by George Moore
Yes, sir, she is with child, Abelard said; and now, sir, you will not refuse me your hand? We will take hands when we meet here next week to enter into a covenant, Fulbert answered, and Abélard, feeling that nothing more remained to be said, bowed acquiescence and returned to Mangold, and related all he had said to the Canon and the answer he had gotten. Is a marriage ever secret? Mangold asked, and Abelard said: now, Mangold, there is no other way but the secret marriage. On one side I am threatened with assassination if I do not marry, and on the other with the loss of all I have worked for these many years if I do marry. Thou wilt come to the meeting, and after it thou wilt be better able to judge the Canon. I will come to the meeting, Mangold answered.
CHAP. XXV.
A FEW DAYS afterwards the Canon’s three friends and Abélard’s met to draw a covenant between Fulbert and Abélard, and the terms of it were that Fulbert should give his niece in marriage to Abélard, and that the marriage should take place in Paris, in a church chosen by Fulbert himself, at the beginning of next year, as soon as Héloïse was able to travel; and that if any of the six witnesses present were to die in the meantime, the five or four or three that remained should nominate others by mutual agreement; and that the marriage should be kept secret, and that the twain should live apart, without seeing each other, Héloïse with her uncle, and Abélard in his lodging as heretofore till such time as Héloïse should think meet for the advertisement of the marriage, and that till that day and afterwards Canon Fulbert should keep himself from any act or word that might prejudice Abélard in the eyes of the world, and speak of him always with deference and courtesy.
After the signing of the covenant Fulbert and Abélard embraced, promising fealty to each other, and the friends delayed at the street corner to rejoice together that their efforts had been successful, saying that a great scandal had been averted and a great philosopher preserved to the world. The belief of all was that Abélard would respect the covenant, and would go to Brittany to bring back Héloïse and wed her according to the terms laid down; the doubt, for one loitered in their minds as they turned to go their different ways, was the wisdom of a secret marriage; each of the six witnesses was certain that he would not betray the secret, but none was sure that Fulbert would overcome the temptation to harm Abélard, which he could do after the marriage more easily even than before. The success or failure of their enterprise lay in the character of Fulbert himself, and who could foresee so deep into a man’s character? He had signed the covenant in good faith, but would he think the same after his niece’s marriage as he thought before it? A riddle to himself and to others is every man. And it was with these thoughts in their minds that the six witnesses watched Fulbert’s conduct during the winter of eleven hundred and eighteen and the spring of eleven nineteen.
It proved itself to be all they could wish for, as much as they hoped and even more, for Fulbert spoke no word against Abélard, whose success in the cloister during the winter was greater than ever, students coming to him from all parts of Europe, adding to the perennial question: was Abélard greater than Plato and Aristotle, the still more interesting question: in what part has he hidden Héloïse? some averring that he had taken her away to England, others saying that she was in his own country, Brittany; and into these inventions a curious folk-tale was embroidered, it being said that Héloïse, having received instruction in Nominalism, was teaching the new philosophy in Brittany, and for so doing was to be burnt at the stake; the fact that she didn’t know the Breton language (though often pointed out) was easily slurred till the explanation came that she had learnt Breton from a Breton nurse. But the Parisians could not discover any clue to Fulbert’s attitude towards Abélard, to the courtesy with which he spoke of him, and his admiration of his talent. Paris could not do else but expatiate in wonder, for the love adventure was a plume of finer shape and hue than those that Abélard had worn hitherto so gallantly. So when at the beginning of spring he disappeared suddenly without telling anyone whither he was going, the gossips began afresh, telling, whenever two or three came together, that Abelard had gone, forsooth, to fetch Héloïse out of her hiding, to bring her back his wife; and the jealous answered: who then will care for him and his philosophy?
And Abélard himself as he journeyed through the Orléans forest, accompanied now by a guard of six hirelings, often bethought himself of what Héloïse had said to him, that there was no advancement for a man outside of the Church. But if he were to take Orders, his life would no longer be a chain of madcap, happy adventures, which it had been till now, but mere developments and analysis of received opinions, and he hated to think of himself as an animal at tether, moving circlewise, always equidistant from the centre, never able to project himself even a few feet farther into the unknown. Already the tether rope was taut; he would wed Héloïse in disappointment, for there could be no further advancement for him except in the Church, she thought, and he recalled her comely head and her grey, idealistic eyes that always seemed to be looking into thoughts and dreams rather than at things. He was not a man for her, despite her passion, but an ambition; and if he had not met her his life would have continued to be an ever-swirling adventure. But in every life there is an adventure that sums up the lesser adventures, and Héloïse was this summary, this abridgment, this compendium of life. His life would have been but the waving of a flag without her, and he could hardly doubt that she was thrown across his path for a purpose, a divine purpose mayhap.
