by George Moore
And whilst they were doing all this Abelard spoke to the people explaining his faith, making it intelligible to all, and he did this with so much skill that it began to be said in the towns: it is strange to hear one who is accused defend himself so well, and those who accuse obliged to hold their tongues, and it may hap that in the end the judges will be brought to see that the error is with them rather than with him. So did the folk talk, it is said, in the streets of Soissons, and the anger of the ecclesiastics was fanned by it till one day Albéric, surrounded by his friends, stopped Abélard in the street, and after a few polite words said to him: I notice in your book a passage which surprises me, for God having begotten God, it seems to me that you cannot do else than admit that God begot himself. That is a point I can make plain to you at once, Abélard answered; it is in truth the very theme of my essay on the Trinity, and if you wish I will demonstrate it according to the strict rules of logic. We set no store by logic, Albéric replied; we rely upon authority. Turn the leaf then and you will find my authority, Abélard answered, and he took the book from Albéric, who happened to have it with him. And it was the will of God that he should open it at the very page, his eyes falling on the passage, which Albéric had overlooked in his hurry to find something that would tell against Abélard — a quotation from St. Augustine on the Trinity, Book One: he who believes it to be within the power of God to beget himself is mistaken as much in regard to God as he is in regard to every creature, spiritual or corporeal, for there is none that can beget himself. Albéric’s followers were surprised and thrown into confusion, and to defend himself Albéric said it was necessary that the whole thing should be explained. But there is nothing new in it, Abélard answered; you said that you put human reason aside, relying upon authority. I give you the text. If, of course, you wish to understand it, I am ready to make plain to you that if you hold any other opinion except the one I have expressed, you fall into the heresy that the Father is his own Son. How quick he is, Héloïse replied. He sees the point at once. At these words Albéric raised his fist, but he did not dare to strike and went away talking in his beard, declaring that neither authorities nor reasons would help Abélard in this issue. Go on with your story, Sister Josiane, tell me how it was that he was defeated, for they brought about his defeat, so I have heard, forcing him to burn his book with his own hand, condemning him to perpetual imprisonment in a distant monastery. Well, said Sister Josiane, on the last day of the Council, the legate and the Archbishop deliberated privily, for they were not certain how to act; all the clergy were not with them, and Godfrey de Lèves, the Bishop of Chartres, notable for his piety and for his learning, called on the council to remember that Abélard was a great philosopher, whose teaching was known, he might say, to all the world, and he warned them that if they were to condemn him without a public discussion many people would say he was condemned unjustly. But despite his earnestness the advice of Godfrey, Bishop of Chartres, was received with murmurs, and every now and then the joke went round that if the Council wished to show its wisdom to all and sundry, it could not do better than to enter into disputation with the celebrated wrangler.
Godfrey answered that Jesus was a more skilful disputant, yet Nicodemus desired that he should be heard out of respect for the law. And then, seeking for a way out of the dilemma, he asked for an adjournment of the debate, pleading that Abélard should be conducted back to his monastery by his abbot, who was present, and that another Council of the most learned should be called who would look into the matter attentively and decide what was to be done. In difficult and thorny questions an adjournment of the debate is always welcomed. Conan rose and left the Privy Council to say Mass, and it was while on his way to the Cathedral that he sent Abélard word that he would be acquitted. Indeed, it seemed as if he were certain of an acquittal, but his enemies were powerful enough to persuade the Archbishop Raoul that for him to allow the Council at Soissons to adjourn without coming to a decision would be tantamount to an admission that he and all his coadjutors were unable to settle a theological point between them; and, they added, Abélard will escape us if the matter be not settled by us; for elsewhere we shall have no chance of getting a verdict condemning him, which we have a right to do, for why should he, who is not even a simple priest, publish these books without the consent of his own bishop or the Pope! The Archbishop yielded to persuasion, and rising from his chair he made as good a case as he could against Abélard, saying that the Father was all-powerful, the Son was all-powerful, the Holy Ghost was all-powerful, and that anybody that held a contrary opinion should not be listened to. Whereupon Terric, a professor of theology, answered with a quotation from St. Ambrose: yet there are not three Almighties, but only one Almighty, bringing upon himself a rebuke from the Archbishop. But Terric refused to give way, and cried out the words of Daniel: it is those senseless sons of Israel that, without seeking verification of the truth, would compel a son of Israel. On this the Archbishop rose again and repeated his words, changing them a little to suit the need of the moment. It is without doubt the Father is all-powerful, the Son is all-powerful, and the Holy Ghost is all-powerful, and whosoever calls this dogma into question does not deserve to be heard. All the same, it might be well that our brother should make a public confession of his faith, and Abélard was about to rise to confess and exhibit his faith, with the intention of developing it according to his wont, when his enemies interposed, saying that they did not wish for any words, for all that was needed was that he should recite the Athanasian Creed; and lest he should pretend ignorance of the text they put the book into his hand, telling him to read, which he did amid tears and sobs. And then, as one who had pleaded guilty, he was given into the charge of the Abbot of Saint-Médard, a sentence of confinement in that monastery being pronounced against him. But, cried Héloïse, what is hard to understand is why he did not persist in defending himself after obtaining the promise of the Archbishop that he would be given a hearing. He was advised, it is said, by the Bishop of Chartres not to insist, for any argument that he might use would anger the Council against him still further. He was persuaded by the Bishop to submit, and he did well, Sister Josiane said. To agree to a sentence, cried Héloïse, of imprisonment in the Abbey of Saint-Médard? A sentence only in name, Sister Josiane replied, for though the words were: perpetual seclusion in a monastery, it is certain the Pope’s legate will remit the sentence and that he will be at liberty, if not in a few weeks at least no later than a few months. So that is the whole story, Héloïse said. The whole story, Héloïse, as told to us by Stephen, our chaplain, and we shall hear no more till the news comes of his release. Shall we go out? Sister Josiane asked, breaking the pause suddenly; the evening is fine.
Héloïse rose to her feet and the nuns walked out of the convent and stood looking at the river and the mists that were now rising in the valley, sweeping away shadows of distant hills and trees. Only half of the tall poplars could be seen above the white shroud and very little of the naked branches of the willows. Long herds of cattle came up from the water-meadows, the convent cows in a long file, lowing to be relieved of their milk. The day is moving into night, nothing is ever still, said Héloïse; a tide is bearing us on, trees, river and animals alike. Hark to the cry of that bird. Only an owl, said Sister Josiane, and Héloïse was astonished that she should have recognised the cry as the owl’s, for Sister Josiane saw and heard little. Her world was in her own mind, and she was thinking now not of the river nor of the fading of the fields from sight, but of some thought that John Scotus Erigena had set forth with startling originality. And she continued thinking, turning it in her mind, until Héloïse’s sobs called her to her friend’s aid. The story I have told you, she said, is a sad one, but there is this of hope in it that the Pope’s legate will release him from the monastery.
But it is not for his term of imprisonment that I am weeping, Héloïse answered, but for the sadness of all things. In this dim hour we feel that all things are hopeless and that we know nothing and
can do little except to suffer pain. Open your eyes, Sister Josiane; forget the inner world you live in for a moment, for mists are rising; and the whisper of the river breaks my heart. But why should I ask you to see and to hear what breaks my heart? I am afraid, Sister Josiane, that I hardly know what I am saying at this moment. His book has been burnt and himself condemned to imprisonment in a monastery. What will be the next hap no man knows. Sister Josiane felt that Héloïse needed kind words; but she was unable to speak the words that would hearten her, that Abélard was as great a man as John Scotus, and the nuns walked towards the convent drawing their habits about them, for the night was cold though they were in May.
CHAP. XXXIII.
THE THEOLOGICAL CHATTER roused by the burning of Abélard’s book at Soissons came to an end slowly in the convent of Argenteuil during the summer of 1121, and his name was not spoken once during the winter, not till the spring of the next year, in April, when Stephen returned from Paris one day with the news that everybody was asking what had become of Abélard, some saying that he had left France for England, to which Héloïse answered coldly that nothing was more likely than that he had gone to England to meditate on the Trinity, like Roscelin. Abélard considers the opinions of his enemies impartially, she said, with the view of finding what truth there may be in them rather than in the hope of discovering some crack in their arguments wherein to drive a wedge.
