Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  And while thinking before the shelves how much more precious would be a letter from Abélard than any book she might take down, she opened Seneca, and her eyes lighted on a passage in a letter written to his friend, Lucilius: you write to me often, and I thank you; you bring yourself before me as best you may; and whenever I get one of your letters we are together again. If the portraits of our absent friends soothe us, if they quicken remembrance, vain and deceptive consolation, and lighten the regret we feel at their absence, how much dearer to us are the letters that bring the very hand-writing, the sign-manual of the absent friend? How true, how true, she sighed, and was moved to send the words to Abélard; so full were they of kindly affection that they could not do else than bring him to a table and compel him to write to her, so it seemed. But the pen she picked up fell from her hand, and she sat remembering that it was agreed she should remain in the convent, giving no sign till she heard from him. Why, therefore, should she break the covenant? Her letter might fall into other hands, and not even quotations from Seneca’s letter to Lucilius were safe, for how else could the quotation be interpreted except as an invitation to correspond: write to me, for I am hungry and thirsty for the sight of thee, and since I may not see thee, write, for such tidings as a letter brings soothe.

  She must not write, nor even ask for news of him, and she wearied of saying to herself: no news is good news. As day passed over day almost reproaches against Abélard and against herself began to arise, with memories of the words she had spoken to him as they walked down the orchard path by the very seat she was now leaning on. And now all that she had said seemed lies, yet she had said nothing that was not in her heart at the while. How hard it is to speak the truth, she said. It escapes like water that we would hold in our hands. I told him that I must remain in this convent so that he might become a priest; I wished for his advancement and I wish for it still, for fameless Abélard would not be Abélard. So said I, and to-day am no longer sure that Abélard would not be Abélard to me, the master of my heart and body, on a desert island forgotten by all men. That is my truth to-day; to-morrow’s is hidden. It may be this: let Abélard be given back to me and common man dwell in the dungeon he built for himself. Never did I seek in Abélard anything but himself, without thought that a ray of his glory might fall upon me. It was his will and not mine that I had at heart always and sought to gratify. I would have preferred the name of mistress, of concubine or light-of-love, to that of wife; and never would have consented to that fatal marriage had it not been that I was afraid of the hireling’s dagger.

  It was not later than three months after he had left her that the black thought came into her mind that she was a dupe perhaps, for it might be that he had accepted her proposal to enter a convent so that he might rid himself of her. She had, it is true, spoken of the convent as a way out of the difficulty in which her marriage put them, a marriage that she had opposed to the last and only consented to lest a refusal should make her seem less worthy in his eyes. It was always to show him that he was first in my thoughts that I spoke of this convent. But now I can see that he never loved me; it was not love, but lies. For now he has no thought for me, not even enough to bring him to a table to write a letter, and she watched the river flowing and the passing boats, till, awakening from a vague sense of sorrow, she asked herself what Abélard would think of her, and how unworthy he would deem her, if he knew the thoughts that were passing through her mind. For why should I suspect him of treachery? Why, indeed? Is it because I love him beyond all things that shameful thoughts cross my mind? Life is a strange thing, for here sits a suspicious woman, as different as may be from the woman that sat by him on this bench a few weeks ago.

  Sister Héloïse, are you not cold sitting here in this bleak wind watching the craft going up and down the river? Héloïse uttered a little cry, and turning she saw Mother Hilda. We have been looking for you, Mother Hilda continued, for news has come of Pierre Abélard. News of him? Where is he? cried Héloïse. In the monastery of Saint-Denis, Hilda answered. In the monastery of Saint-Denis! Héloïse repeated, and she stood looking into Mother Hilda’s pretty, pointed, freckled face, lighted with round, kind eyes. Yes; we know for certain that he is with the monks, but why does it startle you to hear that he is at Saint-Denis? I was not thinking of a cowl, Héloïse said, for there is no monk in Abélard, but a great prelate who will be an honour to the Church. Mother Hilda looked enquiringly into Héloïse’s eyes and then answered: he may have gone to the monastery to prepare for his ordination. A retreat, Héloïse said, and seeing that her presence was needed Hilda sat by her and took her hand, saying: Héloïse, why are you overcome like this? and Héloïse answered, hardly aware of the words she was uttering: a priest, yes, but not a monk. Mother Hilda repeated that most likely Abélard had gone to the monastery of Saint-Denis for the retreat that is usual before ordination. You would not lose him, she said, though you are separated you are not divided; your interests are still his. You would see him a great prelate but not a humble monk. Do you blame me, Hilda? No, I do not blame you; maybe I should feel as you do if I had married a great man. You are feeling better now; let us walk together, for it is cold sitting here, and you will tell me of Abélard’s philosophy and the great service his ideas will be to the Church, much troubled now by the rival schools of Nominalism and Realism and the licentious lives of troubadours in the south and the not less licentious lives of trouvères in the north, and Courts of Love, whose only virtue is the singing of a song correctly, luteplaying, and fidelity to another man’s wife. Abélard’s aim, Héloïse replied, is to show that neither the Realists nor the Nominalists are altogether right, that the true path Res between the extreme of Realism as taught by Champeaux and the extreme form of Nominalism as it was taught by Roscelin, who has submitted to the Church. We shall be less likely to meet any of the sisters if we walk this way, Sister Héloïse, less likely to meet Angela or Cecilia, for either of these will be glad to join us, and three cannot talk out of their hearts.

