Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  You must eat and not read so much, the lay sister said, for Héloïse did not put aside her book and apply herself to the platters but read while she ate, the meal seeming a tiresome interruption to her. She was still reading when the Prioress came into the room an hour later abruptly and a little fussed, saying that Abélard had arrived with Hubert, the Archbishop’s chaplain, who has come, she said, to find out from thee if it be thy wish to enter the religious life (as if thou wouldst have come hither and asked to be admitted if it were not thy wish). Am I to go to him now? Héloïse asked, and the Prioress answered: yes; and when his scruples are satisfied we will join you, myself and the Mothers and Stephen, our chaplain. Héloïse rose and walked down the passage, stopping a moment to consider how she could answer the questions that would be put to her, and the Prioress, who was watching, said: she is not certain of herself; I’ll run and offer up a prayer in the chapel. And while the Prioress prayed Héloïse passed into the parlour, to meet there a small, thin, bony, olive-coloured man, with bright, intelligent eyes and an alert voice. His eyes are full of enquiry, was her comment, and I must be upon my guard; and checking the impulse to talk, she listened to him without a sign of interest or appreciation on her face while he told her that Abélard had called yesterday on the Archbishop to tell him that he wished to enter the religious life. Héloïse’s coldness checked the priest in his amiable mood, but as she did not speak he was obliged to continue talking, telling her that years ago the ecclesiastics of Notre-Dame hoped that Abélard would enter the religious life; but last winter the rumour ran through the city that Abélard intended to go to Brittany in the spring to fetch you back and make you his wife. So Fulbert was already preparing the announcement of the wedding even before it took place, Héloïse said to herself, and she crossed her hands and looked demure, for she was determined to reveal little of herself to the Archbishop’s chaplain. Hubert waited for her to speak, but she kept herself from speaking till the silence became so irritating that he found himself again obliged to break the pause. It was a surprise to his Grace to hear that you had decided to enter the religious life. Again the priest waited for Héloïse to speak, and this time feeling that she must say something, she said: his Grace’s surprise was most natural; and so that she might not seem wilfully reserved, she added: we were surprised ourselves. You left your uncle’s house last spring and have been in Brittany ever since? said the priest. Living at Le Pallet, Héloïse answered. Your baby was born in Brittany and you have left him? the priest rejoined, and Héloïse replied: my baby is but four months old; we could not bring him with us. A long journey for an infant, Hubert said. A long journey for anybody, Héloïse replied, and feeling that the moment had come for her to be garrulous, she began to speak of the dangers of the forest, it being infested with robbers; and the journey by ship from Orleans to Nantes is a long and tedious journey, she said, if the wind be not blowing from the east. The priest shuddered and Héloïse smiled faintly, saying that the east wind is welcomed by those who are going to Nantes, cursed by those voyaging from Nantes to Orléans. She spoke of shallows and sandbanks to gain time, saying to herself: Abélard and the Prioress are waiting and his Grace’s chaplain knows it, and the more I tell him of the journey the fewer questions he will be able to put to me. She began a relation of the inns of Meung and Beaugency, and the grand flight of hawks they had witnessed from their ship, till the priest was forced to intervene, saying that although all she was telling him was of great interest (for himself contemplated a journey to Brittany), he must remind her that several people were waiting to witness the signing of the deed, and that what he had come to enquire out was when her vocation for the religious life was revealed to her. None can explain God’s grace, Héloïse answered, but whosoever receives it cannot be in doubt that he or she has been led by the hand. There is then no doubt in your mind that your renunciation of your married life is a manifestation of God’s grace? Can it be else? Héloïse answered; the devil would not lead me hither, it would be to his purpose to leave me in the world, where I might succumb to temptation. A house that is divided against itself, Father — You cannot tell me why God chose you, the priest intervened, Héloïse thought rather testily; but you can tell me when all doubt was removed from your mind. It seems to me, she replied, that I was always conscious of sin, but sin was so delightful in the beginning that I could not withhold myself; but as I continued to sin I became more and more conscious that — Héloïse hesitated, and the priest said: conscious that you were losing your soul, that the devil’s hand was extended to grip you. I don’t know that I thought about the devil, Héloïse answered. But, said the priest, we are conscious of sin because we believe in hell. But should we not be conscious of sin, Héloïse replied, even though hell and purgatory were not? And then, feeling that she was on very delicate ground, she said: atonement, Father. We atone by confessing our sins to a priest and performing the penances imposed upon us, he answered. We do indeed, Father, for such is the law of the Church. But you loved Abélard, and you have a child by him; these ties are strong, and you have not yet told me how the conviction grew in you that it was God’s will that you should enter the religious life. After my marriage I was unhappy, Héloïse said. But, my dear daughter, the priest interposed, marriage should have soothed your conscience. I was unhappy, Héloïse continued, for it lay with me to say when my marriage should be made public. I denied my marriage to those to whom my uncle was proclaiming it, and my obstinacy was so great that my uncle came to believe that I had lost my wits when I related how I had striven against the marriage in Brittany. And why did you strive against the marriage in Brittany? the priest asked. I can give no other reason, Héloïse answered, than that it was the will of God I should come hither. You are sure of that? As sure as one can be, she replied, of anything in this world. As there seemed to be no issue to my trouble I left my uncle’s house one night to find Abélard in his lodging and told him of the great change God had operated in me. Let us kneel down together and pray, Abélard said, and we knelt and prayed; and when we rose to our feet he took me in his arms and said: Héloïse, I too have been striving against God’s will, but God’s will is stronger than we.

