by George Moore
Mother Ysabeau and Héloïse listened, knowing well all that the Prioress had to say and that her exordium would not be completed in less than ten minutes, and for about that time she followed wandering memories until at last she could remember no longer why she had started out on a long story which, it occurred to her suddenly, she must have told before. I am afraid I’ve told that story already. I have wearied you both. I have been a little more prolix than usual this morning. The nuns protested, but the Prioress said: it is kind of you to bear with an old woman’s memories, especially Héloïse, who has her own griefs to attend to now.
Héloïse took these words as permission to absent herself and as she descended the stairs her thoughts turned to Mother Ysabeau, whom she caught sight of going from the schoolroom to the novitiate. And then her thoughts turned suddenly from the hated nun, for the sight of the library awakened her to a sense of loss. It was in the library that she used to teach Astrolabe Latin. The Æneid lay on the table (Sister Josiane had not returned it to the shelves) and dropping into a chair she fell to thinking of the good progress he was making in Latin and French, a startled look coming into her eyes, for she might never see him again. But this could not be; he would come back to her, unless he was murdered, and who was there to murder him, and for what reason? None. But if he were in that procession he might perish by the roadside, drop out overcome by heat and dust; and in her imagination she saw the white dust rising from the road, for there was no breeze in the air. How he will suffer from the heat of the way, she said, if — But he may be with trouvères and gleemen; if so, there was hope. Her thoughts melted away, and when she awoke from her reverie the first thing that came under her eyes was the story she had written for him, Peronnik the Fool, the sight of the manuscript bringing back the intimate hours of her life — mother and son sitting side by side, teacher and pupil, and after a little while she remembered him sitting on the edge of the well singing so beautifully that all the nuns came to the windows to applaud their little serenader. But afraid that he might fall backwards into the well, she had scolded him. Had she known that he was going to be taken from her she would not have scolded him. It seemed to her now that she was always scolding him or answering: no, darling, no. How often had she spoken these words. But all was different now; if he’d only come back he might do what he liked — tease her from morning to evening. How happy she would be to answer: darling, yes, but have care, lest —
But she would never hear his voice again. She might never hear him sing, or speak, or sigh, or cough. It might well be that he was afraid to return lest she should scold him for going to the village. Why had she forbidden this innocent enjoyment to him? He liked music, it was a gift that came to him from his father, and if he’d only return she would let him spend whole days in the village, yes, whole days, if he would only come back. But was it gleeman or priest who had robbed her of him? Unable to resist the impulse, she fell upon her knees suddenly and prayed that he had gone away with the gleemen, for if so he would return to her, telling her joyfully of all the instruments he had learned to play, the gittern, the lute, the psaltery. He had wanted her to take him to Paris to buy a flute. If he would only come back she would buy him three flutes, and she almost swooned in the joy it would be to clasp him to her bosom once more, feeling his warm body in her arms, his knees against hers. To kiss him, ah, to kiss him; but he was gone — gone — gone, and these words sounded very dismal in her ears.
Once more she fell to thinking. Looks, words, gestures floated up to the surface of her mind, and quarrels long forgotten. The worst pain of all was the thought that she had never loved him. She had loved him, but not enough, and her conduct towards him seemed full of mistakes. Of course she had tried to teach him, and perhaps her rule was severe; and once again she turned to the past, dredging it in the hope of bringing up some cause that would explain why he had run away. It might be to escape from the nuns, for boys of that age look to men rather than to women; ever since the minstrels came to the convent he had spoken to her of men, asking her why she lived in a convent, why she was a nun, and if she would go on being a nun always. So she must not blame him, for it was not for lack of love of her that he had left her, but for weariness of the convent, which lay upon him heavier than it lay upon her, and very often it lay upon her very heavily indeed. It was her vow to Abélard that had enabled her to bear the convent life for so many years, but her boy had not pledged himself to anything, and it was natural that he should say to himself: mother would not take me to Paris to buy a flute, what harm to go away in a boat with the trouvères and gleemen for a week, for a month, for two or three? Mother will grieve, of course, and be frightened, but I cannot do else. The river might have tempted him, she said; every child likes a boat and a sail.
