by George Moore
My servants found me in the morning and carried me away to my castle, where I slowly recovered. Only a partial recovery it was, Abelard, for I have never been the same since in mind or body, not since that night when an evil bird accomplished my ruin.
So that is how the world lost its lute-player, said Abélard. My life in the beginning was all good fortune, Rodeboeuf answered, but the spell was cast and it was never raised. Worst of all, after my fingers, I lost my heart, to a lady less worthy than Margherita, for whom I gave great tournaments and composed much. But my songs estranged us. Thy fingers, she said, are gone; thy lute-playing is over for ever and the songs written for me are less than the songs composed for the Lady Margherita. I believed that her heart would soften, and continued to give tournaments in her honour. I gave large sums of money to the Crusades in the hope of winning back my luck. Lady Beatrice died, and my lands were sold to pay the priests to sing Masses for the repose of her soul. And here am I, Pierre Abélard, in a gleeman’s rags, a gleeman without a patron, a gleeman without fingers, striving to pick up my living, an outcast on the road, who, if he does not find a patron soon, will have to seek his fortune in Palestine. And what hope hast thou, Abélard asked, of finding a patron? One may be found, Rodeboeuf answered, in the Castle of Franchard; a Court of Love is being held there, and a prize will be given for the best song. But I can write no more songs, neither the words of the songs nor the music that follows the words. My head is as empty as my heart; but if thou wilt write a song for me I can sing it. Pierre Abélard, we were comrades long ago; save me from the Saracen. If a song of mine will save thee, I will write one; and my heart will be in it, for a song I have not written this many a day, Abélard answered. Then let us go hence to write a song together, and that we can do well in the inn yonder. Write me a song, Abélard, that will save me from Palestine, for I have no stomach for crossing the sea to fight the Saracen. But to Palestine I must go, for I have no heart to sing on hill-sides, wheedling pennies from passengers on a coach, nor for loitering at street corners strumming till housewives put their heads out of the windows. The Comte Mathieu de Rodeboeuf must find a patron or die in Palestine. Come, Abélard, we are rested; come and write a song for me at the inn.
CHAP. XXII.
THE DAY DIED pale and fragrant as a flower and the night was half over when the moon rose through the orchard trees. A minstrel, eager to be heard, struck a chord and began a song, but screams and coarse laughter compelled him to lay aside his lute in despair: music will have to wait, he said, till the low fellows and their wenches yonder have drunken themselves sleepy;, till then, let us talk. Abélard called for wine, and story was at height among the minstrels when a black-bearded man with Southern brilliancy and vivacity in his eyes and voice (a Basque he was guessed to be by many) came whirling towards them, dragging after him two unwilling wolves in leash. On hearing that my old friend, the Comte de Rodeboeuf — he began. Thy old friend, the Comte de Rodeboeuf, is here to welcome Jean Guiscard. Thou wast never as other men, Jean, for a kind heart seems to have brought thee prosperity. What wine wilt thou drink? I will drink wine from thy flagon and sing some of my new songs to the company, Jean Guiscard answered, but catching sight of smiles upon all faces, he looked enquiringly at Rodeboeuf. At that moment a great outburst from the gleemen and gleemaidens in the field behind the inn rendered a reply from Rodeboeuf unnecessary, and Jean Guiscard said: men must amuse themselves according to their wont; and wishing that all should hear him, he began to narrate his errand again, saying that when tidings of the Comte de Rodeboeuf came to the Castle of Franchard, he begged permission of the most noble Vicomtesse de Chatelleraud, the President in the absence of Eleanor of Aquitaine, now in Palestine, that he might go to the inn and welcome his friend, and answering him out of her well-known care for music, she said: yes, go to thy old friend, the Comte Mathieu de Rodeboeuf, the great lutanist of France, and bring him here to-morrow, for I would see him. And then we spoke of the lady in whose honour thou gavest many tournaments, for whom thou didst tilt in many victorious sallies, and whose beauty thy songs made known to all the world. Jean Guiscard had to press Rodeboeuf for an answer, saying, to get one: is’t true that the love of the Lady Margherita cost thee thy lands and castle? Had she cost me no more than my lands and castle, Rodeboeuf replied, things would be better with me than they are. She cost me my fingers, and for lack of them thou seest the great Comte de Rodeboeuf fallen so low that he can fall no lower. To the story of thy fingers, said Guiscard, we would hear the whole of it, for though we cannot restore thy fingers to thee, the hope of the Vicomtesse de Chatelleraud and of all the presidents of the Courts of Love is to put thee back into the ease and leisure thy songs have earned for thee. To thy story, great singer.
