes. Good and kind she doubtless is, and there’s no reason why we should not like each other. Her voice, too, she said to herself, is the same temper as Pierre’s, and she being of cheerful mind we shall live together pleasantly. But it is strange that two human beings should be so alike yet so unlike. Now they are talking about me, and I must talk to Alan.

  Denise, said Abélard, I have a story to tell, so let us walk slowly, for I would have thee hear it all before we reach the inn whither, I suppose, we are going for dinner. Denise answered him that the inn they were staying at was at the other end of Tours, built, she said, where the bank is higher, and overlooks the river. But a eulogy of the Loire seeming to Abélard to be out of place at the moment he was about to confide important matters, he said, with a change of voice that caused Denise to quake: I have a story to tell; thereby getting her attention at last, he related how Héloïse had thrown herself at his feet at the end of a lecture. Denise forgot the view of the Loire from the windows of the inn, and he remembered that he had always liked his sister, despite their differences of temperament, Denise being interested in practical things, his thoughts being engaged exclusively by ideas. All the same, it was to Denise that he wrote whenever he sent a letter to Brittany, and it was Abélard she singled out whenever she spoke of her brothers. Héloïse is very striking, Denise interposed, and it doesn’t surprise me that she should have won thy love, though I never thought that any woman would be so fortunate. Abélard thanked his sister with a faint pressure of his hand for her words. She is now about two months gone, he said, and Denise repeated: only two months; and she began to ask for details till once more she saw that she was annoying her brother, and hoping to mend matters she said: thou’lt marry her in Nantes? Nothing is settled, Abélard replied sharply, again frightening his sister, who quaked like a sheep in front of a storm. For what reason, he asked, should I marry? But if you love each other — Let us not waste time talking, Denise, of what cannot be. I shall be ordained, I hope, within the next year or two. But does she know, that thou art going to abandon her? Abandon her, Denise? There is neither question of abandonment nor marriage. And in the hope of enlightening her he related his own place in the world at present and his ambitions, saying that these could not be gratified outside of the Church. I am, it is true, thought by many to be the greatest philosopher that has ever lived. And so thou art, cried Denise; thy fame has reached Brittany, and we often talk of thee as having surpassed all that have gone before. When people speak of me as the greatest philosopher in the world, he answered, it may be that they are right, indeed I think they are, but my admirers are not satisfied with that share of praise; they would have it that I am the greatest philosopher that ever lived, afflicting me — And how dost thou answer the praise that afflicts thee? Denise asked. I ask them if they have read about the Greek philosophers, and when the answer returned to me is: no, I tell them that if they were to read the works of Plato and Aristotle they would be able to appreciate how insignificant the present is compared with the past. Humility is thy fault, Pierre, the admiring sister answered. Every man is aware of his worth, Abélard replied; the difference between me and other men is that I have been at pains to understand Plato and myself. But let us not waste time discussing Plato and Aristotle. Héloïse knows then that thou’rt about to enter the Church? Denise asked, and Abélard would just as lief that this question had not been put to him, but he answered it fairly, and Denise replied: I never heard before of a girl who was willing to sacrifice herself to her lover’s ambition. Thou’rt wiser to-day then than thou wert yesterday, Denise, and as I am going to ask thee to take charge of Héloïse for the next year, it is important that thou shouldst know all. Héloïse wants me to enter the Church, but speak no word of this to her, for to do so could not fail to awake dissensions that I may have to come from Paris to Brittany to settle. But a marriage will reconcile thee to Fulbert, Denise interposed, and immediately afterwards she added: canons of Notre-