And certain of the watchfulness of his guard, Abélard rode through the forest in meditation, his men choosing shorter roads and paths than those he had taken a year ago. Héloïse had come into his life when he was thirty-eight! Until this last year his life had been in his own hands, directed by himself, but in this last year he had lost control of his life and it was now rolling down a steep hill, carried along swiftly and more swiftly by its own weight — whither? Into some valley, in whose quiet his life would continue in that content which comes to every man and every thing in the end. On looking still further into his mind he began to perceive that no more than a seat in the runaway carriage was allotted to him; he did not wish to steer to the right or to the left, or to stop; if he wished anything, it was to increase the pace that he was going: to be happy in Héloïse’s arms if he could, or to be unhappy, no matter, but to be in her arms. He began to count the days, and broke off short in his count, for it was by no means sure that she would love him, robbed, bereft of his ambition, for, rightly or wrongly, that was how she would view his marriage, saying again, as she had said before: outside the Church there is no advancement. But is there any real advancement within the Church? She would tell him that with marriage his career was ended, and that knowledge might kill her love. The word kill recalled his danger; Mangold’s words were that Fulbert was plotting to get his revenge and might get it through assassination, and this fate he had only escaped by covenanting that he should marry Héloïse. Strange it was that in this covenant Héloïse had never been considered, not even by him, who knew that her wish was that he should enter the Church;, and he asked himself in vain if his fear of falling by the hands of Fulbert’s assassins compelled him to accept Fulbert’s terms without adding: if they be agreeable to Héloïse. It was not fear of his life that had induced him to forgo such proviso; what was it then? Abélard asked himself. How different, he cried, is this journey from the first journey, before we were afraid of Fulbert! We are not afraid of him now; it is of ourselves that we are afraid.
It would have been almost a relief to him to learn that some internal commotion of the earth had diverted the sand in the river disadvantageously, and that no ship could pass Blois, for then at least it would not be his hand but the hand of God that stayed his purpose. But alas, a ship was unfurling its sails when he arrived at Orléans, the skipper speaking of unfavourable winds, and Abélard said: the wind that took us to Tours was favourable throughout. And they had barely passed Meung when the ship drifted on a sandbank, and at Beaugency the wind blew up the
river with such force that they had to lie by. Two days later they reached Blois. After Blois was Tours, after Tours was Nantes. In a few hours, he said, I shall be in her arms, and happiness will begin again, for-nothing matters but Héloïse. The words sounded in his mind like an oracle, and he asked himself again and again if he were speaking the truth to himself. For was he sure that his career had lost, if not all, some of its attraction? Was he sure that he had ever put philosophy above minstrelsy? But of what use, he said, to torment myself with questions that I cannot answer and that time will soon answer?
