by George Moore
And dragging his mother after him he went in search of Mother Hilda, and discovering two sisters in the illuminating-room, whose influence it seemed to him important to have on his side, he appealed to them. The children, said Sister Cecilia, will be delighted to hear the minstrels, and Sister Josiane reminded her that the instruction they had received during the winter from Denis was of great use to them. This was enough for Astrolabe, who continued his quest, asking all and sundry for Mother Hilda, and finding Sister Tetta in the schoolroom sitting in a corner looking very wretched, her indigestion being worse than usual that morning, and averse from the encouragement of such vagrants, he went at her forthright, saying that the vagrants were the gleemen of the Comte Mathieu de Rodebœuf, winning her over by a plea for the schoolroom, which would be disappointed if the minstrels were not given a hearing.
His mother could not restrain him from telling the great tidings to some sisters coming out of church, and a wrangle began, the sisters ranging themselves on different sides, arguing among themselves, till Mother Hilda appeared. Her first words silenced the dissidents: we may not send away those who have fought for the Holy Sepulchre, so it seems to me. A few minutes after Mother Ysabeau came down saying that the entertainment was to take place at four, in the quadrangle. Whereat a great gabble began among the nuns, all telling the Prioress that the gleemen were gone to the village to seek beds for the night but this search would not detain them long, and an hour later a letter arrived from the Comte, saying that he would return to the convent before his men, for he wished to meet the Prioress before the entertainment began so that he might renew his acquaintance with her and tell the battles he had fought in the Holy Land, giving assurance that the city was still safe in the hands of the Christians.
I see that nothing I can say will dissuade you, dear Mother, from assisting at the entertainment, said Father Stephen. But you do not think, Father, that any harm can come of allowing these minstrels to sing to us in our quadrangle? She waited for him to answer her, and while he considered his answer she ran over in her mind the portly little cleric, the chaplain, liking less than usual his round head and round, rosy face, and of all his manner of chattering through his pursed-up lips. Of course, my dear Mother Prioress, if what you’ve been told is the truth, and that these men did really fight for the faith in the Holy Land, it would be wrong indeed to send them away from your doors without the usual welcome of bread and wine. But are you sure that these gleemen are speaking the truth and that they have come from the Holy Land? I assert nothing; I merely put it to you, are you sure? Stephen’s lack of faith vexed the Prioress, for though gleemen might not always tell the truth, Stephen knew the message that had been sent to her by the Comte Mathieu de Rodebœuf, and to impugn his veracity set her against her spiritual adviser; and to convince him that he was wrong and that she was right, she asked him if he believed that the man who sent the letter that she had handed him to read was a sham Comte Mathieu de Rodebœuf. For if he did not cast doubt on the letter, why did he ask her if she felt quite sure that the chief gleeman was the son of her old friend and neighbour in the Arras country? I would like to hear your objection, father, to the entertainment being given in our quadrangle. The songs of the trouvères and gleemen, he answered, savour too much of the life of the world for the ears of those who have embraced the religious life. But you do not think, father, that the Comte Mathieu de Rodebœuf would allow songs to be sung in my convent that were unsuitable to our ears and to the ears of the school children, who are all clamouring for the entertainment?
The argument was continued for some long time between the Prioress and the convent chaplain, till at last a knock came to the door, and a lay sister opened it, saying that the Comte Mathieu de Rodebœuf had arrived, and hoped to speak with the Prioress. You will give me your arm, father, the Prioress said; and the lay sister and Stephen exchanged glances and their eyes said plainly: our Prioress is wasting her last strength and we shall not be able to keep her long after the excitement of this day. Will you place my chair, the Prioress said, just here in the middle of the cloister, and throw the door open, for I would see the Comte Mathieu de Rodebœuf as he comes down the passage from the front door into the quadrangle; and you can put that cushion behind my head. I shall be well enough like that, for indeed my illness is one of your fallacies — a conventional fallacy. The old woman chuckled, for it annoyed her to see that her nurse and her chaplain were averse that she should leave her room to take part in the shows and diversions of the minstrels; and she could see, too, that they did not believe in the nobility of the trouvère or gleeman whom she was waiting for.
