Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  VOLUME II.

  TO THE READER.

  IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING PAGE 18 of volume 2 will be found some supplementary pages written too late to be printed in their proper place in the text. These pages are numbered 1 to 8 and this matter appears only in the American edition.

  CHAP. XXI.

  THE SHIP THAT brought the twain from Orléans to Tours was still lying alongside the wharf, and it was Denise’s project that they should hire it to take herself and Alan back to Nantes, for Abélard had seen a horse in the inn stables that pleased him, and was saying that horses might be dearer at Orléans than at Tours, and that it was not likely that he would see one that pleased him more than a certain bay stallion. A moment after the ostler led the horse into the yard, and Alan whispered that he was a bargain. Abélard sprang into the saddle and rode around the yard, the bay stallion bucking a little, Abélard balancing his long body, his short legs tight about the horse like a girth — a broad, lean man, who sat the bay stallion well, his shoulders square, his hands low down on the horse’s withers. The horse bounded across the yard, bucked and bounded again, till, feeling the task to unseat his rider to be hopeless, he suddenly stopped, and stood champing the bit, in a rage. Alan had his hand on one rein and the owner of the horse had his on the other. He bucks in no evil intent, said the horsedealer; it’s only his play. He will not kick again, for he has learnt his master, Alan said, returning to Denise, who was anxious that Abélard should not buy so headstrong a brute. Dissuade Abélard! cried Alan; look at him and tell me if his body and mind are not as like as twins, as stubborn one as the other. Alan is quite right, Héloïse answered quickly; were the world searched, nothing more like his mind would be found than his body. But like Denise, she was averse from savage animals, and Abélard, to cut a story that was beginning to be a long one, short, rode away waving his hand, saying to himself: everything is settled; protracted farewells may be borne only by those whose hearts are cold. And knowing himself to be already sick with grief at parting from his dear Héloïse, and that his pain would grow worse day by day, he began to think of the book that she wished him to write (the title they had discovered together: Sic et non), and rode in meditation of it for her sake, till he caught sight of a tall man walking very quickly in front of him. To pass him by he would have to push his horse into a trot, and he did not do this, for he could not put it out of his mind that he had known somebody who walked with that very gait, somebody whom he had known long ago and intimately. But though he rummaged his memory he failed always at the last moment to recall his former friend, and in his perplexity, as he was about to pass the wayfarer by he drew rein, saying to himself: it cannot be, and yet — He trotted his horse on again and looked back. It is the Comte de Rodebœuf, he said to himself, tramping the road in tatters like any common gleeman, a lute upon his back. The Comte de Rodebœuf himself, or the devil, he said aloud. The Comte de Rodebœuf I am, and maybe on my way to the devil, but whose are the eyes that can see the Comte de Rodebœuf through these sorry rags? The Comte de Rodebœuf’s eyes are blinder than mine, Abélard answered, for seemingly he does not know his gleeman of old time, Lucien de Marolle. Lucien de Marolle, Rodebœuf repeated, but I remember him well; my horse found him asleep under a tree, and afterwards we sang and composed together for many months, eighteen months or two years, maybe, I have forgotten which. Abélard replied: my name is now Pierre Abélard. Now a trouvère, the Comte interjected, ascended from gleeman to trouvère, while I descended from trouvère to gleeman. Sir — began Abélard, but the Comte, stopping him, said: we are equals, and had distinctions to be indulged in it would be for me to honour thee with plurality; but I have not forgotten Lucien altogether, so well thou and thee each other as wayfarers should. But thy garb is — ? Philosophic, Abélard answered. No surprise is that, the Comte answered, for thou wast never without a thought for dialectics, and could put down the lute with pleasure to embarrass a man with subtle reasoning till he found himself in a quandary, and then the spirit of the lute would rise up in thee again and philosophy would be forgotten, Pierre du Pallet. So Pierre du Pallet is now Pierre Abélard, the greatest philosopher since Plato. Which may be true or false, Abélard cried, but it is certain that thou’rt the Comte de Rodebœuf, and it ill befits me to ride beside thee when thou goest on foot. My good Pierre, it is greatly pleasing to me to meet thee in the flutter of thy good fortune, and I pray that it may never leave thee; but unless thy way be mine, we must part, for I have business by yonder hill which may mend my state. But I would come with thee and hear thy story and tell thee mine, and help thee if I may, Abélard rejoined. To help me, the Comte replied, will be an easy task, for thou’rt the best lutanist in the land of France, and my broken fingers cannot touch the strings as they used to in the olden days. Wilt play for me? Of a certainty I will, Abélard said; but are the trees and the clouds our audience? Not so, the Comte answered; but let us hasten our steps and I will tell thee as we march along. There is a coach that ascends that hill-side at sunset, and if we are there before it comes the passengers will distribute largess for our songs. Of a certainty, said Abélard, I will play and sing for thee, but — Of what thi` — st thou? Rodebœuf enquired. Of the horse I am riding, Abélard replied. Thou’lt leave him at the inn, Rodebœuf answered; a good hostel Res between us and the last hill, and the last half-league we will walk together and wait in the shade of a rock, for there are no trees, till the coach comes into sight. The adventure pleases me greatly, said Abélard, and I shall listen to the story of thy broken fingers, with sorrow, of course. My fingers, my fingers! the Comte cried, thou shalt hear their story when we have collected our pence on yonder hill-side. Ride on in front of me, and when thy horse has been stabled follow the road and find me on the hill-side.