  Dame are rich, whereas — We are wasting time, Denise, as thou couldst not fail to understand if it were possible for me to tell the whole story. But I know the story, she said; thou hast told it to me. One may tell the truth as far as it can be told in a few minutes, Denise, Abélard answered, and it was with difficulty that he restrained his temper; but knowing himself to be dependent on his sister he kept it at bay, saying: I shall be ordained in a year, or maybe two years; some delay there may be, but — Why should there be delay? Denise interrupted. To make that plain to thee, Denise, I should have to tell thee that there are two philosophies at present in Paris, Nominalism and Realism, and that Nominalism in its extreme form has been declared to be heretical. Even the mitigated Nominalism that I teach is suspected. I hope, Pierre, that thou wilt never teach anything contrary to the doctrines of our holy Church, for the Church is all-powerful. Whosoever comes to the grapple with Saint Peter gets a fall for his pains. Thou’lt remember that thou hast a sister living in Brittany, a country devoted to the Church, and if it became known that her brother was guilty of heresy — Denise, Denise, thou’rt putting me past my patience; matters so subtly implicated as these cannot be explained in the short journey from one inn to another. I beseech thee to acquaint thyself with the facts; thou hast an excellent understanding, and all the rest will come to thee in time. But the two philosophies on which the world depends cannot be discussed quite thoroughly, as I have said, by passengers on their way from one inn to another. I shall come to Brittany to see Héloïse and to see my child at the end of the year, when Héloïse has come into her figure. I don’t thi
nk that a husband considers his wife’s figure; he is too overjoyed that she has borne him a child. My dear Denise, perhaps I was wrong to use the words: as soon as Héloïse has come into her figure, but the words are not mine, they are Héloïse’s own. She has forbidden me to come to Brittany till — But there is no reason why I should repeat words that offend thee, my object being not to offend but to ask a favour. A very strange phrase for a young woman to speak, and of all, in her condition, Denise answered, her alarm having worn off. But, Pierre, thou wast always strange among us, different from thy brothers from the very beginning, giving up all thy lands to us so that thou mightst wander the world over and teach; so it is not strange that thou shouldst have met one like thyself, and in meeting Héloïse thou hast met thine own image and likeness, so it would seem to me.

  Now I am beginning to hear again the Denise whom I left behind in Brittany years ago. Thou’lt do all that I ask thee? Thou’lt rely upon me and believe in me, sister? Abélard said, drawing Denise closer to him. And lifting fond eyes to his she answered: Pierre, I believe in thee; and give no heed to the poverty of my words, for they are not myself; but thy words are thyself. And surprised at this sudden comprehension, which endeared him to his sister even to asking her for some account of her life in Brittany since he had been away, Abélard said: all I have heard of thee, Denise, is the occasional birth of children. Yes, she answered; I have had too many. Thou hast written books, and I’ve had children. And that is the way of life in some form or another. Abélard was about to speak of abstinence and of those days in the month when the womb is not fruitful, but some random thought led him to speak of the tall, silent, lean man, whose mind was always upon his farm, upon its crops and beasts. But it would have been strange if his sister had thought of another man, she being what she was, and he fell to thinking that they were beyond each other’s ken, or only faintly visible to each other. Had she not said: thou wert always strange, giving up thy lands so that thou mightst be freer to wander the world over, teaching, and she had added that she hoped he would teach nothing that the Church did not approve, not understanding that the instinct of teaching is but the fruition of a man’s belief in the truth of his ideas. Such was the origin of his teaching, but he had learnt long ago that he was an exception, and that the interest of many teachers is not in their own ideas, for they have none, but in giving utterance to current commonplaces. All the same, it was strange that his sister should have allowed her husband to use her so wantonly, and on his speaking to her of the folly of many children, she related her misadventures — So-and-so was not wanted and his sister was not sought for, Abélard listening with a superciliousness on his lips that she recognised and that caused her to break off suddenly, saying: but thou’rt at fault even as we; and Abelard answered: it was not my will but her will. Thou tellest me strange stories, Pierre, but thy life has always been different from other men’s, and what befalls thee is exceptional always. And that is why I believe thee.

  A moment later they overtook Héloïse and Madelon. Yes, my husband speaks Breton, Denise said to Héloïse, but he speaks French too. Speak to Héloïse in French, Alan. And the long, lean man replied with a few monosyllables. Abélard, cried Héloïse, Alan has twelve oxen in his byre for the farm work, and the garden is full of hives and I shall live the life of the country, watching it from season to season like Virgil. All I know of the country, Alan, she said, detaining him, is from books, and the few sights of it that show in the window of the company-room in the rue des Chantres. The labourers on the farm sleep on couches all round a kitchen, Abélard, just like the kitchen we saw at Saint-Jean-de-Braie; and there is a spiral staircase leading to Denise’s rooms. The dais on which the table is set — But, Héloïse, I know my own country, Abélard said; Le Pallet and its farmhouses are commonplace to me. A cloud of disappointment rose up in Héloïse’s face, but it quickly disappeared and she continued to ply Alan with questions.

