by George Moore
He was about to continue his story, but before doing so his watchful eyes, accustomed to spy peril everywhere, went round the company, resting longer on the Prioress’s face than on any other, and meeting nowhere a frown but only eagerness to hear him, he said: ladies, I will tell you all that my rival in this, my first and last love, was the great Comte de Montfort, and when he returned with his gleeman to the castle, Catherine, Countess D’Urgel, thinking no harm, showed him one of the songs she had received from the bakeress’s son, a minstrel by the grace of God discovered to her by his singing of this very song as he crossed the yard. She would have had the Comte make me one of his retinue, but the Comte could not believe in the purity of his lady, and I was driven out, and being but a boy did not know how to seek service as gleeman, and so enlisted myself in the holy army for Palestine, where I fought the Infidel for three years. I was at the siege of Antioch, ladies, and afterwards at that of Jerusalem, but found no recompense for bravery when I returned to France for the Infidels I had slain. But perhaps you ladies are weary of my story, for this is no story that such as you should listen to. I have heard nothing unworthy in thy story, Denis, said the Prioress, but much to thy credit, and we pray thee to proceed into it.
And the gleeman, thus encouraged, continued a little while longer, telling that he met in his wanderings another lady whose praises he sang for a year or more. But at the end of the year a whispering came into his heart: Denis, thou’rt losing the love of thy immortal soul for the love of a mortal woman; better that thou should’st return to the Holy Land, was what the voice said to me. I am not learned, ladies, in words, but in songs, and now I have told you all or nearly all. But didst return to the Holy Land a second time? the Prioress asked. I did, troth and faith, and when I returned from the Holy Land, weary and ill from wounds and feeble, I again found no recompense, and so I have wandered on, singing by waysides and in castle yards till I reached your door. But, said Héloïse, the instrument that thou playest so beautifully was given to thee by her? By the Comtesse D’Urgel. Look at it, I pray you, ladies. Did it accompany thee to the Holy Land? Héloïse asked. No, he answered; I had to separate myself from my beautiful organistrum, and that was the heartbreak of it all. I left it in trust with a friend, who sold it in my absence, and by some strange chance it found its way back into the hands of the Comtesse D’Urgel, to whom I went on my return, and she said that I had been accused of selling the instrument, and that she had kept it, for she knew that I could not sell that which came to me from her own hands. It was given to me again with these words: Denis, what I have given I have given, and would keep thee here for my gleeman, for I shall always remember the songs that I received from thee. But I may not. Her very words, ladies. So with some pieces of money I was sent away again, and have since roamed with varying fortune, mostly ill fortune, for no fault of my own, ladies here, I beg you to believe. And full sure that the ladies were beguiled by him, he ran his fingers over the strings, saying: I could have arrived at your gate a few minutes sooner if I had dropped my organistrum in the field, but of what good would my life be to me if I were to lose what a gracious lady had given me in my boyhood — a memory and a consolation to me in all my misfortunes?
I am safe in this convent for a week, he said to himself, and out of the joyousness of his heart he began to sing one of the songs that he may or may not have written for the Comtesse D’Urgel. I would like to learn that song, Astrolabe said; wilt thou teach it to me? And may I look to see how the instrument is played? Why not, indeed? and he put forward into the child’s hands an instrument more than twice the size of the ordinary lute, with keys. You will heed that the keys are placed on the neck, Denis said, and are raised a little to touch the strings by means of handles at the side of the neck. The strings go over this bridge just as in a common lute. But the other bridge is a wheel, which is turned by a handle at the end of the instrument, making the strings vibrate. One of us turns the wheel, the other manages the keys. How wilt thou play to us if I do not turn the wheel for thee? Astrolabe asked. I can turn the wheel and manage the keys myself, the gleeman answered, and I will show you how the wheel is to be turned, which he did, the nuns marvelling at the interest that the child showed. All else but what he was learning at the moment was forgotten, and when the wheel was understood by him the gleeman began to make plain to him the secret of the keys, and the first lesson in the playing of the organistrum was not over when Astrolabe said: may I have it on my knees, for I think I would like to see if I can play it? But what wilt thou play, darling? Héloïse asked. The song that I learnt from thee yestermorning, mother; father’s song. May I not play it, mother? Yes, if Denis will let thee have his instrument. And the nuns crowded round, some saying: thou wilt never be able to play an instrument with those keys and wheels and handles, Astrolabe. Let him try, said the old gleeman; I will hold it upon his knee, for it is heavy and he might drop it.