And when Jean Guiscard had heard the story of the Comte’s misfortunes, he said: the Lady Margherita and the Comte Raymond de Castel-Roussillon, both of whom owe their renown to the Comte Mathieu de Rodebœuf, shall be called upon to relieve him of his poverty. We have a duty to perform towards thee; thy rehabilitation is no less than the strict duty of our Court, now in session. My cause appeals —
Rodeboeuf began. Thy cause appeals, Jean Guiscard interrupted, to the whole of French minstrelsy. Maybe, said Rodeboeuf, it is as thou sayest, that my songs have earned me the right to the help of French minstrelsy. But it was not for the love of the Lady Margherita that I wasted my substance in festival and tourney, but for the love of the Lady Beatrice. Then the Lady Beatrice, Jean Guiscard cried, shall be called upon. The Lady Beatrice will be called in vain, Rodeboeuf replied, for she is amongst the gone now two years come Michaelmas. For his care of thee, her husband will hold a place next to thee in the story of French minstrelsy, said Jean Guiscard, and he should — The songs I wrote in praise of the Lady Beatrice, alas, Rodeboeuf replied, did not win the same glory as those I wrote for the Lady Margherita.
Then it is the duty of the Lady Margherita — cried Jean Guiscard. But, good friend, Rodeboeuf responded dolefully, I sang the praises of the Lady Beatrice, and in these songs — Ah, well do I know how the rhyme runs away with the singer, said Jean. Thy case is no simple one, but the Court shall consider it, and whatever the judgment may be thy estate will be bettered. It cannot be worsened, Rodeboeuf exclaimed. But thinkest that the way to escape from the horns of the dilemma would be to grant me a prize for a song? Enlarging the original sum, Abélard interjected; making it worthy of the acceptance of the great Comte de Rodeboeuf, whose gleeman I once had the honour to be in days gone by.
Jean Guiscard nodded a careless approval, and without troubling Abélard with questions he allowed his mind to return to the Castle of Franchard and its many duties, telling that a judgment would be given to-morrow that would make clear the new laws of love or the old laws fallen into disuse, for one of the first cases to be heard was a minstrel’s, who, when his hopes were at their highest, began to notice that his lady’s face had changed from pleasure to dismay. And on enquiring the cause of the change, she answered: it is a pleasure to listen to thee, minstrel, but I love another. Whereupon his heart sank, and she said: but if ever I should cease to be in love I pray thee to present thy petition again. So overjoyed the minstrel was by these gracious words that he rode away, certain that though his present might be dark his future would be bright. But three weeks were barely gone when the news came to him that the lady had married her lover, said Guiscard; and it having been laid down by Eleanor of Aquitaine that love cannot exist in marriage, he has brought a suit against her. But how, said Abélard, will this ingenious case be decided? Without turning his head, Jean Guiscard answered that there was little doubt that the Vicomtesse de Chatelleraud would uphold the ruling of Eleanor of Aquitaine — And call upon the lady to recompense the minstrel, Abélard interjected. As Jean Guiscard did not answer the Comte de Rodebœuf was about to name the two men to each other, but Abélard laid his hand upon Rodeboeuf’s arm and whispered in his ear: remember that I am Abélard only for thee; for the company I am the gleeman Luc
ien de Marolle. Out of deference to Rodebœuf’s friendship for his gleeman Jean Guiscard softened a little to Abélard. Thou wouldst know, he said, turning to him, the fate of the lady should she fail to redeem her promise to the minstrel? She will forfeit our approbation and pay the penalty of disobedience to our president, to be held in little esteem by all who number themselves of our company.
