by George Moore
We will not enter on a long chapter of the reformation of convents and monasteries, said Abbé Suger. No, it would be time wasted, Héloïse answered. And now tell me, has a date been fixed for our expulsion? A few days more remain, he replied. In a few days then, Héloïse said, we shall be begging at the doors of Notre-Dame. An old enemy of yours, Abbé Suger, my husband, will, I hope, come to help us in the days of great trial that you are preparing for us. You do me wrong, Sister Héloïse, for my first act of administration was to befriend your husband, Pierre Abélard, for the late Abbot, whom he denounced on many occasions in public and in private, was striving at the time of his death to compel Abélard to return to his monastery, from which he had escaped; and he might have succeeded if death had not intercepted his project. I would lay no claim for what I did to obtain freedom for Abélard to live and to teach outside of his monastery, but since you have chosen to speak of him, I may be permitted to tell you that he owes his liberty to me, as indeed he will tell you when he comes to your aid.
Touched in spite of herself, Héloïse turned different eyes on Abbé Suger, who, perceiving the advantage, began to praise Abélard, whom he held to share the truth equally with Bernard, adding: neither being possessed of the whole truth, that being with God. I have not heard of Abélard for nine years, Héloïse answered sadly. For nine years, Abbé Suger, I have waited without knowledge of him. He left me to become a priest; is he one? No, he is not a priest, and may not be ordained. The persecution continues? Héloïse said. No persecution but the law that we read of in Deuteronomy. You know it. In Deuteronomy? Héloïse asked. How can the laws of ancient Israelites control the life of Abélard? Have you forgotten the text, Sister Héloïse? — He that is wounded in the stones, or hath his privy member cut off, shall not enter into the congregation of the Lord. Abélard, the father of my son, is not a eunuch. Your meaning is far from plain, Abbé Suger. To quote again, the Abbé answered (this time from the New Testament), our Lord says — for there are some eunuchs which were so born from their mother’s womb: and there are some eunuchs which were made eunuchs of men: and there be eunuchs which have made themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven’s sake. Abélard has not imitated Origen? Héloïse asked. No; but there are some eunuchs that were made eunuchs of men. The pallor that overspread Héloïse’s face frightened the Abbé, and he caught her by the arm, but she drew herself abruptly away from him. During these nine years you have waited, the story must have reached you? he said. No story has reached me, and I have waited, asking myself day by day why he did not come. But, Abbé, tell the story, which I do not believe. It was one night, he said, not many nights after he had put you into this convent — But he did not put me into this convent, she interrupted; I came hither of my own free will. It was one night, he said, soon after your coming, by your will or by his, that Fulbert, your uncle, bribed Abelard’s servant to let two hirelings into his house by night, and, seizing him, to satisfy Fulbert’s revenge, they cut the stones from him. By others it is said that your uncle yielded to ecclesiastical influence, for as you know, Sister, there are many who believe that Abélard is no friend of the Church, and who would turn to any means to prevent him taking Orders. The story you tell, Abbé, is too fearful, too horrible, to be true; and it is not true. Ever since I came into this room and met you face to face I suspected some dire purpose in you. You would kill me, and for that purpose have invented this cruel lie. Go out of my sight — go. And without more words the Abbé left her.
CHAP. XL.
IT WAS LATE in the evening, about an hour after Abbé Suger had left the convent, that the nuns began to remember Héloïse and ask themselves if she had succeeded in getting better terms for them than the Prioress had been able to get — a lease, mayhap, that would outlast the lives of the present community — a sort of rushlight hope, a faint flicker that came and went, but still a hope, and they begged Mother Hilda to seek out Héloïse, who was not in the parlour and must be in the library. And going thither, Mother Hilda came upon Héloïse, sunk in a sort of stupor in which there were no thoughts, only pain. No, Mother; no. I cannot talk to you about my thoughts; let me pass. And pressing past Mother Hilda and through the nuns assembled in the passage, she answered them: no terms; let me pass, let me pass, and the nuns began to ask each other what had fallen out. She has shut herself into her cell, and gives no answer to my knocking, a nun said, re-entering the community-room, and Mother Hilda answered: had she news that would help we should have heard it from her whatever may be her woe, and whilst Mother Hilda was speaking there rose up in Héloïse a feverish belief that Suger had lied to her for some purpose of his own; and in a whirl of thought she sought to guess his purpose, discovering none that satisfied her, the most likely being that he was afraid of Abélard’s intervention, for she had told him that news had come to her of her husband. If not that, he had lied out of sheer revenge for her refusal to help him, mayhap; and then, like one who has climbed to a height and looks over the edge, she said: but if he should have spoken the truth! Another messenger came and she had to recover enough calm of mind to go to the Prioress to tell her of Abbé Suger’s attempt to bribe her to use her power in the convent to persuade the nuns to allow the closing of the convent without protest. But, Héloïse, thy face tells a tale. Mother, put no questions to me if thou wouldst not see me mad. And without another word, in a strange silence she withdrew to her cell, this time sure that none would come to torment her.