Yes, indeed, the lad is a musician, the old gleeman said, for he was mazed at the boy’s quickness, and if the lady of the house will let me bide here till the snow be off the ground and the bears and wolves have returned to their lairs and I am out of peril from them, I will teach him many a song; before I pass this way again he’ll be delighting you all with his talent, which has come to him from his father, for didn’t I hear the lady say the song he played so well was his father’s? Lady of the house, you’ll not turn me out to-morrow to the bears and the wolves, will you? the old man said. We will not turn thee out, the Prioress answered, till the country be safe for travelling, and Cherriez, our peasant, will be able to give thee a bed in his barn. I’d like better the wood shed, for them varmints are still a-dallying round Cherriez’s hut. Well, we’ll see what can be done to-morrow, the Prioress replied; and the gleeman felt that it would be unwise to press his requests any further. And now belike you would hear the organistrum before bed-time; and all consenting he played to them for a little while, stopping suddenly to ask them to sing so that he might learn how their voices pitched. Ye have all pleasing voices here; pleasanter I have never heard, and some eight or nine might be picked for a short choir. The altos and the trebles are about equal, and if you ladies are not going to your rest we might practise a while together. The Prioress gave no answer, and her silence being taken to mean her permission, the gleeman began his teaching.
Now, said he, a very pleasant musical game can be played this way. We take a tune, and the altos begin it on the A, and the trebles continue it a fifth higher, and so on; the altos again come in a fifth higher and then the trebles, and so on, turn and turn about, until you have come to the end of the tune. You all know Vexilla Regis? The nuns replied that they sang it in chapel. Then let us see if you can sing it in fifths, said Denis. We should have an instrument to give us the note; now, my young sir, will you be good enough to give us the A? Astrolabe turned red and was embarrassed, for he did not know the notes, and Denis had to come over and show him how to get it. We should all be in our beds, the Prioress said, but Christmas is a time for thanksgiving, and it does not seem to me that any harm is being done. But, mother, cried Astrolabe suddenly, may I not stay up a little longer, for there are many things I would like to ask Denis about the notes. My child, thou hast been out of thy bed since early morning and thine eyes are closing, Héloïse answered. Never mind, my little sir, Denis whispered, I will learn you all the notes to-morrow. My kind ladies, before you go may I ask for a rug to wrap myself in, my cloak being thin? Two rugs thou shalt have, for the wood shed is a cold bed-chamber. He may miss it, Mother Prioress; may I not show it to him? Astrolabe cried, and leave being given to him he ran after Denis, whispering to him: thou’lt teach me to play to-morrow? I will be down early; I will speak to the cook myself, and mother will.