He put out his hand for the flagon; Rodebœuf passed it to him, and very soon it began to seem to all that the great trouvère had come to them full of wine and might be unable to tell them if he had regained the love of his lady, whose beauty he had celebrated in the loveliest songs of French minstrelsy. It was known that he had left her castle and sung the praises of another, whom he had left abruptly and den voted himself to great deeds to win Louve out of her obstinacy, for she refused to see him. Before his arrival that evening the strangest tales were told about him; his madness or death were expected by the minstrels, and the violent drinking, to which they were witnesses, was whispered to be part of his love; no doubt it was, and in grave disquiet they watched Jean Guiscard emptying flagon after flagon, each minstrel debating how Jean might be coaxed into the con-
TO THE READER
(THE FOLLOWING PAGES of corrections and additions were written too late to appear in their proper place in the text of Héloïse and Abélard, so it was necessary to print them separately. They appear only in the American edition of the work and should be read before the first paragraph, p. 19, vol.2.)
It is as good, better than any of those I wrote in the old days, he cried, clinging to the mane and seeking the stirrup with his foot. My head is full of squabbling rhymes and tunes, but I shall find a quiet room at Blois where I can put my verses into order in two weeks, for I would return to hear tidings of the prize. Let thy prayers be that my verses shall not prove unworthy of her, he cried, looking back over the heads of trouvères and gleemen going to the Castle of Franchard or returning from it singing their songs.
He pricked on, intent on his verses, but composition was incompatible whilst trotting, and if he drew bridle wayfarers stopped in front of his horse to enquire from him the names of those who had won the great prizes; and to escape from them he urged his nag into a canter till he came to an empty road which seemed to him favourable to the poet or musician, whichever happened to be uppermost in him at the moment.
The muses haunt the hill’s summit, he said, and the patient animal began to climb, stopping, however, before he was asked to stop, in front of an inn that seemed to promise a fulfilment of Abelard’s hopes of board, lodging and privacy. But whilst trying to come to terms with the taverner, Héloïse’s voice called out of his heart, saying: it was at an inn by the waterside that we breakfasted together, and at once he began to seek reasons for not coming to terms with the taverner, whom he left growling at clerks who did not know their own minds. The inn was here, he said, overlooking the river behind these limes, and to the taverner, whom the sound of hooves had drawn to his front door: it was here that a beautiful young woman and myself sat eating delicious meats? It was indeed in my inn that you and your lady partook of the shad I had the honour of setting before you, as fine a fish as ever came out of the Loire. Thy words, taverner, bring the flavour of thy shad to my mouth; but it behoves me now to think of quiet, for I have come hither for the writing of songs rather than for the eating of shad, and thine inn is a tryst for gleemen. Gleemen and even trouvères assemble in my courtyard, replied the taverner, but all these are now at the Castle of Franchard and shad is now past its season. For her sake who is no longer with me but is on her way to Brittany, where she will remain till her baby’s birth, I will abide here, writing my songs, borrowing a lute from the taverner, if thou hast one. A lute I have indeed, and it is at your service, the taverner answered, and went away astonished at his guest’s loquacity, saying to himself: he is as affable as a gleeman, though his habit be a clerk’s. Thy lute is to my liking, Abélard said, running his fingers over the strings, and pleased with his lodging he descended the stairs to supper. But after his long ride he was too tired to eat with pleasure and when he had tasted food sought his bed, where between the fitful, shallow sleep of a man who has spent a long day on horseback, he pursued his rhymes, longing for the morning.
But when the morrow came his rhymes were not with him, and when he ran his fingers over the strings the notes did not fall into a lilt. Neither a lilt, tune, nor rhyme is with me today, he said. Héloïse is too near for me to write about her. That is it, or my trick has deserted me; yet it was with me at Franchard. And in growing dissatisfaction and weariness of spirit he began to consider the six months that must pass before he would see her again, his promise to her being not to return to Brittany till she had renewed her figure, an order inspired by her vanity or by her love of him. Which? he asked himself. And sometime this summer or in the autumn I must go to Paris to obtain the Canon’s pardon and arrange our marriage, for the state of mistress and lover is no longer compatible, she being with child. My marriage with her! he repeated, becoming suddenly aware of the penalty marriage would impose. But a man’s talent and career are not lost, as she thinks, if he marry, nor retained, as she believes, if he abstains and lives in celibacy.