She was out of her humour, therefore, when the Comte de Rodebœuf walked across the quadrangle, and so strange was his apparel, so unlike that of a great nobleman, that she could not behold in him the Comte de Rodebœuf whose castle she had often seen from her window through her father’s trees and his trees, and it needed all her strength to dissemble and keep her disappointment from Stephen and address Comte Mathieu de Rodebœuf with becoming smiles. I am in failing health, she said; pray be seated, Comte, and without remarking his strange clothes, she began to speak of his father. It is in keeping, the Comte said, with the noble courtesy that we cultivate in our country of Arras that you hide surprise, Prioress, at the strange motley you find me flaunting. And forthwith he began to tell her that although he was still the Comte Mathieu de Rodebœuf, his castle and lands were no longer his. In Palestine, he said, I am a soldier of the Cross, but when I return to France, the trouvère of other days can find no service, and is obliged to travel at a venture, his voice being sometimes with him and absent as often. And thy friend of other days is no longer a lutanist, for in leaping from a balcony his wrist and some fingers were broken. A strange story is yours, truly, sir. Tell it to me, the old woman said, speaking with gentleness and sympathy, for even in his motley Comte Mathieu de Rodebœuf was a knight, and his lithe figure, broad shoulders, and shapely face, lighted with sad blue eyes, pleased her. And the Comte, feeling that what he had to do was to pitch his story in a key suited to her ear, summarised his love adventures, representing them as one great passion which had absorbed his life till God’s grace came and called him to the Holy Land. Such is my story, Mother Prioress, said Rodebœuf, since we lived together in the Arras country. Stephen, who stood by them, would have liked the Prioress to put some more searching questions to the Comte, and it was upon his lips to remind her that all gleemen tell the same story — all have been to the Crusades — but he was able to restrain his tongue, and when the old woman began to ask the Comte if he had met her husband in Palestine, and if her husband’s grave were known to him, Stephen turned away, it seeming to him almost an immodesty to overhear the old woman’s sweet folly.
And leaving the Prioress under the spell of remembrances that were her life much more than her daily duties, Stephen walked into the quadrangle, whither the lay sisters were bringing benches and seats, seats for the lay sisters and benches for the children, who were just arriving in charge of the schoolmistress, Sister Mechtilde, an almost young German nun, tall and slight, about whom the children grouped themselves, a little group of a dozen, every one anxious to hear what she was saying, to get near her, but every one orderly, none trying to push forward, for Sister Mechtilde was a strict disciplinarian inasmuch as she was always alert, watchful, when she was with the children, gaining their hearts by gentle firmness. Her life was lived with her children, and in their long, straight frocks and veils they made a pretty group on the grass circlewise round her, asking questions, some of which she answered hastily, bidding them to hold their tongues, saying that they must have patience, and leave things to explain themselves.
The choir sisters and the mothers were choosing their places, and the Prioress was still talking to the Comte Mathieu de Rodebœuf, forgetful of the minstrels who were coming, and who arrived a little later, dissipating some very sentimental memories by their parti-coloured garments and their strange instruments. Sister Mec
htilde, cried Clothilde, look at that great horn; will they play it, and what sound will it give? Hush, Clothilde, thou’lt hear the horn presently and be able to judge for thyself. Sister Mechtilde, cried another child, look at that round thing the third man this side is carrying; what is it? That’s a drum, dear; they will begin to beat it presently. To beat it! Why should they beat it? And there’s another organistrum just the same as Astrolabe’s, Sister; is it not the same? There’s too much talking, you must have a little patience, and it will all be made plain to you presently. Are they beginning to play now? another child asked. No, dear, they are not; they’re merely tuning their instruments. Thine ear, Catherine, must be even worse than I thought it was. The other children laughed, taking pleasure in the discomfiture of Catherine, who turned red and was unhappy during the first part of the performance, but forgot the rebuke in the excitement of that memorable afternoon.