  Héloïse would have welcomed an interruption from Angela or Cecilia, for she was afraid that the impulse to open her heart to Hilda might overcome her, and once she had spoken the truth she could not remain in the convent. Abélard was the law that was over her and were she to break this law the mainspring of her life would be broken; she therefore hardened her heart and talked to deceive Hilda as best she could that day and the next day and all through the winter, news coming from time to time to Argenteuil of Abélard’s great success as a teacher, of the number of pupils that came to him and the fees they paid. A good thing for us are these fees, Sister Angela said, one windy day in March, to Héloïse; for these monks are always complaining of their poverty and casting covetous eyes on the lands which we hold on lease from them.

  The watermen were casting cargo into the river to lighten the barge, and Héloïse did not hear Sister Angela till she said that Abélard had left the monastery of Saint-Denis. Do you think, Sister Angela, said Héloïse, that our love for one another has ceased? It is true, she continued, that I am now his sister in Jesus Christ and that he is my brother in Christ. But we cannot separate ourselves from our earthly life, and Abélard’s misfortunes are still mine. So he has left the monastery of Saint-Denis, and for why? Tell me, Sister Angela, all the news you have of him. All the news I have, Sister Angela answered, is that he blamed the abominations of the Abbot Adam, and became obnoxious to the monks, who were jealous of him. Of Abélard? Héloïse interjected. Yes, of Abélard, Sister Angela answered, and they welcomed his disciples when they came to beg him to resume his teaching, which he has done, establishing a school at Maisoncelle on lands belonging to the Count of Champagne. You say he has opened a school at Maisoncelle? Héloïse said. Yes; and students come from all parts of the country. His theological lectures attract and win many over to his side, and his lectures on Latin literature many more. The world, it would seem, asks for nothing better than to listen to him. But what are the abominations that caused him to leave the mona
stery, Sister Angela? Wine-drinking and lute-playing, Sister Angela answered, and where gleemen go they bring gleemaidens with them, and singing boys too, whom the monks prefer to the maidens, their love being more ardent, so it is said. Yet these same monks seek to defame our convent, spreading stories about Sister Paula (you were with us when her baby was born), and about Sister Agnes, who left us last year for a minstrel. His wont was to sail up the river in the summer evenings, anchor his boat under the reeds yonder, and sing; his singing won her away from us. Whither was she rowed? Héloïse asked. We never heard of her again. I do not know why I asked for news of her, Héloïse replied dolefully. Tell me about Abélard. We hold these lands on lease from the monks of Saint-Denis, Sister Angela answered, and the lease goes far back, two or three hundred years. I’ve heard it said that the monks have lost any rights they may have had. But for some whiles they have been pressing their claim, and to gain sympathy they try to defame our convent, spreading stories of our convent chaplain and the school children. Against Stephen! cried Héloïse. Such calumny cries to heaven for punishment, Angela replied, and I should be no wise astonished to hear that fire descended from heaven on their monastery. It was to stay the calumny and the rumours they set going against us that our Prioress wished to strengthen the rule, but we, myself among the dissidents, said: we will obey the rule we have vowed to obey, but not new rules. The rules are severe enough, and were made by men; monks go back and forth from their monastery, they follow the Crusaders to Palestine, but we are here always, and life is harder upon women in religion than on men. You were telling me, Sister Angela, that we hold the lands of Argenteuil on lease from the monks of Saint-Denis. Yes, that is so, Angela replied, and I have often wondered what would become of us if the monks of Saint-Denis succeed in breaking the lease we hold and possessing themselves of our property. We should have to seek other convents, and if none would take us in I suppose many of us would return to our parents. But would our parents welcome us? Would they even let us inside their doors? We should have to go away with trouvères, who like nuns, it is said. One liked Sister Agnes and she is at least as happy with him as she was with us. She was not happy as a nun? Héloïse asked. I do not think any are happy here, or only those who pass on from the school to the novitiate before they find their sex, Angela answered.

