by George Moore
I am glad you have come, she said, giving her hand to Rodeboeuf, and when the portress left them he said: of what were you thinking? — of Abélard? I cannot tell of what I was dreaming, she said, perhaps of the sadness of things. Yesterday there was a moment of hope; but your last words were that you had no tidings of him. But I must not weary you with my regrets. We can talk about him at least. Abélard has told me often of your first meeting, which was before I knew him, when he was a young man faring forth from his home in Brittany to teach the world. Yes, it was like that, Rodeboeuf answered. I was riding from my castle, attended by my gleemen, when a charging boar set my horse plunging. A sudden swerve threw me out of poise, and while seeking my horse we came upon Abélard in an oak wood at midday. My horse had already found him. Abélard held him by the bridle. The very story that he told me, Héloïse answered. Faith, the Comte repeated, it was my horse that found him and asleep. And you challenged him, Mathieu, with the words: young man, thou’st a lute upon thy back, and Abélard said that a lutanist he was, and you answered: my castle is close by. Yes, it was as you say it, Héloïse. You engaged him, Héloïse continued, to put your songs in order — He being a better musician than I, the Comte interjected. But did he tell you of the prize song he wrote for me? No, he couldn’t have, for it was after leaving you at Tours with his family that he met me on the road to Blois, a ragged gleeman, whom he could barely believe to be the Comte de Rodebœuf. We went on together, for I said to him: a coach will be dragging wearily up yonder hill-side, and if we are there before it we may be rewarded for our singing by the travellers. But, said I, you’ll have to play for me, for all that is left of the Comte de Rodebœuf is his voice. I showed him my broken fingers, telling him that I had to leap from a balcony to escape the sword of Raymond de Castel-Roussillon. As Héloïse’s face told him that the story of his last meetings with Abélard would not be clear if he omitted any part of the story of the evil bird that had betrayed his love of Margherita, his neighbour’s wife, he related the adventure, and how his next love story had led him into the love of a woman whose one thought was tournaments and feasting, and that to retain her love he had assembled many times great companies of knights and tilted with them all, glad to win her favour at the cost of all his lands. All my possessions passed from me, he said, like sand through the neck of a glass, and the trouvère is now a gleeman.
You have been to the Holy Land? Héloïse asked, and the Comte broke forth again into the story of his unfortunate life; and Héloïse heard that it was about nine years since Abélard overtook him on the road to Blois. Nine years ago! she repeated. I was with child then and had journeyed with Abélard from Paris to Tours, where he left me with his sister and brother-in-law. But go on with your story, Comte; you met Abélard on the road to Blois. A Court of Love was in session, the Comte continued, and I said: many heavy purses are being awarded for poems; if I could win one I should not have to go to the Holy Land to win the Holy Sepulchre from the Saracen. But, said Abélard, no evil bird has cast a spell upon me, so I will write for thee a song that may win the purse thou needest. Now is there a tavern nearby where we might write it? There is one by the castle of Chatellerand, said I. We went thither, and all night long, whilst the gleemen were drinking and singing and chasing gleemaidens in the garden, Abélard and I were set on the composition of our prize song. You heard me sing it yesterday; a beautiful song it is; it gained the purse of gold, but the purse went to another singer, who heard me singing the song over and over again, and being called before me in the competition, the shameful fellow sang not his own song, which was worthless, but Abélard’s. For such is the luck of the luckless my fate always, and finding myself penniless I entered the army to help to win the Holy Sepulchre from the Saracen. And here I am in France without hope of finding a trouvère to engage me.
