Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  A bell rang; Héloïse caught her boy up in her arms, kissed him, and said: now I have thy promise not to go to the village? and reading in her son’s face that her promise would be obeyed her heart was eased. Mother, I’ll not go to the village, he said, and she forgot her fear in the delightful thought that while she was praying in church her little son would be in the green wood by the river-side, playing to the demure and speckled thrush, so like a nun, and to the gay and sprightly blackbird that cocks his tail, flaunting himself in the sun, chattering like a gleeman when in luck’s way.

  CHAP. XXXVII.

  SISTER AGATHA, ASTROLABE said, let me through the gate, for I have given mother my promise not to go to the village but to the wood by the river-side; and he began to tell Sister Agatha of the birds that would follow him home, the bullfinch singing his father’s melody (if he was sure of finding one); the thrush and blackbird he knew he would see, but the bullfinch — could she tell him where he might be certain of finding one? A sister came to take charge of the portress’s lodge, and during their casual talk Astrolabe passed out of the gate and crossed the fields forgetful of the thrushes and blackbirds that would certainly give ear to his minstrelsy, his thoughts set on finding a bullfinch. A stocky little bird with a short bill and a red breast darker than the robin’s, he said, and before sitting down to play he wandered round the wood, discouraged by the rattling little tune that the chaffinch kept repeating high up in the pines, saying to himself: that bird could never learn my father’s song, for the song he sings is always the same, he repeats it like a lesson. And he threw sticks into the tree to frighten the bird away, for with that going on always, he said, my bullfinch (should I find one) will not be able to listen to my father’s song. Now do bullfinches hop about in the hedges, or are they out in the branches of the trees? And he wandered round the little wood, full of many kinds of trees, with dark places in it, hollows that he did not dare to venture into for fear he should meet fairies, or dwarfs, or giants, but kept on the outskirts of the wood, where the trees grew thinner, within view of the fields, casting his eyes into the darkness of the branches overhead, for it was there he was certain that bullfinches perched when there were any. A blackbird ran along the ground and chattered as it dived into the dell that Astrolabe did not dare to enter. Now that that bird is gone, he said, I will try what I can do with the two thrushes yonder. The speckled birds ran in and out of the ferns that were uncurling in the interspaces, picking as they went, stopping now and again, afraid to approach too near to the little musician. He played his father’s song twice over and waited for the thrushes to begin to sing it. They uttered no note of song, but watched him with inquiring eyes, taking courage every now and then to pick a worm, and it was in the hope of distracting their attention from dinner that he struck up again the same tune; but, instead of coming nearer, beguiled by the music, as his mother had told him they would, the thrushes flew away.

