Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  Abélard waited with some curiosity for the hermit’s answer, but Gaucelm could not abstract himself from his thoughts, and his absent-mindedness was so apparent that Abélard began to wonder if the story he had told of the reasons which prevented him from remaining in Rodeboeuf’s service was already forgotten. Not quite forgotten, he gathered, for after excusing himself for his dreams, Gaucelm sought in his memory, and discovering therein the name of Rodebœuf, he said: have you re-entered his service? The great Comte de Rodebœuf is without lands, and having failed to gain the prize with his poem, will join the next Crusade, Abélard answered. And yourself? Gaucelm asked. You wear a mask of youth, but masks never quite shut out the truth. Good health and good living and abstemiousness hid the forties for a while from me, but my eyes begin to descry your years and they put them at thirty-eight. Two years short of my years, which are forty, Abélard replied, too old to start a trouvère’s life again. A trouvère’s life does not include many years beyond thirty. It is true my years were thirty-eight when I met the Lady Malberge the first time, and despite my age our love was prolonged till her mother began to say that Malberge was no longer as young as she used to be, said Gaucelm. Was it for words spoken by her mother that you ceased — I have never ceased to love Malberge, Gaucelm answered, and if I remember her mothers words it is for that they were spoken at the close of my forty-eighth year, when I was no longer young in love as I used to be. And one more question I would put to you — did you never wish to wed Malberge? Many times, Gaucelm answered; but held my tongue between my teeth. And Malberge? Abélard asked. Only once did she speak of marriage; it was, if I remember rightly, soon after the death of her first husband, during the first week of her widowhood, and for answer I took her hand in mine and said: wouldst sacrifice our love, Malberge? And so that the thought might not trouble her again, I spoke to her of all the men we knew, discarding them one after another, till at last a name came up, and we agreed that that was the husband decreed for her by social convenience. Nor did my judgment fail us, for her marriage is spoken of around the beautiful country of Chatelleraud as the most admirable in Touraine. We were the wise ones of the earth, who knew that love does not exist in marriage from the beginning. She has laid to heart your teaching, noble hermit, Abelard replied, and he told of the lady who had promised her love to a knight should she ever find herself out of love; on her marriage she had fallen out of love and must recompense her swain. Such, good hermit, was the Lady Malberge’s ruling at the Court of Love now in session at the Castle of Franchard, said Abélard.

  CHAP. XXIV.

  HE HAD NOT left the hermit’s cell many hours before he was overtaken by a sense of resentment against this hermitage; and the hermit’s colloquies, his polished staff of rare wood, his lute, his theories and doctrines, became suddenly abhorrent. The sham, the fraud, the falseness! But after all, he said, stopping in the middle of a glade, all they say and do is their truth, so why am I angry? It may be that Gaucelm did well to turn aside from marriage. But I am not Gaucelm; and with clouded countenance and angry mien he crossed the glade hurriedly, finding a path on the other side that led him out of the wood into the beauty of a summer day.

  The sun has not yet gone, for there are shadows and lights, but my heart tells me it must be near the sunset, for there is no hour of the day or night when we are possessed of such peace as now. In this persuasive hour our enemies are indifferent to us, almost forgotten, and our friends are far away, like the clouds. Like the sky, life is serene, inimitable, and the rich country of the Touraine, full of trees and com and vines, lies before me league after league, watered by the great river hidden from my eyes now, but which I can see with my mind’s eye driving its straight, shallow course towards the sea. The Loire winds less than any river, he said, and now it is blue in the sunset and the swallows flit over the great sandy reaches under the arches of the bridges, and thousands are high in the air. A land of corn and sand and wine is this country, and of Héloïse, he cried, for these things would be nothing to me without her. And he recalled those grassy islands she would pass by, filled with drowsy cattle brought over in boats to feed, the river growing deeper on its way to Nantes, where it became an estuary. As he walked his thoughts passed from Nantes to Paris, to Fulbert! before whom he would have to appear sooner or later. At the thought of the meeting from which he could not escape, the beautiful evening, lighted by the long rays of the setting sun, darkened, and, with all the summer landscape, was blotted from his eyes, the hermit in the wood, Rodeboeuf, the Court of Love, even Héloïse, for he was unhappy in his own heart; and the world is naught but ourselves, as the oldest philosophy tells and the newest.