But in Palestine great adventures must have, happened to you? said Héloïse. Great adventures truly, he said, but the whole afternoon cannot be spent in relating them, and I am anxious to hear your story, Héloïse. You will trust me with it? for all the while I have been telling mine I have been thinking how I may help you. But you have not heard of Abélard since the days you’ve been telling? she said. Were Abélard dead I should have heard of his death, Rodeboeuf answered, and it seems to me that when I have sung at a few more castles where I am expected, I might undertake some journeys hither and thither, picking up news of Abélard, finding him at length, and bringing him to you. Your words bespeak a kind heart, Mathieu, said Héloïse, but if Abélard had not forgotten, he would have come to me long ago. You wrong him, Héloïse. It may be that I do, she said, for my vow was that I should remain here till he returned to me, a priest. I have kept my vow, but has he kept his? Is he a priest? You will have to tell me more of your story, for I can make no good sense of it till you do, Mathieu replied. Why should you be here waiting for Abélard to return to you a priest? That story none knows but myself, she answered, but lest you should think me a foolish woman who dreams, I will tell it to you; and she related that she had besought him not to marry her in Brittany, saying that women have always been the undoing of men since Eve, our mother, and not wishing to bring ruin upon the world again, I recalled all the stories I could remember, and though he could not deny the truth of any he still persisted, and we went to Paris together and were wedded.
A sad journey it was, and all the while of it I knew we were riding towards our misfortune, for, worst mistake of all, Abélard chose that the marriage should be kept secret. As if his marriage could be kept secret. Often I said to him: the marriage of Abélard cannot be hidden from the world; nor was it hidden from anybody. Within a few days it was common talk. My uncle made it public. But why should I tell you any more? said Héloïse, stopping suddenly. The Comte pressed her to tell all, and the impulse to tell the secret she had kept hidden in her heart so long being upon her, she said: I never had any wish but Abélard’s renown, and seeing that my uncle was determined upon his ruin, the thought grew in me that we must undo our marriage; and for this purpose, I said to myself, I will return to my old convent and he shall become a priest, for outside of the Church there is no advancement for any man, however great a genius he may be. Abélard was adverse, but one night it fell out that my uncle in wine and anger gave way to such violent words and threats that I left the house in the rue des Chantres and ran to Abélard’s lodging. How came it about, and who said the first word, who the second or the third, I have no memory, but it was for his sake that I came hither at the break of day next morning — And you have been here ever since? the Comte interrupted. Yes; and till yesterday I believed in his return to me. But to-day it seems to me that belief is dead. You have lived here, the Comte said, in that black Benedictine robe, for nine years, accepting a life that is not yours, for a man’s glory. But I have brought him no glory, she replied, only misfortune; yet I live among idle prayers, wandering through a life of rule, my life a sort of dazed stupor, no more than that. In the glamour of the day I laugh and talk like another, but in the night I weep, asking myself again and again if he have forgotten me, if he will return, if all be not a mad dream, if it will ever end. If I sleep he comes to me in dreams, but before the moment of our joy he disappears, and I sit up in bed scared, watching the grey window-pane.
This sudden and precise realisation of what her life had been for nine years, and which it still was, swept away all memory of the Comte de Rodebœuf, and his voice startled her when he spoke, saying: — I will seek Abélard. But Abélard, she cried, knows where I am. If he have not forgotten me he would have come hither or sent a message. Have you not told me, the Comte said, of a covenant — That he may not come hither till he be a priest, she replied. He may still be seeking a bishop to ordain him, not an easy thing for a man convicted of heresy to find. But if this be so, why am I here? Why does he leave me here? Your eyes seemed to promise a search for him yesterday, but in sending you to seek him out I am breaking the covenant; and there may be a reason for this silence. But you would n
ot live and die without knowledge of him? Mathieu said, and after waiting for an answer he began to try to persuade her out of her scruples, saying that his tongue confirmed the promise that his eyes made yesterday. The thought is your own, obey it, she said, since it was sent to you, and on these words they turned into the orchard, unable to bear the melancholy of the river any longer. There’s no river, he said, so melancholy as the Seine, for it winds oftener, a deep, silent current, with hardly any eddy in it. The sisters like to come here to watch the boats going by, Héloïse replied, and it’s pleasant to see the barge appear, its red sails filled with a west wind; but I am always sorry when it goes away down the river, for I know it is only going away to come back. I do not know why I am sorry for the barge; sometimes I think that I am sorry for everything, for even the old dead barge lying in yonder bed of rushes. But I must not give way. You’ll forgive me, knowing how long I have waited. And yet.... You have been here till a river flowing through the pleasant lands of France brings you unhappiness, Rodebœuf answered. But your son comes to you, leaping and singing through the orchard; he at least is happy. At this moment, perhaps, but he is always craving for something, Héloïse said, with a faint smile. But where hast thou been, my little son, and why comest thou hither singing thy father’s song so joyously?