Her hope was that it might all have happened as she imagined it happening, and these hopes caused her almost dead life to quicken; but as her hopes faded her life became empty as a shell, and it often seemed to her that she was no more than a ghost, so detached was she from all worldly ties. The nuns had prayer; some believed in heaven, some were afraid of hell, but she had no thought for these beliefs, less now than ever. So she fed upon her grief from day to day, finding her way instinctively to the room that Astrolabe had lived in, spending many hours alone there. All other rooms were naught to her; but the pillow on which he had laid his head was a reality that she could appreciate, even comprehend, and returning from his bed she stood looking across the quadrangle, noticing the roofs, for he had often spoken to her about them, telling her of the eaves under which the swallows had their clay nests. One of the things that made him such a delightful companion was that he was always curious to see and to hear. Why do the swallows come, and whither do they go, and why do they return? he often asked her, telling that he had tried to feed them with bread, but the sparrows ate all the bread. Swallows, she answered, live upon flies, and he would have had it from her why one bird could eat what another could not. Her memories of him filled her eyes with tears, and turning from the window she opened a drawer, and taking out the clothes he had left behind, she examined them to see if they wanted mending. Few they were and scanty enough, but he might be glad of them if he returned; and she began to mend them, forgetful for the moment that he had run away and might never return to her.
But not many stitches did she put into his hose when a road full of hot dust stretching forward through a country of red hills rose before her eyes, with a throng of children in it, the weak ones falling out of the ranks. At last the children came to a great, deep, silent river, and the boat that was there to take them across it was laden to the gunwales when it pushed away from the bank, to be overwhelmed by a tree floating down the current. She uttered a cry and stared about her, returning to her senses quickly, thankful that she had been dreaming — a waking dream without any truth in it, she said, but bad enough while it lasted. She continued her sewing mechanically for a while, but before long the pilgrim children appeared to her in a forest filled with lurking wolves, and she watched the evening sun shining on the tiled roofs opposite, her soul uplifted in prayer that Astrolabe had been beguiled by music rather than a hope of winning the Sepulchre from the Saracen.
There were three linen tunics that needed mending, and she was glad to come upon a rent in the surcoat he wore over them.
The days went by, the same thoughts returning as she sat sewing, and then it seemed to her that she had grieved enough and could grieve no more. She descended to the refectory, and was glad that the meals were eaten in silence. The nuns rose from their places and left the chapel on different errands, Héloïse returning to the room in which her son had lived, to continue the mending of his garments. But if he have jumped into a barge and gone with gleemen down to Normandy, and is singing with them from town to town, from castle to castle, he will not return for months, perhaps for years, and the cloak that I am now mending will be too small for him! She picked up the cloak from the floor, where it had fallen, and continued her sewing till a
sudden thought entered her heart, and it seemed to her that the pain she suffered was greater than any pain she had felt before. It flung her upon her knees, and she prayed that whither her son was gone might be made known to her. But of what good to me is the truth? Be he with Crusaders or gleemen he is lost to me. Another outburst flung her on her knees again to pray that Abélard might not return till his son was given back to her. But would the hope help her to bear with the agony of living? (she had borne the drudgery till now), and it seemed to her that she must turn to poison or knife for release, till she said unto herself that death would be no sufficient escape for her. She must live to tell him the story, else he would execrate her memory. He must not think ill of me, and rather than that should happen I will endure this convent life still a little longer. As she stood thinking how she might redeem herself from blame when she and Abelard came face to face, the quiet of the convent began to awaken her to a still deeper sense of her loneliness. I am forgotten even by the nuns, she said, remembering suddenly that since her return from Saint-Denis she had lived more as an oblate in the convent than a true member of the community. The Prioress, who had known much grief in her life, allowed her the privilege of solitude, and whole days passed without a knock; but now one came, and she heard Mother Hilda’s voice asking for admission, which she gave gladly, for Hilda’s voice would enable her to put aside her memories, and her troubles for a little while. But all about her was the litter of her sewing, and to avoid questions, she said: the weather has been very fine for the last few days. Shall we not go out and enjoy it together? It was for that I came hither, Mother Hilda answered, and the two nuns descended the stairs, but before they had crossed the threshold into the open air, one of the sisters came with a message from the Prioress: the Prioress is waiting for you, Mother Hilda, in her room. All the mothers are there, and she will be glad to see you too, Sister Héloïse, a little later. We were going for a walk together, Héloïse