  He went his way, but with a drop of poison in his heart. Sometimes the poison was active, sometimes latent, but it was always there; and nothing could set him free but Fulbert’s death, which was not to be counted on, and his reason told him that the sooner he went to Paris the easier would be the encounter. But his instinct was more powerful than his reason, and he stayed in the pleasant country of the Touraine, putting off the inevitable hour, finding some relief in the thought that the spell of circumstance would propel him to Fulbert. It is pleasanter to be propelled than to come to a decision, he said, smiling at the vein of inconsequence he had come upon in his character. To escape from himself he composed, and sometimes a whole day passed without a thought of Fulbert coming into his mind, and it was not till the end of September, towards the close of the summer season, at the moment of the great stillness when Nature seems to prepare herself for her long winter sleep, that he rode a tired horse from a village distant about thirty leagues through the half-rural, half-urban district known as the Lombard, past gardens and through lanes, the fields breaking into view with white oxen ploughing towards the headland just as of yore. He never forgot how his tired, listless horse, on approaching Paris — within half-a-league of the city — pricked up his ears and began to trot, scenting a stable. Or maybe he recognizes the bells of Saint-Germains-l’Auxerrois and Saint-Gervais, said Abélard. Anon the bells of Notre-Dame came into the ear, with the bells of the left bank answering them, sweet, reciprocating chimes: Abélard knew them all, far and near, distinguishing the deeper resonances of Notre-Dame from the chimes of such late castings as the bells of Sainte-Geneviève. The bells in the east are the bells of Saint-Victor, and those in the west are the bells of Saint-Germains-des-Prés. How beautiful is the reverberation in the still morning air, he said, and fell to thinking of the many churches on either bank of the Seine, enumerating fifteen as he crossed the Little Bridge, saying to himself: in Paris at last! It is good to depart, else we should not know the pleasure of return, he continued, reining up his horse that he might hearken to the different cries. Wake up, gentlemen, cried the bath-keeper, and come to your baths; the baths are ready, gentlemen. Jackets and cloaks to be sold, cried the tailor, he who lacks a cloak is cold to-day; fur cloaks mended, winter will soon be here again. Candles brighter than a thousand stars, cried the chandlers. Good wine at thirty-two, at sixteen, at twelve, at six and a half ha’pence a quart, cried the wine merchants. How pleasant it is to be in Paris again. Ah, if it were not for Fulbert — , Abélard muttered, and rode on again.

  Again his heart failed him, and he rode his tired horse round the city so that he might reconsider what he would say to Fulbert, when a well-known voice hailed him. About so early, Mangold, he said, and the disciple, laying hold of his masters stirrup leather, walked alongside of him, telling him that the heat of the night had kept him awake for hours, and that an unneighbourly neighbour’s dog barked all the morning. So I betook myself from my bed, saying that I would at least enjoy the new-born day, and have been recompensed, as you see, sir. But whence have you come? A long way, judging by the horse you ride; poor beast, he can hardly put one foot before the other. I will get off his back, Abélard answered, it is painful to see him, so tired is he; ten leagues to-day was his faring, and on other days seven. We have come from Tours. Let us to your lodging, master, for you w
ould doubtless hear the news from me, and it is as well you should hear it. Hast then bad news for me? Abélard asked. Of the news you will judge yourself, master; let us hasten. But we’re here, cried Abélard, and giving his horse to an ostler he bade him take great care of him, saying: he deserves it, having carried me from Tours to Paris in five days. And then, laying his hand on Mangold’s shoulder, he said: it is of Fulbert thou wouldst speak to me? Mangold answered: in Latin, when the doors are closed. So serious as that then? Abélard answered. And returning from the door, he said: tell me. When Fulbert returned from Soissons, Mangold said, and found his niece gone, he was nigh to losing his wits in grief, and has been good for little else since. For so much I can vouch, for I have seen and passed a few words with Fulbert, but the stories that are put about may be inventions to work you ill, master; we are quick to answer: these stories are lies, but the gossips answer us: where is he?