Life is not so simple as that, he said, and rising from the table he walked impatiently to the window to watch the Loire flowing by, till a memory came into his mind of a quarrel, come about through her wish to visit him in his room one night, despite the danger of the Canon hearing their voices from the stairs. He has been about the house for several nights, unable to sleep, he had said. A reason for his sleeping soundly to-night, she answered; I pressed the wine upon him for that and he drank deeply. It may be so, he replied, but better surely to abstain from each other for one night more; and then if the Canon fails to sleep soundly we will enquire for an opiate at the herbalist. But Héloïse would not be gainsaid, and anger broke into her face. He is restless to-night, more restless than he was yesternight; I pray thee to believe me and to bear thy love in patience. But her love was now past her patience and she turned away abruptly, leaving him to go to his room asking himself what he had done to deserve this rebuff, and to fall asleep while seeking a reason for her conduct, so unlike her.
It may have been her weight on the bedside that awakened him, or some dream, perchance, of her, for she was not long sitting by him when his eyes were opened as by a command, and seeing Héloïse in tears he began to wonder at the beauty of her face, now more beautiful than he had ever seen it before.
I have been weeping, she said — For how long? he asked.
Since I saw thee last. And how long is that? Three hours, she answered, and no longer able to bear my grief I could not do else than disobey thy dear command, given, I know, for my safety. He stretched his arms to her, and placing the lamp on the table without blowing out the flame, she dropped her garment and glided down by his side, her face glowing with anticipation of the pleasure she could not withhold herself from any longer, nor long endure, but must escape out of into the nothingness of a swoon so deep that he could not awaken her. So heavy did she lie, almost without sign of life, beyond words or even kisses, that only a sigh could he get in answer, and if he tried to lift her, her eyes opened for a moment and she dropped into a swoon again. A swoon that may be death, he said; and every moment our danger is greater, for should the Canon’s sleep be broken we are undone.
But though he spoke into her ear again he could not rouse her, and at last, not knowing what else to do, he took her in his arms and carried her out of his room through the company room to hers at the head of the stairs, nearly dropping her once in his dread that the creaking floor was creaking under the Canon’s weight. After laying her in her bed he would have escaped back to his room, but she, afraid of nothing, detained him, till in a sudden return of spirit she began to tell her love of him and the wonder he was to her imagination, not in the jargon but in the familiar Latin of which she was so complete a master that her words came out of her heart in perfect seq
uence and with a sudden burst of passion incomparable.
No one had ever heard before a woman speak of love as she did, and not only of her love of him but of the poets who had loved before them. To listen to her was a spiritual intoxication, and he forgot the danger of the Canon, who might at any moment come up the staircase. But he did not come, and they continued to tell each other till daybreak of the verses they admired, she quoting three or four lines, sometimes ten or twelve, and when her memory failed her he was often able to prompt her. Now it was Ovid they were reciting, and then Virgil; afterwards a poet whom she loved better than he did, Tibullus, for being at heart a Pagan she liked to read of the old Gods and their worship in ancient Rome. But he, being a Christian, was sometimes alarmed at the slavery into which he felt his life was falling, all things slipping away from him, even his Christianity, while he was with her; and now that he was away from her, she in Brittany and he by the side of the Loire, the sense of his slavery frightened him, and he asked himself if the words ‘frightened him’ were the ones to choose when speaking of her. No; frightened he was not; but this he knew of a certainty, that his life, hitherto a triumph, would change — for better or for worse he knew not, but it would change. He had come to a parting of the ways. She would have him become a prelate, an archbishop, but he would as lief return to Fulbert and ask him for her hand in marriage. He knew that he must have her as his wife, wherefore the separation he was enduring was unnecessary; and if she remained his mistress and not his wife these separations would continue, becoming longer and their meetings briefer, till life lost its savour — philosophy leading him no longer, songs and tunes and poems and their music appealing to him no more.