Other promises were exchanged between them, all of which were fulfilled next day, and in return Astrolabe spent an hour with Denis over the keys and the wheel. But, said Denis, you must learn how to read music. To read, said Astrolabe; can it be read? And they were deep i
n the mystery of the written notes when Héloïse interrupted them. Mother, look what Denis is teaching me. But it will take weeks and months to learn all that Denis knows, mother. May not he be given leave to sleep in the wood shed every night till the snow melts, for the wolves are about all day? Do, mother, speak to the Prioress. I will speak to the Prioress, Héloïse answered. From whom, lady, did he get his musical ear? Denis asked tactfully. From his father, Héloïse replied, and moved by the thought of Abélard’s delight at finding his son proficient in music, she sought the Prioress, leaving Astrolabe to discover Denis’s accomplishments, a thing he was quick to do, finding before his mother returned that Denis played many other instruments besides the organistrum, the lute, the violin, the pipe, the bagpipe, the syrinx, the harp, the gigue and the lively little gittern, the symphony, the psaltery, the régals and the tabor. But there is much else for a man to learn who would be a gleeman, said Denis, as soon as they were alone again. He must sing a song well and make tales and fables, throw knives into the air and catch them without cutting his fingers; he must balance chairs and walk on his hands. But, Denis canst thou walk on thy hands? I could walk upon my hands, the old gleeman cried, when I was your age and long after it, but stiffness has come into the joints and I cannot pitch legs over head any more. Astrolabe asked him if he could teach him all the gleeman’s craft, to walk on my hands, he said, and throw knives into the air and catch them? May I get thee some knives? Bring me the knives and I will catch them. I can catch apples on the point of the knives, he said. May I fetch some? cried Astrolabe, and returning with six, the old juggler was throwing knives and catching them and the apples that the child threw to him when Héloïse returned to the room, saying that she would not have knives thrown into the air and Astrolabe standing by. For if one were to fall upon thee! But none will fall, my lady; I have never missed a knife yet in my life. But Héloïse was not to be gainsaid. If thy father were to come here and find thee with a great scar upon thy cheek, or if a knife should fall into thine eye, what answer should I make? Denis, thou must promise me not to play any perilous tricks except at a safe distance. But, mother, may I not go for walks with Denis? He knows how to set springs for birds. What birds would he snare? Héloïse asked, but instead of getting an answer to her question another request was put to her. May we go to the river, mother? But why to the river, Astrolabe? it is frozen. But that is just why, mother, for we cannot drown in a frozen river. The river is only frozen in parts, Astrolabe, and I should have no peace all day long thinking of thee upon the ice. But I promise thee not to walk far from the shore. Well, to the river thou mayest go, darling, but promise me not to put thy foot on the ice, not one step, and not to go nearer the river’s edge than one yard. If I have thy promise and Denis’s promise that he will see that thou dost not forget thyself, well then thou mayest go and set snares with Denis.
I shall be glad when I am a little older, Astrolabe said taking Denis’s hand. And what will you do, little sir, when you are older? I do not know so much what I shall do, Astrolabe answered. I shall escape away from women, of whom I’ve seen enough. Thou’rt the first man, or very nearly the first, anyway the first I have ever had any real talk with. But aren’t we going to the river, Denis? Well, sir, I was thinking that we might spend our day in building a great snare for the wild ducks that come up the river every evening. I saw a great flight of them settle down last night, and began to build the snare yesterday in the woodshed; and going thither Astrolabe was shown the beginning of a long wicker basket, wide at one end, narrowing, and ending in a net. It is so wide at this end that the ducks are without thought of danger and swim into it, thinking to rejoin the ducks they hear at the other end; it will be my voice imitating the talk of ducks they’ll hear. Can’st imitate a duck as well as that, Denis? asked Astrolabe. And many other birds too, Denis answered, for in our wanderings we often have to live upon what we catch in the woods; and forthright he began a gabble which no duck would have known was not his native language. But I must learn to quack like that, and while the snare was being woven Astrolabe practised quacking, becoming quickly so skilful that his quacking deceived the nuns, setting them talking and asking each other how the duck or ducks could have got into the convent.
The boy was tiresome withal, for once his thoughts were set on a subject he could think of nothing else, and the nuns wearied a little of his constant running in and out to ask them to come to the wood shed to see the wonderful snare that Denis was making. But when the night came for the setting of the snare he besought them to remain indoors, which they promised to do, a little weary of his antics, saying that they would be glad when there was no more question of catching ducks. The ducks came and many were caught, but the birds were so thin they were not worth killing, and several had their wings cut and joined the tame birds in the poultry yard, feeding with them, and, like them, fattening themselves for the table.
CHAP. XXXV.