  Abélard struck his heels into his horse, forgetful of the animal’s temper, and the fight was a stiff one, but Abélard was again the victor, and when he walked out of the inn stables after giving instructions for the care of his horse he caught sight of Rodeboeuf coming round the bend in the road, hurrying over the ground as fast as his long legs could carry him, for the Comte de Rodebœuf was a tall, hale man, with a red beard and a pleasing voice that cried: come, come, all the haste we can make is needed. But if we hurry so, Abélard cried, we shall have no breath for song. True, thou art shorter legged than I, and as I do not catch sight of the coach on which my hope is set, let us carry our thoughts back to Erato, the Muse of light song I believe her to be, but thou canst tell me. Abélard was about to reply, but seeing the Comte bent over the dust in search of tracks, he refrained. I see no tracks, and as I gather from the undisturbed dust that we are in time, we would do well to rehearse our little concert. We will sing our old songs if thou hast not forgotten them, said Abélard. Not one have I forgotten — not one of mine nor one of thine. Ten minutes, no more, is needed for rehearsal. To it, he cried, handing Abélard his lute, and as they knew each other’s methods from old time an excellent entertainment was ready for the travellers when they appeared. Coin after coin was thrown to the gleemen, and when the coach horses broke into a trot the Comte de Rodebœuf said: if we could do as well each day as we have done to-day, there would be no need to complain of my evil fortune. And I am glad that it is to thee, Pierre, that I owe this little store; to no one would I liefer be indebted. The debt may be paid with thy story, Mathieu, Abélard answered. Let me hear how the great Comte de Rodebœuf lost all his money and estates and became a travelling gleeman.

  Thou’lt not believe that such a reversal of fortune could befall me or any man, and of all me, whose life till a few years ago was successful in all things, in the lists, in song and love story. Dost believe in evil powers, Abélard? In the spells of the witches, and the enchantments of magicians, sorcerers, and the like? In devils, of course, for there could not be a hell without devils. But there are evil spirits that are not in hell, and other evils. Who does not believe in the evil eye? And there are gems that bring evil upon those who wear them. The opal is of evil repute
, and we shrink from a man who wears one. Worst of all, there are animals that bring evil, as is well known. Men who have been fortunate all their lives become possessed of a certain dog or horse, and from that moment are followed by misfortune and disaster. Birds have always been believed to be the harbingers of good or evil tidings; ravens are a sign of death, magpies cannot be seen separately without danger if we do not turn round three times. These birds are speaking birds, the most dangerous to man, as I know to my cost, and the dealer who sold me Laure knew it, for of a certainty he was of the plot to do me evil; but I know not whether his power was on the bird or the bird’s power on him. Let this pass: I bought a grey bird, whose wrinkled eyelid fell over an eye that seemed to know all things. Thou’rt thinking that it would be easy to wring the neck of such a bird, Pierre, and I often thought of ridding myself of Laure in that way (Laure was the bird’s name), but I could not bring myself to wring her neck, whether from some inward fear or some outward fear I do not know. Nor would it have been easy for me to wring Laure’s neck, for as soon as I approached her cage, Laure began to meditate the harm she might do me, and I’m not thinking of her beak, though these birds bite to the very bone. Let this pass, for one reason or another I never strangled that evil bird, but let her live to bring about my ruin.