  Why — So it is well that I have come back to silence my enemies, Abélard interposed; and to do this well let me hear what the gossips have to say against me. What is said to-day, master, may be truth, Mangold answered, but the gossips are busy fabling the story that during Fulbert’s absence at Soissons, you and Héloïse and the servant Madelon rode away together over the Little Bridge in the direction of Orléans. How the story came to be put about, we don’t know; it may be false that you — It is not false, Abélard answered, but relate the story. What is said is that Fulbert returned from Soissons in a peaceful and happy mood, stopping to view the shops, passing on till he came to the river, turning the corner, for, you see, his house faces the river — I know it well, Abélard said, continue — unsuspicious of what had befallen him till, seeing his door open and children playing within his threshold, he began to wonder how such disorder had come to pass. The children could tell him nothing, and it is said that he wandered on from room to room, finding at last a letter from Héloïse telling that she had gone to Brittany. They are six days’ journey ahead of me, he is reported as saying; and catch them up I cannot, horse-riding being unsuited to my time of life. But whatever his thoughts were at first, they soon began to leave him, and it is known of a certainty that he came out of his house like one daft, whose senses had left him.

  It is the wonder of all that he did not walk into the river, for it was many hours before he knew where he was going, and would never have known had he not been met by friends who led him home and cared for him, for the man was by turns desperate and silly. It is said that for many days he did not know what he was saying, but sat mumbling like one whose wits have gone no whither that he knows, but though it is certain that he was without his wits for a while, it is true that he is as sane to-day as you and I. One thing I have forgotten, that his grief for Héloïse, his niece, is not greater than his grief for Madelon, a servant devoted to him for twenty years or more, and that the words most frequently in his mouth are: had Abélard left me Madelon I might have forgiven him the theft that love urged upon him, for love is a hard taskmaster, as all men know, but when the belly suffers the heart is hard. Such is the gossip of the city; but I doubt if it be more than folk-wit, for another story is about that he has been seen in converse with the old assassin of the mountains to whose orders all the cut-purses of the city are obedient. Indeed I have heard as much as that he was remarked waiting at the corner of the rue Coupe-Gueule.

  Abélard listened without speaking, and when Mangold ceased speaking he rose to his feet and paced the room. So it is well indeed that you came early in the morning, Mangold continued; and that I met you, for I have told you all, omitting nothing, and it is for you, master, to pick and choose and devise means of escape. This much of the story is certain, said Abélard, that Fulbert is brooding revenge. He is brooding a plan of revenge, Mangold answered, and how he may get his niece back again, for it is said that he intends to send to Brittany hirelings who will break into whatever house Héloïse may be hiding in, and carry her off to some place chosen and devised by him. The money to do the deed will come out of the coffers of the Church, so it is said. The Church is on his side, Abélard answered, for he is Canon of Notre-Dame, and even my faint adherence to the accursed doctrine is spoken of as heretical. In these days whatever doctrine one sets forth, Abélard continued, somebody is ready to declare it a heresy. But Héloïse must not be robbed from me, and I thank thee, Mangold, for thy words, for they are as a sword in my hand. To know who are my enemies, and their plans, is the way to victory. I thank thee, Mangold. But do not leave me; well eat together in an hour’s time. Now I must write a long letter to Brittany, telling that I have just heard of Fulbert’s project to send a force of men to carry off Héloïse, and that it might be well to hide her in the forest over against Clisson: in those caves known only to ourselves, mayhap. But stopping suddenly, he said: no, I will not write, for the messenger may betray me, if I should find one. A better plan will be to go this very hour, before resting and eating and drinking, to Fulbert. What thinkest thou, Mangold, that I am putting my head into a noose, or taking it out of one? Mangold seemed unwilling to answer, and Abélard had to press him to do so. I am not sure, he said; and when one is not sure advice is more than ever useless. Not sure, Abélard answered, that I would save myself from the assassination which was in my mind just now? Hast forgotten the tryst at the corner of the rue Coupe-Gueule? Such talk, Mangold replied, was repeated so that you should know all, master. Did I not say as well that it was but the chatter of the folk going to and fro about their business, hardly knowing what they were saying? Abélard replied: but where there is smoke there soon will be a fire. Why not quench the smouldering thought, and by doing so gain for myself that which my heart most desires — Héloïse? A plain imagination, and I await thy answer. Since you press me for an answer, master, there is one ready. The light that God called, a light such as yours, belongs to all the world; for a thousand years the world has waited, since Plato and Aristotle, and now you would throw God’s gift aside for a girl’s face! My good Mangold, Abelard said, in a chastened tone, even though all thou sayest be true, and that I have come to speak a truth that will set many ignorant centuries behind us, for ever behind us, how, I would ask thee, would my marriage affect the truth? Not for me, master, nor for the few who love the truth for itself, but how many truth-lovers are there in this world of ours, and the celibate has always had more power than the married. Why that should be I know not, but is it not so?