At last the lutes were tuned, and rising from his seat the Comte said: my minstrels are now ready, and by your leave, Prioress, they will begin, whereupon the Prioress, rising to her feet, bowed an almost royal consent, and the Comte crossed the quadrangle and taking a seat on the edge of the deep wall, one foot on the ground, the other leg dangling jauntily from the parapet, he sang to an accompaniment played by his own lutanist. Stephen asked if the Comte never played the lute. He was the great lute-player of my country, the Prioress answered, but his fingers were broken many years ago in a fall from a balcony.
To concede something to the Prioress’s noble lineage, the first song sung was by William VII., Count of Poitiers and Duke of Aquitaine, and the authorship was announced with a note of deference by the Comte de Rodeboeuf. Songs for single and several voices were sung, with accompaniments on lute and lyre, and before each song the Comte de Rodeboeuf announced the authorship. The next songs were by Circlalmon, and these were followed by the songs of Jaufre Rudel, Berenguier de Palazol, and Bernard de Ventardorn; and it was not till the audience had just begun to feel that they would like a break in the entertainment that the Comte de Rodeboeuf rose to his feet, and addressing the audience, said: you have now heard some of the most beautiful songs ever composed in this world, and it has come to me to think that perhaps you would like to hear something about the lives of the marvellous poet musicians; if so — The Comte waited to be told that all desired to hear; the applause left no doubt that they did and he related the story of Jaufre Rudel, who loved a princess far away whom he had never seen, only heard of, which was enough to make other loves seem worthless. The story of how he had journeyed to her, seeing her for but a few moments before he died, was listened to with a pleasure so intense that the tears often rose to the eyelids, and acceding to the demand for another story, the Comte de Rodeboeuf told that Bernard de Ventardorn was the son of a bakeress, and carried the loaves in a basket round the castle, singing as he went. Denis had told the same story, and it did not seem likely that two poets, Denis and Bernard de Ventardorn, should both have carried loaves of bread round a castle, singing. Which were they to believe? Before anybody had concluded which was telling the truth, the Comte de Rodebœuf told how this great poet lived and was true to his love. You shall hear him tell himself, he said (man is only himself when he loves), in one of the most beautiful songs ever made; and the Comte, stepping forward, sang:
quan vei la lauzeta mover:
The song is truly beautiful, the Prioress said, and she sent her appreciation forward by her chaplain, Stephen: and, after bowing in answer to the applause with which the song was received, the Comte de Rodebœuf related the friendship that had never been broken between the two great poet musicians, Bernard de Ventardorn and Berenguier de Palazol. And while in his story the thought coming to him that the celebrated tenso held between the two poets, one taking the part of a Pagan and the other a Christian, was suitable for convent recitation, he began; and the argument was followed with interest till the last stanza, in which the Pagan seemed to triumph so completely that the nuns waited with bated breath to hear the audacious Infidel reduced to naught by the Christian. But no answer came from the Christian, and so natural did this end of the tenso seem to the Comte that it was not for some time that he perceived his dilemma; and then, realising what was expected of him, but being unable to invent a suitable answer for the Christian, he clapped his hand to his forehead, and after a moment of meditation he began to apologise to the company for having forgotten the last and most important stanza, in which the downfall of the unbeliever is related. And to pass from an awkward moment, he asked permission to sing a song that had been composed for him, a song, he added, which had much to do with sending him to Palestine to fight the Saracen for possession of the Holy Sepulchre. But who shall I ask to accompany me? he cried aloud, and his eyes wandered round his own minstrels, seeking among the lute and the lyre players. Before his choice fell Astrolabe struck a chord involuntarily, and it seemed to Rodebœuf that it would be a gracious thing to call upon the child to accompany him.
Wilt thou accompany me on thy organistrum? he said, and Astrolabe answered that he thought he would be able to find a suitable accompaniment on his strings if the Comte would sing the melody over to him. A little rehearsal, the Comte answered, and they walked back and forth, the Comte’s hand on the boy’s shoulder, singing in his ear whilst the boy sought appropriate chords. We may begin now, sir, and Astrolabe followed the Comte’s voice with so much sympathy that all the company marvelled, and Héloïse shared in her son’s triumph. But her face took on a look of perplexity, for it began to seem to her that she was listening to one of her husband’s songs, not one she had ever heard him sing, but a song so much in his style and manner that she could not think else than that it was his song. It is his song, she said, and the Comte will tell me; but how can I get near him and talk to him without attracting attention? She could not but obey the spell that was upon her (Abelard’s spell), and rising to her feet, was about to go to him; but at that moment the Prioress beckoned the kitchen sister to come to her: — Our visitors would like to partake of some cake and wine; is there enough for all? Plenty, Mother Prioress; I have been busy all the morning baking, the kitchen sister answered, and hurried across the quadrangle, returning soon after with several lay sisters carrying spiced cakes on wooden platters, cider and wine in earthenware jugs.