So, Héloïse, thy belief is that Abélard has gone to meditate on the mystery of the Trinity, like Roscelin, said the Prioress; and Roscelin’s exile in England started her out on long flights of grey narratives, with which she hoped (perhaps) to entertain Héloïse, who sat opposite her, hearing but little, her thoughts far away among troubadours and gleemen, for she had begun to think that the sentence pronounced against Abélard at Soissons might have turned him from philosophy, and that in despair at the hatred of truth among men he might have travelled southward; and, under the name of Lucien de Marolle, found a place as gleeman in the court of some rich nobleman. But it could not be that he had forgotten his pledged faith and troth, and she began a letter:
The news that bur chaplain, Stephen, has brought back from Paris is that all are asking: where is Abélard? some saying that, following the example of Roscelin, thou hast gone to England. But this I will not believe, for it is to me, who knows thee better than another, more likely that the shameful sentence pronounced against thee at Soissons might have turned thee from philosophy to the composing and singing of songs as of yore. Were it not that I am here this would be easy to believe. But thou canst not have left me to the fate of a black Benedictine robe, not willingly, but the heart of man is dark to himself and to others, and who can say, even thyself, why thou hast left me without a letter for so long? It is not much to ask for, a few lines, an hour of thy time, that is all, and this thou wouldst have given long ago if reasons of which I know nothing did not prevent thee from writing. Then why do I allow evil thoughts of thee to come into my mind? For thou art not recognizable in a cruel treachery towards one who has never sought anything but to please thee rather than God. Thou hast not forgotten that it was thy wish rather than the love of God that made me take the veil? Abélard, write and soothe an aching heart. Soothe; the word brings back remembrances, and I would that thou wert by me to soothe the desires of my soul. Think not well of me, Abelard; do not believe in my courage but in my feebleness.
Her hand stopped suddenly, and, her eyes fixed on a far corner of the library, she said: he keeps silent for some good purpose. It cannot be that years will go by without some news drifting into the convent. So she tore up her letter, and, when, some months later, a story reached Argenteuil that Abélard was living as a hermit in a mud cabin by the river, she thanked God that she had not sent it. How lacking I should have seemed in his eyes had I sent that letter. And then, forgetful of herself, she began to consider the injustice of men as typified in the story of Abelard, the great philosopher, living in wet and wretchedness, without books, without raiment, without mental or physical comforts, in a mud cabin by the river. But he was not false to me, and immediately she was in the midst of a great joy, saying to herself: it were better to hear of him in a mud cabin with one disciple than lute-playing amid green swards under trees. Her great pain had stopped suddenly, for now she knew that he had not abandoned her, and full of the thought of the love that he still retained for her, she began to dream of seeking him in his hermitage. The Prioress may be persuaded, she said. But no; for me to seek him in his hermitage might imperil all. But is there anything, she asked dolefully, her joy changing swiftly to grief — is there anything left to imperil? There may be something of the woman he loved still left in me, but if he delays much longer in the desert he will find but a shadow of me, and I shall be ashamed. The door of the library opened. A lay sister, she thought, going round the convent in search of a nun who is wanted in the parlour. Sister Héloïse, may I speak to you? Of course you may, Sister Paula, and laying her thoughts aside she welcomed the nun whose baby had scandalised the convent some years ago. Paula’s eyes are like a balm, and her mouth, natural as a rose, soothes me, Héloïse said to herself; and she is not a day older than she was on the day when the Mothers met to consider her expulsion.