  Abélard rose to his feet suddenly, and walked to and fro without speaking, Mangold’s eyes always upon him, for the disciple saw that the master was perturbed. Mangold, he said at last, if it should be as thou sayest, if men should prefer the appearance to the reality — Jesus had no wife, Paul had none, nor had Buddha, but Socrates had, cried Mangold, and we know the trouble and the ridicule she brought upon him and perhaps his death, for she made him seem contemptible. Abélard remained deep in his thoughts for what seemed a long while to Mangold, and then, coming to a sudden decision, his instinct breaking through his reason, he said: my heart tells me the truth; I must go and claim her who belongs to me by right and only to me. God did not create this unity for nothing. Mangold, thy judgment of me comes out of a different experience. Thy youth — thou art still in it — has not passed like mine in repression. Thou goest from one girl to another joyously, with niches in thy heart for all, but in my heart there was only one niche, and I will go to her uncle to claim her, so no more. I shall find thee here when I return, and we will take food together then; and I will tell thee of Fulbert, how we met and how we parted and on what terms.

  He left the room abruptly, and looking from the window Mangold saw Abélard hastening along, the passengers saluting him as he passed, recognising, as Mangold’s heart said, the philosopher of all time. But Abélard had no thought of philosophy in his heart, which was full of Héloïse, and he hastened on, answering the salutations as he crossed the island, keeping out of sight of the ecclesiastics whom he saw collected around the church of Notre-Dame. Before it is known I have returned I
must see Fulbert; should he be away from Paris I must follow him. So did he speak to himself as he hastened down the rue des Chantres, his heart beating quickly on reaching the doorstep, his voice agitated when he answered the servant: tell the Canon that I am bringing him news of his niece and he will see me. On hearing this, without asking leave from her master she let Abélard into the house, and knowing it well, he ran before her and threw open the door of the room in which he expected to find Fulbert, saying: sir, I have come with news of your niece and to ask your forgiveness for not having brought it before, the journey being so long from Brittany.