At a sign from the school mistress, Mechtilde, the children sprang to their feet, delighted at the permission given to them to hand round the cake and wine, which they did, begging of each gleeman to help himself more liberally. Astrolabe needed even less pressing than the gleemen, for with one piece of cake in his hand, and another in his pocket, the greedy boy begged to be allowed to carry a platter to the Comte Mathieu de Rodebœuf. The moment appeared to Héloïse as hers, for she could go to the help of her son without attracting attention and after instructing him regarding the distribution of the cake, she asked the Comte Mathieu de Rodebœuf if the song he had just sung was by Pierre Abélard, the great teacher and philosopher. My husband, she said. Your husband, Sister? cried he. Yes; for I am Héloïse, the niece of Canon Fulbert, she answered, and put her question again to Mathieu; and, his mazed eyes fixed upon her, he told her the song was written for him by Pierre Abélard. But how came you, Sister — ? Ah, that is too long a story for me to tell you now, Comte. But when did you get that song from him? Abélard, said Mathieu, was my gleeman when I was a rich trouvère. He left music and art for philosophy, and we did not see each other for many years, not until we came upon each other on the road to Blois. On the road, she said, from Tours to Blois. He left me at Tours with his sister and her husband, who were to take me to Brittany, whither I went with them, for I was then carrying that boy who accompanied you on his organistrum. Pierre Abélard wrote this song for me, Mathieu repeated, within hearing of Astrolabe. But my father’s name is Pierre Abélard, Astrolabe cried. Mother, why didst thou not tell me that my father wrote music before? He wrote the song that I sang, said Mathieu. That I accompanied, cried Astrolabe again. Yes, Mathieu answere
d, and with which I should have gained the prize. Then the song did not win the prize? Héloïse asked. It won the prize, but I didn’t get the prize, the Comte replied. Tell us the story, Astrolabe cried. But how could the song get the prize and you not get it, too, since the song was written for you?
A moment later they were surrounded, and there was only time for Rodeboeuf to pass the word to Héloïse that he was in France but a month, which was interpreted by her that no tidings of Abélard had yet reached him. But her eyes were so suppliant that he apprehended his duty to be an immediate search for Abélard, and Héloïse, reading a promise of help in his eyes, was moved to say: to-morrow at three in the orchard, Comte; do not fail me.
CHAP. XXXVI.
THE NEWS THAT came down next morning from the Prioress’s room not being favourable, Héloïse presented herself before Mother Ysabeau to ask her permission to absent herself from certain duties, saying that the Comte de Rodeboeuf was coming in the afternoon to speak to her of the journey he was about to undertake to Brittany in search of Abelard. Mother Ysabeau’s face darkened a little, but she dared not refuse Héloïse permission to meet the Comte de Rodeboeuf, knowing well that if she did Héloïse would go to the Prioress and get it. So with as good grace as she could command at the moment, she answered: the Prioress would give permission; why, then, should I refuse it, even if I were so disposed, and I am not, for it is but right that you should take all means to enquire out the safety of your one-time husband, who is now your brother in our Lord Jesus Christ. Héloïse thanked her with something like detestation in her heart, for she had read Mother Ysabeau’s thought in her face, and was about to ponder on it when it was swept away by a memory of the promise she seemed to have read in Mathieu’s eyes. He will not fail me, she said; my life here is ending; every moment is bringing our meeting nearer. But how will it come about? How will it befall? In what shape shall I appear to him? for I am no longer a young girl. Will he love me less? As she leaned over the parapet watching the river going by, her thoughts began to wind out of her present life into her past, and so far away were they from the actual moment that Sister Agatha had to call twice before she awoke from her reverie.