EACH DAY WAS a margin of dusk that soon darkened into night, and there was no change in the thick grey sky save when it turned to sulphur over the horizon. It was often said: we shall have more snow, and one morning Astrolabe came running up from the river with the news that men were crossing it on the ice. Might he do likewise? Thou hast not ceased, his mother replied, for all this week and as far back as I remember, to ask me if thou mayest do this thing and that. Alack, it seems to me that I spend all my time saying no. Unabashed, the boy strayed aside, telling of strange birds that came up the river so weak that they could hardly fly, and so thin are they, he said, that cook won’t pluck them; and, mother, the village is full of wanderers from all parts unworthy to be called gleemen; gargil churls Denis calls them, and the words brought the thought to Héloïse that Denis must be bidden away — Cherriez must harbour him. She laid the matter before the Prioress, but her stratagem availed her little, for Denis came up every day from the village to teach Astrolabe music.
The nuns, too, were anxious for instruction in music, and part singing wore away the snow’s monotony till the rain came, at the end of February. But it could not melt the snow, so thickly did it lie, and up and down the Seine valley the winds ranged, shaking the poor poplars till the eye pitied them, so tortured did they seem in the blasts. Never shall we see the springtide again, everybody was saying, till one evening the dusk seemed less cold.
Next morning the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and Cherriez’s wife thought that the day had come to rid herself of the vagrant that the convent had imposed upon her for nearly three weeks. Thereat Astrolabe was in tears, saying that he had not learnt more than one half of a needful knowledge of the many musical instruments. But, dear boy, he will return, said Héloïse, taking him in her arms, but detaching himself ruthlessly he cried: ah, here he is, coming to say good-bye, mother; and Astrolabe ran to meet Denis in the cloister, and taking him into the community-room Denis took his farewell of the nuns, who, he said, had been very good to him, and he would remember them always. But when may we see thee again, Denis? Astrolabe asked, little concerned whether Denis remembered the nuns or forgot them. Before the summer is over. Bring a gittern with thee, the boy cried, for I would play the gittern and the ribeck and the flute. Now that I know how to write down the tunes, I shall write down every one that comes into my head. We’ll sing them together in the summer, won’t we, Denis? If I am alive I will return, little sir, Denis said. But I’ve been about a great deal and am worn out, as a man is who has travelled France, singing it all over, bringing the news from the north to the south, from the south to the north, for — ah, how many years! As well as I know I am nearly fifty, so set not your hearts on seeing me again, and if it should hap that I die by the roadside, I shall he praying for you in heaven. Not that ye need my prayers, ladies, I know, not as I need yours, and maybe my while in purgatory will be a long one, for no man on this earth can say that he is altogether a good man. But if God spare thee, Denis, and thou shouldst return to us, bring us back news of Jerusalem, said the Prioress. Many are going fo
rth and many are on their way back; hear them all, and we shall welcome thee for the tidings thou bringest. But why, cried Mother Hilda, dost thou speak so dolefully, Denis, as if death were a welcome thing? Well, ma’am, it is welcome to the vagrant, for the vagrant drops into old age soon after forty, and an old monkey, as the saying has it, pleases nobody. None but yourselves, ladies, would have thought it worth the trouble to open a door to save him from the wolves. I take my leave of you all, hoping to see you again. Now, Astrolabe, leave go of my habit and return to thy dinner. Mother, ask him if he will leave his organistrum. But it is with it that he gets his living, my boy. Do go back to thy dinner; hast forgotten that there is pudding? So there is, mother; yes, there is pudding to-day, he replied, and ran away. But the pudding was barely eaten when he was asking for a lute or a ribeck, and on being offered a pair of régals he turned aside affronted and walked about disconsolate, confiding his sorrow to nobody, which was strange, for reticence was not in his humour. A few days later he had recovered his humour enough to ask his mother for a gittern. I have not money enough, she answered him. When father returns will he have enough? Does father play the organistrum as well as Denis? he asked, and in his eagerness for a musical instrument he would have put many more to her if Cherriez had not come in with the news that Denis had been found dead by the roadside, having tumbled, he said, into a snowdrift. We all thought, said the Prioress, that thou wert weatherwise and knew as well as the birds when the spring was coming in. That is so, madam, but the birds themselves come too soon or go too late. But Denis is not dead? He is not like the birds that we caught together by the river? cried Astrolabe. Not really so dead that we shall never