answered, and Mother Hilda, interrupting sharply, said: — I cannot keep dear Mother waiting; I am sorry. And she went away, leaving Héloïse in the broad walk leading from the orchard to the river to watch the swallows. Thousands were in the air, and the birds recalled Abélard’s words: it seems as if the birds took pleasure in flight. Do we not take pleasure in walking? she had answered. A simple answer, truly, but they had found pleasure in it, for they loved each other then. But now! Now I have nobody, neither lover, nor husband, nor son, not even this black Benedictine robe; and she had begun to consider the mockery of it when the sound of footsteps on the gravel behind her caused her to turn. It was Sister Agatha bringing with her the Comte Mathieu de Rodebœuf, the trouvère. Thou hast found him? Hast seen him? she cried. He is in Brittany, Rodebœuf answered. But of whom art thou speaking? she cried, almost hysterically, and he answered: I am speaking of Abélard, who is in Brittany. In Brittany, she answered, with his people? A great light of joy came into her face; she looked like one transfigured; but soon the light dimmed a little and she said: but Brittany was never near to his heart, though he came from thence. In Brittany he cannot be. No; thou art mistaken. Mistaken! he said, and he told her of gleemen who had wandered to a monastery built on a cliff-side and sung some songs in the Abbey of Saint-Gildas to Abélard — Who is the Abbot? Héloïse cried. Yes; and who, on hearing the songs, which were his own, asked the chief gleeman if he knew the trouvère who had written them, to which the gleeman answered that the songs were sung everywhere in France. But they must not be sung here, Abélard replied, for they are my own songs, composed before calamity brought me to repentance. By the stories the gleemen told me, I judge that the Abbey of Saint-Gildas stands in a wilderness of rocks, seaweed, surge and screaming gulls. He has gone into the wilderness, Héloïse said, to repent of sins committed with me. Philosophy, of which he was the divine master, laid aside, poetry and music forsaken; well indeed might he speak of calamity. No more do we know about him than the story I heard from the gleemen, Rodeboeuf said. For what purpose, Héloïse asked, should they tell you lies? None that I know of, he answered. Why should gleemen wander to coasts out of the path of gleemen? she questioned. And why should Abélard have gone thither? Because all men wander. Be it so, thy business is to find him and to bring him hither. But he knows where I am, and he comes not, for he has repented and prays that he may not remember me. But go to Brittany, Mathieu, and tell him that I am weary of waiting in this convent. I will go, Rodeboeuf answered; and the moon under which the swallows are flying now will not have waxed and waned twice before I am back with news of him. Your tidings, good or evil, will make an end to the present, she said. The Prioress is waiting for me in her room. I bid you farewell.
She looked back to see him hurry away, and stopping on the stair she said to herself: the time has come for me to tell why I am here. Is it thou, Héloïse? Yes, it is I, she answered; my excuse for having kept you waiting, dear Mother, is that the Comte de Rodeboeuf was here with news of Abélard. News of Abélard, the Prioress repeated, and what may his tidings be, dear child? But before Héloïse could answer, the Prioress’s thoughts had returned to the peril in which the convent stood, and she began to tell it, but was stopped suddenly by a woman’s curiosity to hear of a returned lover. News of Abélard! she said, breaking off suddenly almost at the outset of her own story, and Héloïse related as much of hers as it seemed to be her duty to tell.
You are pained, dear Mother, as indeed I knew you would be, to hear that I have been living for nearly nine years with a lie in my heart always and often on my lips. The Héloïse you knew is not the true Héloïse, and it pains me as much to tell that I came hither to wait for Abélard as for you to hear it. But it was not in thy mind to live with Abélard again, Héloïse? It was, dear Mother, for to do so was the promise between us, and it could not be else, he being he and I being I. The Prioress did not answer at first, and when her words came they were gentler than those Héloïse expected. I know, she said, how God has wrought woman’s life cunningly into her love of man. We do not think outside of our love. But I am fain to believe, Héloïse, that you are telling a tale against yourself, and harshly, when you say that if things had come to pass as you wished them, you would have put vows aside and lived with Abélard in sin. Nor can I believe that he, as a priest, would have connived. Blundering there must have been on both sides. My story pains you, Mother, but I could not keep it from you any longer. We fall into sin, Héloïse, for the flesh is weak, almost unwittingly. But to plan a sin, to live amongst us, looking forward month after month, year after year, Héloïse. The old nun sat looking with imploring eyes, and Héloïse answered her: it may be that I have not sinned against God though against the Church. Against God and not against the Church? the Prioress repeated. But how can that be? Heresy is on your lips, Héloïse, and nothing is more terrible than that, worse even than sin. The Church, dear Mother, received her wisdom from God in the beginning and still receives wisdom from him, century after century; but though the Church cannot err, God being with his Church always, we must not forget that God is above the Church and sees into the heart as even the Church cannot see, judging men by their hearts, for the