  The priest did not answer but sat like one overcome and overawed, and Héloïse, seeing that he believed all she had told, rejoiced secretly. It seems to me, daughter, said the priest at last, that you have spoken out of your heart. As well as I know how, she answered. Miracle upon miracle! said Hubert; Abélard the headstrong has submitted to the Church. He always opposed the Nominalism of Roscelin, Héloïse answered dryly; his Nominalism was his own and you know how he expressed it — Yes, yes, said the priest, I know that he has striven to draw fine distinction between the ultra-Nominalism of Roscelin and the ultra-Realism of Champeaux; but Abélard himself and the Prioress are waiting, and this is not the moment to discuss his philosophy. You wish to enter the religious life? Héloïse answered: I do.

  The priest rang a bell and a few seconds afterwards Abélard, the Prioress, the two Mothers, Mother Hilda and Mother Ysabeau, and Stephen, the convent chaplain, entered. You have talked together, and I hope that Héloïse has satisfied you that she wishes to enter the religious life? the Prioress said. Héloïse has answered all my questions, Hubert replied, and I am satisfied that our dear daughter has been brought hither by the grace of God. Then let us thank God, the Prioress said, dropping upon her knees, and the others, men and women, could not do else but fall upon their knees, join their hands, and pray, or simulate prayer. It seemed to Hubert that he would be lacking in courtesy if he did not ask Stephen to pray aloud, which he did, and when their prayers were finished they rose to their feet; and it seeming to Hubert that they had yielded mayhap unduly to their emotions, he said, abruptly, addressing the twain: you are aware of the meaning of this act? It has occupied your thoughts, and you have considered it? Héloïse and Abélard answered that they had; a pen was handed to them, and they added their signatures to the scroll of parchment, and stood waiting while the witn
esses appended their names to the deed. And then, addressing Stephen, Hubert, the Prioress, Mother Ysabeau and Mother Hilda, Héloïse said: if it seem to you good my husband and myself would like to confer together before we part. We have a child in Brittany, Abélard added, who has been overlooked in the strain of these days, and we crave a few minutes together to speak of our child’s welfare. A few minutes in the orchard, said Héloïse, if it please you to grant us this brief delay. The unexpected request seemed to embarrass Hubert more than it did Stephen, but to refuse to allowed the wedded to speak a few words privately before they parted seemed ungracious. Before we part, Abélard said, to meet for ever in the blessed communion of the saints and angels — The Archbishop will offer up a Mass that you may be given strength to persevere, Hubert interjected, and on these words Abélard took his wife’s hand in his and led her away.

  Dost think, Abelard, that the request of a few last minutes together put a thought into their minds that we are playing a double game? And she told him the answers she had made to the priest’s questions. The Prioress suspects nothing, he answered, but we must not delay long. Abélard, Abelard, it is hard to part from thee, and even now we can ask for the scroll if — I know how small and mean is the life of nuns, but I shall be able to bear it and adopt all subterfuge and trickery indispensable. Where lies and trickery, subterfuge and deceit, prevail, where snares and nets are set about us, we cannot do else than use the same weapons against our enemies as they use against us. And God knows, Abélard said, that snares have been set for me often enough, and if I have not fallen into any it is for that my enemies did not set their snares cunningly. Champeaux and Anselm —— ——

  We have but a few minutes to speak, Héloïse interrupted; thou’lt not raise up difficult questions in Paris, but wilt lean to the side of the Church? Ah, said Abélard, now thy finger is set on the spot that may bring our enterprise to naught, for no man can make himself different from what he is, and were it possible for me to become a Champeaux or an Anselm, it would avail me nothing, for as thou knowest, Champeaux, when he began under pressure of my argument to abandon the outworks of his defences against Nominalism, found himself alone in his school, deserted by all but three or four faithful adherents in the benches, his power gone from him. One thing and one thing only interests the world at this moment — Nominalism and Realism. Were I to yield a point, the Church would no longer fear me, and I shall receive nothing from the Church except through fear. We must not shrink from the means whereby we are to attain our end, she said; a great enterprise is always set with snares, and my business is to wait till thou returnest to me, a priest. But should the convent have its own way with thee, he said, and mould thee to its own idea? I have thought of that, she answered: we are always changing, but I shall not fail thee and do thou not fail me. Thou’rt free now; I am no longer a hitch, a hindrance, a stumbling-block, and having won so much as a simple cleric, as a bishop thou canst not fail to win all: Bishop of Lyons, of Paris, of Toulouse, she said. If great victories await me in any one of these bishoprics, how much greater would my victories be were! Pope. Thy genius, Abélard, would be wasted in the papal chair. Once thou didst speak differently, Héloïse — Yes, in my childhood, she interjected quickly, I said I wished to see thee in the papal chair, but now I am a woman and understand things better. Thy gift from God was philosophy, and popes are not philosophers but administrators, and philosophy and administration have never yet been joined in the same man. And when didst thou come to think like this? he asked. At this very moment, she answered. Bishops are often philosophers, Abélard replied, and, as thou sayest, a pope is but an administrator. But how knowest thou these things? I know them, she answered, for I love thee, and all that concerns thee is clear to me, though the rest be dark.