As she was thinking what the sister’s errand might be, Paula came across the room, her round, childish eyes amazed; Sister Paula always entered the library amazed at the sight of so much learning. Have you read all these books, Sister? Well, not all, Héloïse answered, with a smile. But you are always in the library, and when you go out to walk in the orchard you often have a book in your hand; and I have seen you sitting on the bench at the end of the broad walk reading instead of watching the coming and going of the ships. I have often wished to speak to you, for you were here, Sister, a monitress in the convent when —— — You haven’t forgotten the scandal when my baby was born? You didn’t come to see my baby. But some of the nuns did. Your baby, Sister Paula, was out at nurse at Argenteuil, and I was not a sister but a monitress, Héloïse replied. Was that the reason that kept you away — because you were a monitress? It was one of the reasons, Héloïse answered, but if I remember myself rightly, I was at that time a somewhat learned girl, who thought that books were the whole of human life. You haven’t changed much, Sister Héloïse. I haven’t ceased to value books, Héloïse answered, but I understand their place in life better than I did.
Of course you were always very learned, Paula continued, and we were all a little afraid of you; but we liked you and were glad to have you back with us. But we never thought that you’d come back, and we thought still less that you would marry, and if anybody had spoken of our monitress having a baby, we should have thought — Well, I don’t know what we wouldn’t have thought; we would have looked upon whoever had spoken as one out of her mind. You were always a puzzle to us, for religion didn’t seem to have the hold upon you that it had on the others — my sister Catherine came into the convent for the love of God. You were more like me; religion is but a part of my life, and that is why the Prioress and the Mothers seemed to me to blame the birth of my baby without enough reason. What do you think, Sister Héloïse? In the end we all come to think as you do, Sister Paula, that life cannot be halved or quartered; we must look upon life as a whole. Now I am beginning to see, Sister Héloïse, that you have changed, and for the better. A baby brings a great change into a woman’s life; I think every woman is better for having a baby, even a nun, but you mustn’t say that I said it, for I am still under a cloud, you know. But you are a married woman, Sister — I wasn’t married when my baby was born, Héloïse interrupted. Whoever would have thought it! said Sister Paula, and the little nun sat, her round blue eyes fixed in astonished gaze. So the learned Héloïse cannot mind herself any more than a poor little mite like me. But he married you, which makes it all the harder to understand why you should have come here, leaving your husband, the great Pierre Abélard, who, it is said, puts to shame Plato and Aristotle. And you aren’t a woman that a man wo
uld leave in a hurry.
A sad little smile gathered in Héloïse’s eyes, and she answered: it seems to me that the call to leave the world for the religious life was a mutual one. The world needs Pierre Abélard, and the work God chose him to do can be better done by a celibate. I don’t think, said Paula, that I could have put aside my husband, if I had had one, for the sake of the world. Why not, Sister Paula? — Do we — not all — owe — something to the world and to God? — Well, I don’t think, — Paula answered, breaking a little pause, that I should have had the hardihood to throw my luck into the water to swim ashore as best it could, to drown if it couldn’t, like the poor dog that the sailors threw out of one of the boats going up and down the Seine last week; we saw him whirled and whirled about in the current and sucked down. But you know best, Sister Héloïse, only I couldn’t have done it. We do not know what we could have done, Héloïse said, until the task is set before us. Jesus Christ was deeply troubled — in the — garden of Gethsemane; he asked that the — chalice — should — pass — from him. But, Sister Héloïse, you are not Jesus Christ. The simplicity of Paula’s reply took Héloïse aback, and it was some little while before she could collect herself sufficiently to murmur: we must try to follow in his footsteps, however slowly. Now you are talking like Catherine, Paula said. And you do not like me when I talk like Sister Catherine? Not as well as when you talk out of yourself, Paula replied. Your sister’s mind counted for a good deal in your life, no doubt, Héloïse replied, but Paula’s thoughts were far away; and then, speaking suddenly, she said: neither of us knew anything of the world, Catherine even less than I did; we just crossed over from the village to the convent and back from the convent to the village. But you don’t know the village, do you, Sister Héloïse? Well, there isn’t much to see in Argenteuil. You’ve been to Paris, you’ve been up the Loire and away in Nantes; you’ve been married; you’ve read all these books; your lot was all that can befall a woman. But I have had nothing, or so very little! to follow my sister into a convent and to have a baby. If father were to hear of my baby! But how could he have failed to hear of your baby? Is he not of the village?