  But before I tell the haps, I will tell thee something of the bird’s hatred of me, how it flashed out of her round, black eyes whenever I went near her. She was dependent upon me for all she ate and drank. Was it for that she hated me? I often wondered. We cannot enter into a bird’s thoughts, but for certain Laure loved evil for evil’s sake, for if I gave her a piece of cake, she would look round for the dog, whistle for him, and Fido would come jumping gleefully into the room. Laure would show him the cake, and poor Fido, who loved cake, would go sniffing, unsuspicious, to the cage, the wicked bird enticing the dog on till his nose was within reach. She would hold on to the dog’s nose, and when she released him, Laure would look down from her perch, her round eyes full of malice and hate. As Fido was always getting into trouble with Laure I put the bird into another room. But I haven’t told that the bird was bought in the hope that she would learn some phrases of tenderness from me; and when they were perfectly remembered, my project was to present Laure to the Lady Margherita, the wife of my neighbour, the Comte Raymond de Castel-Roussillon. Thou hast him in mind still, Abélard, and our visits to his castle, thou and I, and the great tourney that was held there when I challenged all comers to meet me in the lists, and overcame all comers, wearing the sleeve of Lady Margherita? If thou hast not forgotten Raymond altogether, thou hast in mind an almost crooked little fellow, who escaped the shape of a dwarf and hunchback, but by so little that his frail legs would not bear him to the tourney. Nor was he equal to writing the humblest song or sonnet, couplet or stanza; plaint or dirge were rarely tried by him, and it was hard not to smile when he read his poems. But this can be said for him, that he soon understood that the Muses had not called him, and he often said it was fortunate that I was a neighbour, for without me his wife’s beauty would remain unsung. Dost remember her, the gracious Lady Margherita? Abelard nodded, saying that her image was fixed in his memory. Thy story rouses me, he said; continue, old friend, continue. The wicked bird, I am telling, would learn no tender phrase nor song of mine; and if I persisted in my teaching the wrinkled eyelid dropped over the round black eye, and I was not sure whether Laure slept or waked. I was often much concerned to know what to do with this bird; give her away I could not, having spoken of Laure to Lady Margherita, who was looking forward to hearing the bird talk to her of me and whistle snatches of my songs during the long intervals which we had to endure lest Raymond should suspect our attachment for one another. So on my next visit to the castle I took the bird with me and gave him into the charge of my lady, for it seemed to me that even this devil would yield to the beauty and the sympathy and the charm of Margherita. But it was not so. The bird’s mind was made up against Margherita at once, and she formed a hatred against her that mayhap caused her to forget her hatred of me, at which we were much surprised. Our surprise increased when the bird took Raymond into her affection, a man in whom there was nothing that might win the love of man or woman. I would not say anything ungracious of my old friend, but to speak the whole truth, Abélard, Raymond never had a sincere friend but me. So it fell out that Laure was only happy with Raymond, and we noticed that she moped when he left the room, and that her hatred of us if we drew near her was greater than ever it was when he was present; and we noticed too, indeed the sight was most flagrant, that when Raymond came in she would call to him to open her cage, and out of it she would come, and climbing up his arm to his shoulder, her head against his ear, she would talk to him privily; and we were glad of this, suspecting nothing, thinking that Raymond had made a friend at last.

  Laure’s attachment to him was a great joy to Raymond, and we all wished to please him. He was flattered that this bird that cared for nobody else should attach herself to him, and we often wondered what she said to the Comte, for when in the mood Laure seemed to be able to say anything; she would speak things we had never heard her say before, whilst we sat quaking, Margherita and myself, lest the bird had learnt some of our talk that would leave the Comte doubtful of our love. If the morning were wet, Laure would say: it’s a wet morning, a very wet morning, Laure doesn’t want to go out in the wet. Pretty little Laure, pretty little Laure, doesn’t believe in getting wet. If the day was sunny she never said it was raining, but: a nice sunny day, a nice day for a walk, for Laure to go for a walk in the garden, and so forth, and there were many more phrases which I cannot remember. But very soon we began to notice that she was talkative only when Raymond was in the room; when Margherita and myself were alone with her, she sat on her perch silent and solemn, listening to us, learning what we said to each other, getting by heart all the little phrases of endearment between lovers: I wonder how it is I love you so dearly, Margherita, for thou art more to me than anything, and all my happiness is being with thee. This she could say as plainly as you or I, causing us often to quake, till one day we saw her lay her head against Raymond’s ear and heard her speak some phrases of our endearments into it. Raymond rose from his seat astonished, for he had never used the words: when naked thou’rt soft and sweet as a rose. He said nothing, but his look chilled our hearts, for we could not think else than that he suspected us, and we noticed that he spoke little to us but watched us as he had never done before. Raymond is meditating something, I said to myself, trying to find courage to ask me if it is true that I love his wife. Raymond was by nature a shy, sullen man, who kept turning a thing over in his mind, but never speaking his mind to us, trusting himself only to Laure, who now spent most of the day on his shoulder. We quaked when we heard her speak the words into his ear: I wonder how it is I love thee dearly, Margherita, and all my happiness is being with thee. It is often said that wisdom comes out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, but this time it came from a parrots beak. Hast thou deceived me, Mathieu, or is the bird a liar? Raymond asked me one day as we rode from the castle with our falconers. I have not deceived thee, Raymond, I answered; nor is the bird a liar. She was owned by another Margherita. I had not thought of that, Raymond replied, and the gloom passed out of his face, and I was heartened when he said: forgive me for mistrusting thee.