sin is in the intention rather than in the act. One moment more, dear Mother, and I shall have done. Abelard’s teaching is as I have often told it to you. He may be wrong in the eyes of the Church, but being sincere in his belief, he may be right in the eyes of God. His heart, I know, was without guile, for it was I who persuaded him against marriage in Brittany, and, when in obedience to him I came to Paris with him and was married, I went to him, saying: thou seest that all that I told thee has come to pass. Fulbert, my uncle, is making known our marriage to all the world, and if a great philosopher is not to be lost to the Church, this marriage must be undone; and there is but one way to undo it — by my taking the veil. Then thou’lt be free to enter the priesthood and make an end of heathendom. Abelard has put it to Bernard again and again: faith may be enough for those who have faith, but how would you bring the heathen into the Church except by reason? To these que
stions Bernard has never found an answer, and Abélard has replied to his silence: by neglecting the Infidel thou’rt neglecting the work of God, for has he not said: go forth and preach to all men? You came to my convent that a philosopher might be saved to the Church? That was indeed a thought that God might have put into your mind, but you tell me that —
Without my love of Abelard, Héloïse interrupted, I should not have been able to live here for nine years, as I have said, with a lie in my heart always and often a lie on my lips. God, who looks into the heart, knows that I have suffered. The Comte Mathieu de Rodebœuf came to-day with tidings of Abélard, who is now in Brittany, the Abbot of Saint-Gildas, and therefore I judged that the time had come for me to make confession to you. For me to remain here any longer —
But you’re not leaving us? Why should I remain? Though there was neither son nor lover, I could not. But there are both; I must seek my son first, and then my husband. You said, Mother, that you had a story to tell, if you do not deem me unworthy to hear it.
Only this, Héloïse, that it is not necessary for you to leave us; we are all leaving Argenteuil in a few days, for the Pope acquiesces in our expulsion from this house and these lands. But we thought — Héloïse answered. Ah, yes, the Prioress interrupted, we all thought that the Pope would revoke that Bull; but Suger, the Abbot of Saint-Denis, has influence with the Pope and with the King, and we shall have to leave here within the next few days. But the bishops and the clergy will oppose so cruel an act, said Héloïse. We cannot reckon upon their help, for Suger has made out a good case against us, and in reply to further questions from Héloïse, she related that Suger, while a novice in the monastery of Saint-Denis, made himself acquainted with all the details of the charters of that monastery, and undertook to prove that the lands of Argenteuil belonged to his monastery and should be restored to it. The charter goes back to the time of Clothaire III., and it appears certain that the donators left these lands to the monks of Saint-Denis, who, however, made so little use of them that Charlemagne took them over and gave them to his daughter, Theodrade, and Adelaide, wife of Hugh Capet, built the convent. A hundred years went by, and the riches of the convent excited the cupidity of Suger, who, as I have said, Héloïse, has influence with the Pope, Honorius II, and with the King, and he has never ceased to try to dispossess us. The deeds make it clear that Hermenric and his wife, Numana, gave these lands to the convent of Saint-Denis and that Louis the Debonair decreed that they should return to this convent after the death of his sister, but the Normans sailed up the Seine and pillaged and destroyed Argenteuil; and under Hugh Capet the monks omitted to claim their rights. But now, after two hundred years, they are pressing their claim, and it has come to pass that the house we have lived in so long, and the lands about it, have to be given back. So you see, Héloïse, there was no need for you to decide to leave us. Some of us will go to other convents, some to their parents and friends. But there are some here who have no parents and no friends, and what will become of them? cried Héloïse. The monks of Saint-Denis, by never exercising their rights, have lost their rights in these lands. The present Abbé of Saint-Denis has the ear of the King and the Pope, the Prioress said. But you, dear Mother, are the widow of Godfrey de Chatillon, and you come from a family as great as the one that you entered by marriage, and the King would not sacrifice the aristocracy of his kingdom to please a greedy prelate and infamous monks, the irregularity of whose lives is — If the lives of the nuns at Argenteuil, the Prioress answered, were irreproachable, the claim of the monks might be set aside. But our convent, alas, is far from being blameless. I am reproached by the nuns and clergy, and by myself for having yielded in many instances where I should have been firm, the nuns saying to me that they had vowed to obey certain rules and that these they would obey, but none other; and in fear lest the harsh rule would prevent rich postulates from joining our Order I acquiesced, added to which ill-health, sorrow, grief for my husband’s death, weighed me down, poisoned my life. I was a broken old woman when I was elected to the priorate of this convent for my rank rather than for personal reasons. I should have refused the honour that was imposed upon me, but my will failed me then, as it has failed me often. Tears rose to the Prioress’s eyelids, and it was a long while before the old woman could resume her narrative.