His thoughts broke off suddenly, for it had come into his mind that it would not be well to speak to Héloïse at once of the covenant. Not, he said, before some days, at the end of the period, the week of love that I have promised myself, and to which I have looked so eagerly. On the morning of our departure the words should be spoken: Héloïse, thou must come with me to Paris to be wedded, for — Now what reason can I give for this wedding to which she is opposed? Not the threat of assassination, for that would be a fainthearted argument to use to convince her. The child, he said, must have a father; he cannot remain a bastard; and thoughts of his child blended with the familiar aspects of the road, every turn of which he knew, with the size and shape of every field, each tumbling wall, every wood, almost every tree, with the walls and towers of the city he was born in. At the next bend of the road they will appear, he said, and he waited for the sight of them with a growing irritation in his heart, for Brittany was instinctively alien to him, and he remembered once again how he had made his lands over to his brothers and sisters in the hope that he might thereby escape from Brittany for ever. Is it not strange, he said to himself, that what I love best in the world should bring me back to the country most antagonistic to me and my ideas, and reining in his horse he pondered in front of the city on hatred and love, asking himself which was the deeper feeling. But the stout towers and walls of Le Pallet were not favourable to abstract thinking, and he was very soon among the early days of his childhood, when Le Pallet was ravaged by the Normans and great clearances of forest were made by the Bretons to avoid being surprised by their enemies. The great round tower of the castle showed against a strip of reddening sky, and he called to mind the house in which he was born, the marketplace, the streets in which he had played as a child, and the walls, every stone of which he knew, riding by Le Pallet, however, without knocking at its gate, his thoughts set on the valley farm, on the few dozen elm-trees that sheltered the stead from the west wind, and of all, on the great well, a hundred feet deep or more, into which the serving-women let down a bucket by a chain. The grey-green stones, the dim water below, his fears of falling down, and his admiration of the men who had built this mysterious well, were still quick in his mind. The very taste of the sweet, cool water was on his tongue, and he remembered the small russet-red apples that he used to gather in the garden and eat under the gooseberry bushes, though the taking of fruit was forbidden. A few minutes after the grey-walled garden came into view with a figure bending over the garlic or onion bed — his brother-in-law or a serf? — he was still too far to be sure; nor did he care, for Héloïse was in his mind and too intensely for any other things. No need, he said to himself, to call for help, and he walked into the great kitchen, leaving his horse to wander or to wait for him, not caring which.
At last, she cried; at last! But why these words? he asked. Have I delayed longer by one hour, by one day, by one week, than the time appointed? Are not the words at last those that should be always on the lips of a mistress waiting for her lover? she replied, recovering a bare sufficiency of speech to tell him that she had borne him a boy. I knew that I should bear thee a boy, she said, but we must not wake him, and they stood by the cradle hushed. Abélard dropped on his knees so that he might hear his son’s breathing, and after listening a little he took Héloïse in his arms, this second embrace by the cradle telling a man’s gratitude to the woman who has borne him a son; and when their embrace relaxed Abélard’s arm lay still about Héloïse’s shoulders, the gesture telling better than words their appreciation of the mystery of birth. But mysteries are only for a little while, and we are glad to pass back from them to the prattle of daily life, to babies, their health, our own meals, and such like. A good baby, the best of babies, Héloïse said; I believe that there was never so good a child, and would that thou couldst see his eyes, Abélard, for he has thine own. Our voices have awakened him. The child showed no wish to close his eyes again, but seemed glad at the sight of the world. A step was heard, and his nurse said: he may be feeling hungry, madame, let me give him the breast; and she retired to a corner of the room where she could suckle him at her ease.
I have been happy here with my baby, Héloïse continued, looking forward to this day, to seeing what I have seen, for he seems to recognise thee by instinct; it cannot be doubted at least that he welcomed thee, and I love him better seeing that he loves what I love. Again she fell into her lover’s arms, and remained on his shoulder hushed in her happiness. Dear wife, dear wife! he said, overcoming the suffocation of the moment. Thy wife? Thou wilt never be my husband, but always my lover, she answered. Our child yonder has changed the mistress to the wife and the lover to the husband, Abélard replied. Abélard, thou knowest that I cannot be thy wife; not for the sake even of our child can I do that. And Abélard, guessing what was passing in her mind, said: again the vanity of my renown is troubling thee. But it is no vanity, she answered; a child might be born to thee of another woman, and a child might be born of me by another man, and these children might be no better and no worse than the great tide of children that pours over the world day after day. But when thou wast born to the world something more than a child came with thee, a great teacher, a philosopher, the greatest — Ah, say not those words again, Abélard cried; I am weary of them. To hear me praise thee — she began, but he interrupted her again: we are in the presence of something greater than my philosophy, whatever that may be worth; in the presence of a human life given to us by God. That thou gavest to me, Abélard. That God permitted me to give, Abélard answered, and that thou didst ask for, saying: partial love satisfies me no longer, I will take the hazard. Thy words were prompted by the wife in thee, the wife that I have come all this way to claim. Abélard, Abélard, I love to hear those words from thee, for I covet thy love more than all things, more than all except thy renown. Thy promise has been given to me; thou art to enter the Church, for — Héloïse, I have a story to tell thee; come let us sit on these stools and let me tell it, for stories are told better sitting than standing.