  But that evening as we sat together, Laure began to mutter: Mathieu, I love thee dearly. Wouldst thou have me believe, cried Raymond, that this parrot was owned by another Margherita who loved another Mathieu? and he looked at his wife steadily, and the silence throughout the room was unbearable. Wouldst thou have me believe, he repeated, that this bird was owned by another Margherita and another Mathieu? Raymond, said Margherita, the parrot is no liar; we love each other dearly. But you have not sinned? Raymond asked. Whereupon the bird answered: we all enjoy a little sin, pretty little Laure. Raymond, I said, this bird is possessed of an evil spirit whose aim is to bring about our ruin. Margherita has spoken t
he truth, we love each other dearly; could it be else that I could live side by side in company with so beautiful a woman as Margherita without loving her? My songs have made her beauty known to all the world, and these songs could not have been written if I had not loved her and if my love was not returned. It is true that thy songs seemed to be written out of thy heart, Raymond answered, but I hoped that my friend was a faithful friend. And rising from his seat, he said: I know not whether to put my trust in the bird or in you. Laure will tell the truth to me perchance. And he called the bird out of her cage, and Laure walked up his arm and laid her head against his ear. But no word would she speak. Margherita, he said, it was thy grief always that thou didst marry a man who could not make known thy beauty to the world: and that was why Mathieu came hither, said Raymond. Then picking up the thread of argument from Margherita quickly, I turned to Raymond, saying: no man loves songs and music like thee, and the Muses repay us for our many nights of toil and labour with a woman’s love, and of thee they ask forbearance. Wilt thou prove unfaithful to the arts thou hast loved by separating us for ever? Other knights may praise the Lady Margherita, Raymond muttered. But none will praise me, Margherita answered, as he has praised me. I love you both, though my love for you both is a different love. I love Mathieu for his genius, and thee for thy recognition of it. By the power of tenson, stanza, ballade and rondeau, I have been made famous in France, and in making me famous he has exalted thee among men; thou art the husband of the most beautiful woman in France, and it cannot be that thou wouldst destroy with thine own hands the fame we have built up for thee. Thou shalt not destroy thyself, Raymond, she said; and taking a hint once more from the Lady Margherita, I said: whilst thou wast with thy wife last night, sleeping side by side, I was striving with sonnet and pastourelle, thinking amid many difficulties of expression and action of the joy my rhymes would be to thee. Here are the labours of the night, and I passed several dawn songs and reverdies into Raymond’s hands, together with some serenades; and while he read them, I watched his face, noting that he missed nothing and loved it all. So taking my lute up gently I struck some chords to enhance the melody, and so well did I do this that Raymond began to soften towards us and would have taken us both in his arms, saying: for the sake of the art of which we all three are different promoters I will forgive thee. He would have spoken these words of a certainty if the bird on his shoulder had not said: Mathieu loves Margherita, for her breasts are white as doves and her garden is sweet in his nostrils; which was true indeed, but which roused Raymond into such a fury of passion that he tore up my beautiful songs and threw the pieces upon the fire. And after watching them burning for a while he rushed across the room and returned with a sword, with which he would have killed me if I had not fled on to the balcony. Nor was I safe from him there; the bird’s screams urged him after me, and escape was no longer possible except by springing from the balcony, which I did, thereby breaking my wrist and fingers. Such is my story, and for why I am no longer a lute-player, Pierre, look at my maimed hands.