  If the birds won’t come, maybe a rabbit or a hare will, and he played on and on. A squirrel came down a tree trunk and he was encouraged, but the squirrel ran up the birch-tree and disappeared, and so Astrolabe was left alone again. He played on, and did not know how many tunes or minutes had passed when the sound of a dry stick breaking under foot nearly frightened him to his feet, for the thought of a giant or a dwarf coming out of the dell was in his mind. But on turning his head he saw neither one nor the other, but a very old man, bent with years. He may be a dwarf who has put on a false beard, Astrolabe said to himself. But don’t dwarfs wear beards? And he was about to take to his heels when the old man called him and said: do not run away, my dear child, but let me listen to thy music, for never have I heard anybody play the organistrum as well as thou. O, sir, said Astrolabe. Thou doubtest my words? the old man replied reprovingly. No, I do not doubt, the child answered, but I wish you had heard Denis, sir. It was he who taught thee? the old man asked. Astrolabe nodded, and a sudden mood of shyness falling upon him, he rose to his feet to go; but the old man called him back, and the two stood facing each other, and the child, not knowing what words to say, said (seeing a long stick in the old man’s hand with a crook at the end): a shepherd, sir? Yes, indeed, replied the old man; a shepherd. But where are your sheep, sir? the child asked. My sheep follow me. As well they might, Astrolabe said, for I am sure, sir, you’re a good shepherd. At which the old man smiled, and turning away from the boy he went to the edge of the wood, and looking across the field he said: my sheep will find me when they have done feeding, a remark that seemed strange to Astrolabe, for there were no sheep in the field. And he was about to ask the old shepherd if it would not be well for him to go in search of his sheep, but if he did that the old man might never come back, and he wanted ever so much to play to him, for he was tired of playing to thrushes and blackbirds, and bullfinches were nowhere about. Do you know, sir, a stocky little bird, that can learn tunes and repeat them truly? The old man said that he had heard of bullfinches that could whistle tunes. And the child’s thoughts passing from bullfinches to himself broke the pause: would you like to hear me play, sir? I would, indeed, the old man answered, and never did Astrolabe play to anybody that listened so well as the shepherd, for he sat, his eyes fixed on the boy, his feet crossed, his elbow resting on his knee, his chin in hand, his beard flowing through his fingers. And when Astrolabe had played two or three pieces, he said: now tell me, who was thy master? for a good one he seems to have been. And bubbling over with excitement, Astrolabe told the story of Denis coming to the convent pursued by wolves, and of his departure in the springtide and the finding of him dead by Cherriez, the gardener, his organistrum by his side. And it was he who taught thee to play it? the old man said again, his eyes fixed intently on the child. Yes, and the pipes, and on the gittern a little at the inn, for we have no gittern. But it couldn’t have been Denis that wrote the beautiful song that thou hast just played to me? Why couldn’t it have been? Astrolabe asked. Denis wrote music. But was it? said the old man. No, it was my father, years ago; a prize song, mother tells me, that he wrote for the Comte Mathieu de Rodebœuf, who came in a barge from the Holy Land, whither he went to fight for the Sepulchre. And one story leading to another, it came to pass that Astrolabe mentioned that his mother was a Benedictine nun in the convent of Argenteuil. A nun, said the old man; then thy father is dead? We don’t know, Astrolabe answered; mother says he is not, but she hasn’t seen him for many years. One of these days we shall see him, however, for the Comte de Rodebœuf is sure to meet him again in his travels, and he will tell him where he will find us. And you too, sir, if you should come upon Pierre Abélard, tell him that we are here, and that he will hear me sing and play the song he wrote for the Comte Mathieu de Rodebœuf.

  I have travelled a long, long way, the old man answered, and meet everybody on my rounds, and when next I see him I will tell him all you say. So you know my father? He composes the best songs in the land of France, the old man replied. Do you know one? the child asked, and the old man sang a song which seemed to Astrolabe like the song that Rodebœuf had taught him. And who may you be, sir? he asked. I am, the old man said, Jesus Christ, come again upon earth to beg those who believe in me to fare to Palestine for the rescuing of my Sepulchre from the Infidel. But the Sepulchre has been rescued from the Infidel, my Lord Jesus, Astrolabe answered, as you must well know, sir. But the Infidel has begun to get the upper hand of the Crusaders; more are required, not to fight but to pray. Prayers are powerful and I’d sooner have my Sepulchre won back to the Christians by prayers than by swords. I will pray, Astrolabe said, all day and all night, that your Sepulchre, Lord Jesus, may be won by prayers, for then I shall know that I have helped you, who died on the Cross for us. Though I haven’t been very pious, I will be in the future, now that I have seen you, sir. Thou’rt a good boy, that I can see, the old man said, and will be able to win other children to pray, and to go to the Holy Land itself to beg Saladin to withdraw from the country of Jerusalem. But mother says it is a long way, Astrolabe answered,
and the old man told him that children were assembling at Saint-Denis, a town on the other side of Paris, and that if he followed the Paris road he would meet the wagoners going thither, who would take him, for it is too far for thy tender legs, he said. But, good sir, I mean my Lord Jesus, I cannot leave my mother. When I was on earth did I not say, dear child: leave thy father and mother, leave all thy goods and chattels and follow me? Am I to leave my mother? If thou wouldst win honour and glory, little man, go to Saint-Denis, and say that I bade thee go thither. I have not yet told thee that Saint-Denis is the burial place of the great martyr Dionysius, one of the seven holy men who came to France and baptized many. But like all those who loved me, he was beheaded in the reign of Valerian after much cruelty and torment, and was thrown into the very river thou seest over yonder, into the Seine. But so great was the power of God that his body rose to the surface, and he swam after his head, which he captured without much difficulty, and walked with it in his hands to the place in which he wished to be buried. Did you not tell me that Saint-Denis was on the other side of the Paris road? I did indeed, dear child. But is not that a long way for a man to walk, carrying his head in his hands? Astrolabe asked, and was answered that the saint accomplished this great feat by the power of God, to whom all things are possible.