  Here I remain, Héloïse said, as they walked from the river up the broad path between the orchard trees, watching the peaked roofs of the convent and a sky full of sunny blue, with great white clouds ascending, but without threat of rain. I remain here, Abélard, waiting for thee, she said, her voice quiet and subdued, it seeming to him that she was absorbing all his will and that he could not do else but obey. I wait for thee, it may be two or three years, no matter; I shall wait, and my heart will not lighten till tidings reach me of thy ordination; and then —— We will not look further into the future. One thing more, she said; we leave a child in Brittany, and my life here will be at times hard enough to bear, so thou wilt spare me any anxiety regarding our child? Go to him, Abélard, if thou canst find the time, and if not send Madelon a letter. And now, farewell, for if we remain talking together any longer the delay will put suspicion into the minds of those whose minds should be free from suspicion.

  CHAP. XXX.

  EVER SINCE HER marriage, before it in Brittany, almost from the moment when she turned from the baby’s cot at the sound of Abélard’s footsteps and voice, she had been at struggle, but not with herself, for the course of her life and her fate became clear to her during the months she spent in Brittany; in her mind’s eye she saw her life winding like a road breaking out in different places, leading to what mysterious bourne — to Abelard’s victory? For nothing less would she have surrendered Abélard, for nothing less would he have surrendered her. At that moment something seemed to break in her mind suddenly, and afraid that she was about to lose control of herself and might speak without judgment or yield to the temptation of some extravagant act, she rose from the bench at the end of the broad walk and turned into the orchard, and upon a heap of dead leaves abandoned herself to the intoxication of her dream, rejoicing in it from within, admiring it from without, seeing herself always contrite, humble, and even meek, three masks that she must wear in turn. Never must she be seen without one of them, neither by nun nor by priest, till Abélard returned to her, in one, two, or maybe three years. A long waiting it will be, she said; but we have to wait many months for the smallest seed to rise out of the ground; and two or three years are but a little while to wait for his ordination: ten years but a moment if his teaching prevail.

  The inner vision faded and the outer rose before her — Abélard returning bearing tidings of his ordination so plainly in his eyes that words were not needed; and so intense was the vision that she swooned in imagination in his arms, the darkness growing dimmer till the dream scroll was again unrolled, and she became aware of the thick atmosphere of groined roofs and pillars, windows like rich jewels, gold vestments, white surplices, the dusky flames of the candles and heard the Mass chanted amid choirs and banners and the swinging of censers till at last the throng divided, and in the centre of the nave Abélard appeared, a gold mitre on his head and the shepherd’s staff in his hand.

  The multitude passed away; none remained, and in the silence of stale incense she waited for him to come from the sacristy. But he did not come, and when the cathedral melted like a cloud, it was in an avenue of clipped limes that she waited, tremulous, for ahead of her was a dark figure who could not be else than Abélard coming to her with the joyful tidings that the reign of reason was nigh — and himself triumphant, equal to Plato and Aristotle. Yes, it was he coming towards her with slow step, loitering in the patterned path. Her heart seemed to stand still lest he should stop or return whence he came. A dream it was and no more, she knew it, but in her waking life his lips never procured a tenderer mood of pleasure than she enjoyed now upon a heap of weeds and grasses in a corner of the convent orchard, and she prayed that no straying sister should come to interrupt or ruffle her dream. None came and her ecstasy continued hour after hour, weakening a little towards evening, till she returned to herself fully and lay with her eyes open, seeing a large, tumultuous sky with an opening in the clouds forming a sort of silver shield, which she was prone to accept as a sign from God and to associate with Abelard, who, in her eyes, was a knight going forth in quest of the soul that the Church had buried in a dungeon long ago. But, though in chains, the soul never dies, and when the great silver shield in the sky disappeared she was walking throu
gh the orchard saying to herself: to-morrow I shall wear a habit and shall be cold in it; and again her thoughts took flight, and she walked on exalted by the vision of the great philosopher missionary going forth, a silver shield on his arm. It was then that a long trail of fragrant smoke swept across her face and she spied an old peasant raking dried leaves into a distant corner, throwing them upon the smouldering fire without drawing any thought from his seasonable work, living as the husbandmen lived in the Georgies, a shadowy figure in the evening landscape. We are all gathering dead leaves for the burning, she said, and to soothe her aching mind she walked straight to the convent library, and thanked God that it was empty.