see him again? He wasn’t dead, young sir, when we found him; he spoke a word or two about his organistrum, and we understood him that it should be given to the lad who can play it best, and who can play it as well as his pupil? So now, sir — Astrolabe turned aside and began to cry hard. But, young sir, since it was his wish for you to have it — You all hated him, the child replied passionately; you wouldn’t let him sleep in the wood shed, but sent him down to the village and you, Cherriez, turned him out into the snow. I couldn’t keep him any longer in my hut, Cherriez said, speaking to Héloïse; and you ladies couldn’t keep him here, he added. But this I’ll say for him, he was the honestest gleeman that ever came through our door — a wicked, lying, blackguardly lot them gleemen; thieving fowls, ravishing girls, telling lies and singing songs, are all they are good for, and their songs are not always good for children to hear. If he had only waited a few days longer, said the Prioress. The spring day tempted him, Cherriez answered. Well, he’s gone now, and I wouldn’t have the boy take it so to heart. My young sir, he sent you his organistrum. You wouldn’t let him sleep in the wood shed, you all hated him, Astrolabe howled. But do not put aside his organistrum, my darling, Héloïse said, since he wished thee to have it, and while playing it he will come back to thee as plainly as if he were here. Play one of thy pieces for us and for him. Mother, I can’t, but I will to-morrow. Cherriez waited for some recompense for his honesty in refraining from the theft of the musical instrument, and to lead the Prioress’s thoughts to her duty towards him, he began to speak of the fall of snow, which none could have foreseen, not even he, though he was weather-wise beyond any man, if the Seine were followed to the sea in search of one. It was as if God had wished Denis’s death for his own good reasons; God must have desired to take Denis to himself, he said. It may be as thou sayest, the Prioress answered, and this seeming to be the moment to reward him, she sought for some coins in the satchel that hung from her girdle and gave them to him. And the nuns and their gardener went forth to watch the springtide, the thought in them all being that it seemed certainly as if God had wished to encompass Denis’s death. For had he waited a few days more the sweet south wind that was blowing, calling the early flowers into being and the bushes in the garden into buds, would have melted the snow. Denis would have found a lodging and followed some troupe of gleemen during the summer, coming back in the early autumn or winter. The underwoods were lighting up, and along the river’s banks kingcups had begun; and Héloïse once again looked back and considered her life, the joy and the wonder of its springtime, now nearly eleven years ago, for she had waited for Abelard in this convent for eight years. Where was he? and why had he not come to release her? Alas, she did not know anything, and lived like the weed in the field. True to him, she was. But of what use is fealty if there be no reward for it? If he has forgotten me, why should I be true? Has he been true to me? Man is never true. And then her thoughts suddenly breaking away from him and from herself, she said: every nun, except the old ones in whom life is almost dead, burns in this springtime as I do; and a talk she had had with Angela years back returned to her. Sister Angela had told her that some gleeman or trouvère had won Sister Agnes away, and on asking how it was that a woman could love another so deeply as she seemed to have done, Sister Angela answered: Nature will have her way with us despite vows, in dreams if we resist one another too long. And when Héloïse pleaded a more natural affection, Angela answered: sex does not seem to matter, what is important is to love. She had not forgotten Angela’s words, and though they were strange to her they found an echo in her, whose nature was to love one man only. Angela, she said to herself, is now thinking of Sister Agnes with the same passion and the same folly as I am thinking of Abélard. Mother Hilda is dreaming of her husband, saying to herself: the dead live in our memories, and they are not dead until we cease to think of them. The dying Prioress sits in her chair dreaming of her husband as a restless spirit demanding further search for his body on the field of battle and its burial in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, thinking, no doubt, when she does think, of a grave for them both far away in the Holy Land. We are always remembering what has been, Héloïse added; how else should we live, we who have left life behind? And these springtimes are bitter to us. The return of the sun to the earth, the return of the birds to their songs, the return of the flowers to the air remind us that for us there is no return, life will never summon us again. Only the very young, who have no past to embitter the present, nor any thoughts of any future, like my boy, are happy in the springtime, and only for a short time, for in a few years love will fall upon him, and he will become restless and unhappy, as I am. At what age will he begin to form projects, projects that are never realised?