  Fulbert started at the sound of Abélard’s voice and his face enflamed with hatred, and Abélard had need of all his courage to face the old man who sat looking at him saying nothing. Sir, though I have been in Paris but an hour, I have heard already of your grief, and I find you bowed in affliction. But your niece is well; she is safe with my people in Brittany. With thy people in Brittany, Fulbert answered, starting to his feet, and thou darest to come hither to ask my forgiveness for the seduction of my niece. I believed thee to be a continent man, who would teach her philosophy; a learned companionship I foresaw, and was deceived. All that you can say, sir, is known to me, and it has been a great grief to me during the journey to Brittany, and the journey back from Brittany. A grief to thee, Abélard? Add not hypocrisy to lechery, the Canon answered. Lechery there is none, sir, for the love that I bear for your niece is as pure as any man ever bore for woman. And all my erring, though I would not condone it, seems to me condemned somewhat harshly, men having sinned since the beginning of time, men and women together, each as culpable as the other. Even though, the Canon said, the seducer be forty and the girl be sixteen! Thy crime, Abelard, will stink in the nostrils of all men, and it is to beg me not to make known thy shame and hers that thou art here, for no better reason. But there is no better reason, or worse reason; get beyond my house at once, cried the Canon. I pray you, sir, Abélard answered, as he went towards the door, to believe that I love your niece purely as a man loves a girl who is going to become his wife. The Canon remained silent, and Abélard stood watching him, wondering of what he was thinking. I have come to ask her hand in holy wedlock, Abélard repeated. Her hand in holy wedlock! the Canon said, starting out of his reverie. My hope is that by this marriage I may obtain your forgiveness, sir. Fulbert rose to his feet and crossed the room, thinking, and then coming back he stood looking into Abélard’s face, and Abélard, mistaking his scrutiny for lack of belief in his sincerity, began to fear that he would not be able to convince the Canon that he had come to him with an honourable proposal. Your face tells me, he said, that you do not believe me. But why should you disbelieve me, knowing your niece as you do? In what other woman should I find her qualities, her wit, her learning, her beauty? — for she has beauty. But it is not for me to praise her charms. I have come to ask her hand in marriage. Thou hast come, the Canon replied, with fair words, which I find hard to believe at this moment, for I have in mind and intensely at this moment, the deception practised on me in this room. There is no need to ask me to remember, sir; it is not likely that I have forgotten anything. But I have come to ask you for your niece’s hand in marriage. And Abélard watched the Canon’s face, not liking it but too absorbed in his own thoughts and interests to read it truly. I cannot give thee an answer now, the Canon said at last; come back to me in a week’s time. There is one condition, Abélard interjected. Ah, there are conditions, the Canon said. There are stumbling-blocks in every treaty, Abélard replied. Treaty? the Canon repeated; I do not like the word. You know, sir, that my pupils and disciples will not look upon my marriage favourably, for celibacy has always been looked upon as the natural state of philosophers and teachers, and the one condition that I would make is that our marriage shall remain secret. A secret marriage, the Canon said. For how long wouldst thou have the secret kept Abélard? We cannot pry into the future too closely, we must leave the future to decide the things of the future for us, Abelard answered. But I would like to meet you on that point; let it be Héloïse herself who shall decide when our marriage shall be made public. Thou hast come to me, Abélard — I say it again — with a fair proposal, and I must put aside my own feelings and distrust of thee. I must act as reason tells me I should act. Thou wouldst wed my niece. It is a pity that thou didst not do so before, but, as thou sayest, regrets are vain, and I must not allow my natural anger to interfere with her fortune. She loves thee, and therefore would marry thee, and no more remains for me to say than that, it being thy wish and her wish, my consent will not be withheld. But I too have a condition to impose, and it is that we enter into a pact before witnesses. Thou shalt bring three of thy friends here and I shall bring three of my friends. Would it not be better, sir, Abélard said, that this promise remain secret between us two? My niece, Abélard, is a charge that I have received from my dead brother, Philippe, and he speaks through me; and I believe now that, despite the past, thou comest here as a brave and loyal man, but my brother whispers: a bond, a bond! Thy friends will not reveal the marriage, nor will mine, for if it were known, as thou sayest, thy position as a philosopher and teacher would not be the same as that of a celibate. The Church in her wisdom has made priests celibates for no other reason than that the world in its instinct believes the truth, that the married man is always implicated in sensual interests. Therefore thy marriage shall be kept secret till my niece desires to make it known. In my turn, Canon, I say that you meet me with fair words; and nothing will be said by you or done by you to injure my position during the months that must elapse before we are wedded. Months! the Canon said; why should months elapse? And Abélard answered: we are now in autumn and the road to Brittany and back is a journey of many weeks. That is true, and if she be with child —