  And along what lanes do the wains pass that are taking the children to Paris for the Holy Land? Astrolabe asked, and before the priest could answer Astrolabe was telling how Cherriez’s son fell into a sickness, for, being the only son, his mother and father would not allow him to join the children’s pilgrimage. The boy’s parents had no thought for my suffering on the Cross. Did you suffer more than the robbers, sir? My sufferings compared with theirs were as seventy is to seven. But you died before them. I lost my temporal life, the old man answered, and as if to stop further questions, he said; the wain goes by about this hour at the corner of the lane, and all thou’st to do is to hold up thy hand and the wagoner will draw rein for thee. Soon after the rumbling sounds of wheels were heard, and the priest and Astrolabe started running. But the driver’s eyes were turned from them, and the wain, full of children swinging censers and singing hymns, passed out of sight. We have missed the wain, but it will pass again to-morrow; and now I must go and look after my sheep; I stayed too long listening to thy playing. Whereupon he went away, leaving the child, who returned to the convent very unhappy, trying to recall his father’s song, the one the old man had sung for him. But it eluded his memory, which was unlucky, for he could not tell his mother that he had met Jesus Christ in the wood till he remembered the tune, for the first thing his mother would ask him would be to sing the song, and she wouldn’t believe that he had forgotten it, for he never forgot a tune. Sister Agatha’s keys were nearly always at her girdle, but she left them on a nail sometimes and went away on an errand, but that didn’t happen often. He would rather die than that his mother should think him a wicked boy, and if it had been anybody else than Jesus — a priest, for instance — he wouldn’t have listened. But Jesus must be obeyed, and his thoughts turned again to the convent walls. The ground is higher down by the river and softer than elsewhere, he said to himself, and once on the other side I’ve only to run up the lane. But which hour of the day shall I choose? he asked himself, concluding that to go early in the morning, after Mass, would give him some two or three hours’ start of Cherriez, who would be sent after him. More than three, he added, for he’s a hungry man about midday, and will not go after me till he has had his dinner.

  CHAP. XXXVIII.

  ON HEARING THAT he was not in the convent the conviction pierced Héloïse that she would not see her son again, and Madelon’s words that they would find him in the inn singing and playing to the gleemen rang hollow in her ears, but she had to go thither, and for a moment it soothed her to hear that there were no gleemen in the village — the last had left some days before. He may be in the wood, she said. What wood? asked Madelon, and Héloïse told her that she had given him leave to play to the blackbirds and thrushes. Yes, and to the bullfinch, she cried. But I have no heart for talking. But, dear mistress, he would not loiter in a wood, not till this hour. A wolf! Héloïse cried, and the wood was searched in vain for traces of him. No wolf has been here, Madelon said, and the women stood staring at each other till one of the peasants who had followed them spoke of the children that the priests were urging to fall into the ranks for the Holy Land. If he has fallen in with one of the wains that take them to Saint-Denis, then we have lost him, she said. The gleemen might have yielded him back to us for money, but the priests will not. We must seek him in Saint-Denis, Madelon, and appeal to the Archbishop. The King shall hear of this, Héloïse cried, and it was in a frenzy of grief that she came before the Prioress to ask her for leave to seek Astrolabe among the crowds of children the ecclesiastics were collecting at Saint-Denis. Yes, to Saint-Denis thou shalt go, said the Prioress, and Cherriez to all the villages whither he may have strayed. Yes, that is so, the distracted mother answered; and as soon as the door closed behind her the convent went to prayer, for though all the nuns knew in their hearts that the Church was calling the children to help the Crusaders to complete the conquest of the Holy Land, they could not but think that the Sepulchre might be won without the sacrifice of their boy.