  It was at the inn, in answer to a remark dropped by Denise, that Abélard asked his sister for news of their father and mother, who had by mutual consent broken the marriage bond and retired into the religious life, one to a monastery and the other to a nunnery within hail almost of each other; and in reply to Héloïse as to why Béranger and Lucie had taken this step, Denise told her that Béranger, their father, had been a soldier in the service of Huet IV., but feeling that his life with the world was closed, and his wife feeling the same, both had judged it wise to devote their old age to making their souls ready for God’s acceptance in the life to come. But did Pierre never tell thee, Héloïse, that his father and mother had entered the religious life? Denise asked. No; this is the first time I have heard it, Héloïse answered, and Denise raised her eyes and looked at her brother, who replied somewhat sharply: Denise, thy face is doubtful, as if I were guilty of withholding something from Héloïse. Of what matter can it be to her that our father and mother retired to monastery and convent? None, so long as thou dost not leave me for a monastery, Héloïse answered gaily. Whereupon Denise asked her brother when he would be ready to start for Brittany. To-morrow or the next day, which? Since I had the good fortune to meet thee in Tours it seems to me needless that I should follow you back to Brittany, Abélard replied, knowing as I do that Héloïse will be well cared for. But can it be that thou art not coming to Brittany with us and that we are about to part now, to-day or to-morrow? Héloïse cried. Was it this parting thou wert brooding in the ship coming from Blois? So this is thy secret. Héloïse, I will talk privately with thee, and if it seems wise to thee that I should not leave thee here but follow on to Brittany, so it shall be. Then do thy best, Denise said, to persuade him, for his father and mother will be grieved, to hear that he came more than half-way, only to turn back. We will leave you to persuade him; we have business in the city, and in thy place, Pierre, I would take Héloïse into the fields, where she can snuff the meadowsweet and become winsome again. Talk is easier indoors than in the fields, Abélard answered her, and feeling that her words had not met with his approval, she said many others to gain it, till at last his impatience frightened her out of the room with her husband and Madelon.

  When the door closed behind them, Abélard and Héloïse were standing by the window overlooking the Loire without words to praise or even eyes to see the great sunlit river and the low-lying undulating country in which herds of cattle grazed between belts and patches of forest. Nor had they a single thought for the low horizon melting into violet, nor for the sails of shipping going back and forth; all their minds were intent on themselves, on each other, on the future, on the past. Art thou going to leave me at Tours? Héloïse asked, and Abélard answered her stupidly, great man though he was, for the emotion of the moment exceeded his intelligence. Denise talks always, he said, without thought, and is therefore often tiresome to hear. It annoyed me to hear her speak of my father and mother who, having entered the religious life, would not understand that in opposing certain bishops I would raise man’s soul from the common sensuality of prayer, as we saw at Saint-Jean-de-Braie. My father and mother would not understand me, and to meet them would be painful to me and it would be painful to them. We had better remain apart from those who cannot share our thoughts. But hast no thought for the country in which thou wast born? Héloïse asked, for the town on the steep hill-side above the river, shaded at the bend with poplar-trees? Alan has been telling thee of Le Pallet, he answered, and before long he had dropped in spite of himself into a second discourse, asking Héloïse if he could love a people who were prone to hate everything that he loved and to love what he hated, and when she answered him: but the country, the forest, the river, the sails, and the skies? I could not see the whole of Brittany, every field and every laneway, every garden, every tree, every orchard, were I to give my whole life to the quest, he said, and waited for Héloïse to answer him; but although she heard him, her mind was not engaged with what he said, for she was thinking of her loss, and she did not awake from her reverie till he told her that if he were to
follow her to Brittany he would be detained there for many days, perhaps many weeks, and during that long while his pupils and disciples would be looking round like hounds for the huntsman to lead them unto the scent they had lost. Even now his presence was required in Paris to put a stop to the stories that were no doubt being told about them: if thy presence be needed in Paris, she said, go thither at once, delay not a day nor an hour; go, for though thou art dear to me there is one thing dearer than thyself — thy glory.