  My sister, she said, breaking the pause, used to sit half asleep among women, but when a man came into the room she awoke, and I often wondered at the change, for though I was the elder I was at that time without sex. Your sister is married? Héloïse said. Yes, Sister Angela replied; but I didn’t know I was a woman till I was four and twenty and now I am eight and twenty, and the last four years have been a torment to me. That is why, Sister Héloïse, it is hard to understand how you twain, each possessed of the other’s love, could have been so ruthless. Ruthless, Héloïse replied. Yes, Sister Angela answered quickly, if our lives were given to us that we might live them; and has not our Lord said that in heaven there is neither marriage nor giving in marriage? But, Sister Angela, it seems to me that despite your chastity, perhaps because of it, you fail to understand that love has a spiritual side. In the end, no doubt, but in the beginning love is but a chance, Sister Angela said.... My meeting with Abélard seemed to be but a chance, Héloïse answered, for I know not why I turned into the city instead of crossing the Great Bridge to seek the violets that were coming up in the woods. The springtime was in your feet and sent you forth in search of love, said Sister Angela, to which Héloïse replied that she could not love any other man but Abélard; and Angela answered her with a courage born of long abstinence: it pleases you to think that, Sister Héloïse, but if there were no Abélard, if he had never been born, you do not think that you would have descended into your grave a virgin, do you? If Abélard had never been born! As well ask me if I had never been born. But things being as they are, I could love none but Abélard. You will answer me that question again when you have been some years in the convent, Angela replied cynically, and Héloïse felt that she hated this nun, and vowing that she would not speak intimately with her again, she fell to thinking that it was strange that chastity should look into the heart of love so clearly and judge it to be lust.

  CHAP. XXXI.

  MY MARRIAGE, SHE said, and fell to thinking of the dismal swamp it had led her into, and from which there seemed no hope of escape. It was the Prioress’s voice that awoke her: dear Héloïse, thou’rt too given to brooding, and without just cause, for we know that he must be preparing for his ordination at Saint-Denis. But, Mother, if he were preparing for his ordination he wouldn’t have left Saint-Denis to establish a school at Maisoncelle. And his teaching, whatever it maybe, will make it difficult for him to find a bishop to ordain him. Then why should he have returned to Saint-Denis? the Prioress asked, taken aback. I have sought for a reason, Héloïse replied, but haven’t found any sufficient one. There seems to be something behind this of which we know nothing, dear Mother, for though God may have commanded him to put on a monk’s habit, so that he may forget me, God certainly did not command him to leave me in trouble, in pain, in grief, when a few simple words sent hither would relieve me. His silence is strange, of a certainty, said the Prioress, and it seems to me that I should be justified in allowing thee to leave the convent for a few days; three would be enough to set thy mind at rest, or shall I send our peasant? Abélard knows where I am, Héloïse answered, and if he has not sent a letter it is because he deems it well to keep silent. He knows where I am; it would be wrong of me to write, dear Mother. It is the lot of men and women to suffer in this life, women perhaps more than men; so God in his supreme wisdom has settled it and we must obey his decrees. Nothing can be changed; things cannot be else than as they are.

  Héloïse hid her face in her hands, and hearing her sob the Prioress withdrew from the library; and Héloïse wept, for she remembered that she had known from the first that marriage would bring about his ruin. Almost from their wedding day their ruin had begun, and her device to break the marriage seemed of no avail. Our plight, she said, was never worse than it is to-day, for while I am waiting to receive the veil, Abélard wears the cowl. I am led blindfold; all is darkness about me. And in her despair she began to consider how she might appear a creditable human being to the mothers and to the nuns, diverting their suspicions always, representing herself as a true daughter of the Church, whereas there was nothing true in her except her love for Abélard, whom she would follow into the gulfs of hell rather than live in paradise without him. A vain and lonely place paradise would be without Abelard; shadowy as the world she saw about her when she left the library and walked into the open air. All things seemed to have receded, and in the void Abélard was. At every hour of the day, even at the sacrifice of the Mass, she was thinking of him; and like the clouds of the air her thoughts disappeared and collected again, always different and always the same, beginning from the point at which they ceased three weeks before, curling and going out as before. She had parted from him in the belief that her next news would be his ordination and she now heard that he was wearing a monk’s cowl in the monastery of Saint-Denis. But is it true? It cannot be that he has entered a monastery without telling me. For why should he? For why, dear God? Say why. He knows where I am, yet he does not write. He knows that I suffer in this silence, yet he lets me suffer. But he does this for some good reason. Therefore I will keep the troth that I plighted, and though false in all else I will be true to him, remaining here till he comes.

  My recompense will be greater for what I have suffered, and her thoughts melting suddenly, she sat, forgetful of all things, absorbed in a vague sense of sorrow. Once a priest, she said, he will be able to impose his will. The first bishopric available will fall to him, and my name at least will not appear among the list of women that have proved to be the scourge of genius. A warning in Proverbs against women rose up in her mind: now, my son, hearken to me and be attentive to the words of my mouth; let thy heart not be drawn into the ways of woman, lose n
ot thyself in her paths, for she has tripped and overthrown a great number; the strongest have been killed by her, her house is the way to hell, and she leads to the gulfs of death. And again: I have pondered everything with the eyes of my soul and have found woman bitterer than death; she is the net of the hunter; her heart is a snare; her hands are chains; he who pleaseth God escapes her, but the sinner is her prey.