I have come from the village, mother. May I tell Comte Rodeboeuf about the gittern that Raoul plays so beautifully? It came from a shop in Paris where one can buy gitterns and flutes and viols and many more musical instruments than I can remember the names of. And from another shop, mother, thou canst buy the swords and the shields and the armour that the Crusaders wear when they go away to Palestine to fight for the Holy Sepulchre. I should like to be a Crusader and sail in a ship down to the sea, and cut off the heads of many Saracens. When may I go to Palestine, mother? And when wilt thou take me to the shop to buy the gittern? And if thou canst not leave the convent, mother, may I go to Paris with the Comte de Rodeboeuf? Ask the Comte if he will take thee, Héloïse answered. Will you take me to Paris, sir? the child repeated. For I do want to see Paris. Now which is thy heart set on, he asked — Paris or Palestine; and which wouldst thou like the better, to go to Paris with me or with thy father? So many questions silenced Astrolabe’s loquacious tongue, and soon after the Comte Mathieu de Rodeboeuf took his leave of Héloïse. Will he take me to Paris to see the lute-maker, mother? cried Astrolabe. Yes, I think he will, she answered; and the boy ran up the orchard to tell Rodeboeuf that on the whole he preferred the gittern to Palestine, and Héloïse had to call him several times before he would return to her.
Why may I not go to Paris with the Comte de Rodeboeuf? he asked. Come to thy lesson, she answered, a little wearied by his reiterated requests. But Astrolabe was unable to fix his attention on hexameters that day; at every moment he would break into telling of the wonderful instruments that the gleemen played. Girard’s bagpipe is in the shape of an animal that wears its house on its back, with four little feet to walk on and a head no longer than my thumb. Thou dost not believe me, mother, but Girard would not have told me a lie; we don’t have the animal about here, but it is common enough in other parts. Thou believest, mother? Yes, and what then? Well, Astrolabe continued, the bag of the pipe is sewn into the shape of that animal, while the other end of the pipe is carved. Floriant’s bagpipe is in the shape of a serpent that he winds round his body; and just as if his mother remembered all the minstrels who had taken part in the entertainment given in the quadrangle, he continued: Bernard can dance while he plays the gigue and the organistrum with seventeen strings, to the sound of bells, and he composes jigs to suit the psaltery. Mother, if thou canst not go to Paris with me thou must come to the village and hear Bernard mimic the sounds of birds. There is no bird he can’t copy, and so well that the bird thinks it is another bird of the same kind as himself calling to him. But Denis could do that too, Héloïse answered. He could in a way, Astrolabe replied reflectively, but he couldn’t pretend to make an attack on a castle, and he was too old to jump through four hoops, and I don’t think that he ever said he could play on the gittern and the mondore. I must have a gittern, mother, for one has to learn these instruments early when one is young, just as I am, else it is difficult to learn them later.