  The mothers, the choir, and the lay sisters joined in prayer, and the prayer was the same on every lip, that our Lord’s Sepulchre might be restored to Christendom without Astrolabe being sacrificed. It seemed as if God could not do else than spare him, so united was the convent in supplication, and when Sister Agatha opened the door to Héloïse her words were: hast thou found him? He has not returned hither? Héloïse wailed. We hoped... Cherriez, Sister Agatha answered, has searched all the villages. We shall never see him again, Héloïse cried, unless he has joined some gleemen, who will bring him back at the end of their round; that is all the hope we have left to us. I have searched among the children assembled at Saint-Denis for the pilgrimage, and have much to say to the Prioress. You will find her in her room, Sister Héloïse. It is Héloïse returned to us, Mother Ysabeau said. Hast found him? the Prioress cried from her chair. He is not amongst the pilgrims, unless they have hidden him; and she fell to telling of the scene she had witnessed at Saint-Denis, parents crying for their children, wringing their hands, tears running down their cheeks, appealing to the priests and bishops, but never getting an answer save the ready-made one: the children have vowed to go to Jerusalem to exhort Saladin to yield the tomb of the Lord Jesus to those who believe in him. But the children, I answered them, cannot take vows to leave their parents. Even so, the Pope may liberate them from their vows. We cannot, was the reply we got, hearing mutterings that none but heretics would seek to prevent children from obeying the Divine Will which had fallen on the city, on town and village, finding its way into isolated hamlets, setting the children’s feet on the road to Marseilles, where they would embark for Palestine.

  On these words Héloïse fell into a chair overwhelmed, unable to complete her story except in broken sentences: to wit, that she had heard it said that it would be a worse evil to keep the children back than to let them go, for those that were detained against their will died of their longing to serve Jesus. Amid stories of miracles and prophecies she had struggled through the dense throng assembled at Saint-Denis to pray beside the relic of him who recovered his head from the flood and carried it in his hands to the place where he desired it to be buried. And to satisfy the curiosity of the Prioress she told of banners embroidered with the Cross and ecclesiastics swinging censers, saying that she seemed to hear her boy’s voice in the hymn, Vent Sancte Spiritu, and that she had tried to get through the throng, but was pushed back. Doubts were cast on my robe — no true Benedictine nun would ask for her child back, it was said, at most she is a widow who has taken the veil, and therefore no true bride of Christ.

  A cloud gathered on the Prioress’s face and she asked some questions, learning that her letter had obtained lodging for Héloïse and M
adelon in another convent of their Order. But when my quest was made known, Héloïse said, I encountered dark looks in the convent, and always the phrase: why seek him whom it is the will of God to take from thee, Sister? It surprises me to hear that the Prioress of a Benedictine convent should regard so little a recommendation from the convent at Argenteuil, Mother Ysabeau replied dryly; we are not all of the same mind; this pilgrimage falls cruelly on parents, and we are sorry for Héloïse, her loss is also our loss, but she’ll remember later that if God has taken her child from her, it was for his own good purpose. He may, Héloïse said, have joined some company of gleemen. In that case he will soon come back to us. A smile glided into Mother Ysabeau’s face, and she remembered with satisfaction that she had always been opposed to the admission of vagrants into the convent. If the gleemen have taken him he may return to us. Mother Ysabeau replied. But how will he return? soulless, I fear; these gleemen are the off-scourings of the world; but if he join the pilgrimage he will be returned to us hereafter, for all eternity. Theology is easier for childless women than for parents, Héloïse answered passionately, and I have no heart to argue with you that we need not lose our children that they may gain heaven; enough it is to remind you that Mary was afflicted and wept at the foot of the Cross. Sister Héloïse is right, the Prioress interposed, for it may be doubted if God placed the maternal instinct in us so that we may deny it, and as she says, Mary — It was far from me to say that a mother’s love should be put aside, trampled on, Mother Ysabeau interrupted, but are we not taught resignation to God’s will? There is always a seeming conflict, the Prioress answered, between the spirit and the flesh. We are as God made us, half spirit, half flesh; our instincts as much as our souls are the will of God. And have we not got it on the authority of the Evangelist that Jesus called from the Cross to his mother: mother, behold thy son? Even if we could we must not put our instincts aside, lest God should deem us unworthy of his love without them. I am going too far, maybe; such questions as these we cannot decide ourselves, we should refer them to our spiritual guides. It was so with me when the news of my dear husband’s death reached me. My sister said that I must remember he died fighting for the Holy Sepulchre and that we should meet in heaven; but it was hard for me to think that years and years would pass without my seeing him. My sister lost her husband soon after, and then her grief enabled her to take pity upon me.