But I heard thee say that thou wert going to be a Crusader. Can’t I be both, mother, gleeman and Crusader? Well, there is plenty of time for thinking, Astrolabe, for children do not go to the Crusades. Oh, but they do, mother, they do, for I have seen them passing in processions, boys with banners, and boys swinging silver censers and singing hymns. So thou wouldst as lief be a Crusader as a gleeman? she asked Astrolabe, and was drawn almost into a meditation by the thought that her son was beginning to pass from her. Can’t I be both? the child repeated. Do gleemen never go to the Crusades, mother? Is father in Palestine, and if he isn’t, why shouldn’t he come here? Will he never come? I should like to see father. Héloïse did not answer, and afraid that he had vexed his mother by his desire to see his father, he said: but I don’t want to see father, for he hasn’t been good to thee. Thou mustn’t say thy father was not good to me, Héloïse answered. Why does father leave thee here among a lot of womenfolk? the child asked. I am here, Héloïse replied, for I am a nun, and thy father is a priest; at least I believe him to be one. But I don’t want to live here shut up with a lot of women, the child answered; I’d as liefer fight for the Holy Sepulchre. But thou’rt a child, Astrolabe. Haven’t I told thee, mother, that children are going to the Crusades? Cherriez’s boy went yesterday, he blurted out. But who has been talking with thee, telling thee that thy father was not good to me, and that he is in Palestine? I didn’t say father was in Palestine, only that if he were not, that — The child hesitated, and Héloïse ended the sentence for him: he would come hither; so say the gleemen in the village, where thou hast been, Astrolabe, despite thy promise. As Astrolabe did not answer, a great fear, come from a passing thought, laid hold of her that Astrolabe, having a musical ear, might be taken away by the gleemen, kidnapped, leaving her without a son to show Abélard when he returned, for she had not yet given up hope.
There was a cause, a reason for his absence, and she fell to thinking of Mathieu’s journey to Brittany, and continued to think of Mathieu’s chances of bringing Abélard back to her till she remembered that she must get a promise from Astrolabe not to go to the village inn again. Mother, thou art always asking for promises. But art thou not always asking things from me? she enquired. But thou’rt my mother, and he clung to her robe with a pretty, affectionate movement. But if I don’t go to the inn I shall not learn to play the gittern, and I do want to play it; it is much merrier than the vielle, and lighter to carry. And before his mother could answer him he begged for leave to go to the village, for I do want to go so much, mother. And when she asked him why, he answered quickly: to play my organistrum, mother; and when she asked why he didn’t care to play it in the convent, he answered: you’re all thinking of your prayers, not of me. O, that is sad indeed, she replied, and in the village thou wouldst find eager ears? There may be some gleeman about the inn, mother. And to provoke one of his unexpected answers she spoke of a quiet wood as a better place for music than an inn yard. But one can’t play without listeners, he said. Mother, thou knowest that, and art teasing me. But the wood, she replied, is full of birds, blackbirds, thrushes, and these will come down from the branches and hop close to listen to thee. Will they? he asked coseningly, and after meditating a little while he asked if blackbirds and thrushes could tell whether the rote be well played. Astrolabe, thou’st heard them, and spoken to me of their singing, many times. And thinking to embarrass him with a question, she asked if the birds could sing as well as they do if they weren’t little musicians.
Astrolabe did not answer, and his mother smiled; and thinking that she had puzzled him fairly, she told him of a short, stocky little bird with a red breast darker than the robin’s, and a thick bill, that could be taught to whistle tunes correctly. As correctly as I can,
mother? Very nearly, she answered. And this is no joke thou’rt putting upon me, mother? No, darling; no. And if I play the rote long enough and well enough, will the little bird come down and sing me his own tune? The bullfinch has no tune of his own, like the blackbird and the thrush, dear, but he will sing to thee the tunes that are taught to him. I will teach him father’s tune, he replied, and to hide her emotion from him she spoke of the rabbits and hares, which like music too, so it is said, and will come out of their holes to listen. But rabbits and hares don’t sing, mother. No, but they like music; and to amuse herself and him she related stories of serpents that came out of their holes to listen, and that there was once a piper who played so well that all the rats followed out of their holes. But didn’t they bite his legs, mother? No, they followed his piping and he led them down to the river, and they were all drowned. But why did he do that? asked Astrolabe. Wasn’t it cruel to lead the rats that loved his music to the river to be drowned? But there was a plague of rats in that town, said Héloïse; they were eating up all the food, leaving nothing for the men and women and children. So they had to get rid of the rats, the child said; and if I played my rote as well as the piper played his pipe, would the rats follow me to the river? Ah, but thou mustn’t go to the river. Now there it is again, mother; always something that I mustn’t do.