If it should be true! But it cannot be true. The world is full of horror, but not that — it cannot be. It cannot be; it cannot be. Every hap is within the will of God. And she seemed to understand suddenly, in a blinding flash, why the peasants turned from God to the devil. But if the plot be true, it is well invented, she said. But it isn’t true; it cannot be true. And she believed it to be a lie well planned to humiliate her and compel her to come to his terms. To make me feel that nothing mattered, and my life being at an end, it would be well to save myself further trouble. A lie well planned to break down my self-respect — to kill it; or a plan to enslave me, to oblige me to accept any mercies he might be disposed to allow me. But if he were to restore my son to me for my services! He is afraid of a scandal, and it may be that I did not do wisely in refusing his offer. Astrolabe in hunger and thirst fallen by the roadside alone, deserted, no one to bring him water to sup. But the Prioress did not believe in Suger; she herself did not, and had done well to promise nothing. But is there any woman so unfortunate? Can it be? she asked once more, and in a strange quiet of mind suddenly fallen upon her she began to examine Suger’s lie, feeling instinctively that she could not reconcile the story he had told with her knowledge of Fulbert’s character. Fulbert was shut up in a selfishness which, from long habit, had become himself, sending me to school, she said, the day of my mother’s death lest I might disturb by my presence the even flowing of his days, and sending Madelon to fetch me home because he feared my father’s ghost. À selfish man, but not a wicked one, he would not allow me to return to school for admiration of my Latin speech; liking, she continued, to sit opposite to me in the evenings, both of us reading by the fire. In her memory of those hours her thoughts softened towards her uncle, and an amusing incident returned to her mind, one that showed his selfishness exactly as she understood it. He always asked her if she liked the leg of the chicken or the wing, and she answered: the leg, so that he might have all the breast to himself; but one day, to disclose his selfishness, she said: I will take a wing, and he gave her the wing, but with a cry that would have been childish in a child. (HELOISE TEXT)
But apart from a selfishness which always had its own way with him, he was kind to her, and her thoughts fell back on the friends he had summoned for music to his house. He liked music, but he had thrown open his doors to the world, after they had been long closed to it, for her sake, and in the midst of her grief and torment of soul she gained a little respite, remembering Madelon and herself in the kitchen preparing the cakes that were to be distributed, and choos
ing the wine that she invited the guests to partake of. The rival philosophers had brought an end to those little assemblies, and the winter intervened; a terrible winter it was, and many of the incidents of that winter rising up in her mind delayed the inevitable return of grief. Grief hushes like a wind and breaks forth again in the mind like a wind. And her mind calm between the gusts of grief, she remembered the end of that winter, and that Fulbert had asked Abélard to come and lodge in his house, for he wished her to be well instructed; and it was not true, as Madelon had once said, that he asked Abélard to lodge in his house for the sake of the money that Abélard would pay him. Her Uncle Fulbert was full of faults and failings, but he was not a man of crime, and would not have dared to seek such a vengeance upon his niece’s husband, for Abélard had wedded her in Fulbert’s presence and the presence of witnesses. No, it was not true that he had devised this vengeance. But Suger had spoken of a conspiracy among the canons of Notre-Dame. Was there one amongst them who would tell Fulbert that Abelard was a spreader of heretical doctrines, one who would avoid imperilling himself in heresies (he had found himself imperilled in one but would avoid heresies for the future) — that he would avoid saying any words (who was more skilful in words than he?) that his enemies might lay hold of — and that in this way he would procure himself ordination; and that once ordained his talents would raise him to a bishopric, and if the devil should favour him well he might be raised to St. Peter’s chair.
So might they have spoken to Fulbert, and Fulbert, a vain and foolish man, might have given ear to them. It may be all like that, she said, starting to her feet, or it may be but an invention of Abbé Suger to wring all courage out of my heart, to stifle my love for Abélard, to throw me back upon nothingness. Rodeboeuf has gone to Brittany to find Abélard; he will bring him back, and I shall learn the truth from Abélard. And if it be that Suger has lied, he will take me in his arms.
CHAP. XLI.
A CARRIAGE CAME to take the Prioress to her sister at Arras, and with her went Mother Ysabeau and Mother Hilda, for Suger had managed to find homes in different convents for all the choir and lay sisters who wished to remain religious, and only five nuns were left behind, Sisters Héloïse, Josiane, Paula, Agatha and Madelon, an oblate. These waited to be expelled by Suger’s henchmen and bailiffs, their choice being to put Suger to the shame of throwing five Benedictine nuns into the public road. And once in the road it was their intention to follow it to Paris to live by begging at the portals of Notre-Dame, perhaps at the doors of Suger’s own church, Saint-Denis, till Abélard arrived from Brittany. Héloïse was sure that he would come to their rescue, and encouraged the sisters of her company to bear with fortitude the few weeks of privation that lay before them. We must not acquiesce in this expulsion, she said; and when Suger’s henchmen and bailiffs came, saying: if you do not leave this convent, our orders are to put you upon the road, Héloïse answered: we know that those are your orders. Whereupon the bailiffs seized the nuns, carried them out, and forced them on to the road, after which they locked all the doors. We have to obey orders, ladies, but we are free to give you seats to Paris in our carts, if it be to Paris that you be going. At the instigation of Héloïse the nuns refused these conveyances, and after six weary miles they arrived in Paris, and not knowing where they would sleep that night, the five nuns took their station in front of Notre-Dame, and told their story to the passers-by, getting quickly from them enough money to pay for food and lodging. For the laity, Héloïse said, are more charitable than the clerics. Nor did their luck cease with the money that was put into their hands. A pious woman said: I do not want your money; my house is open to you till you find one of your own. And to her house they went and lived in it for many weeks, faring every morning to Notre-Dame and to Suger’s church at Saint-Denis, thereby bringing discredit on this prelate, and returning with enough money for their daily wants, putting the words into their hostess’s mouth that they were costing her nothing. For such was her complaint, and they answered: we shall soon have money enough to buy ourselves a house, for Abbé Suger’s cruelty has caused everybody to put his hand in his pocket; our story is well known now and there is nothing against us. And their hostess answered them: it has all come about as if by the will of God; his hand is in it. And she told a story of the unseen Providence that had guided her to the church that day, at which they marvelled greatly.
A week passed by and then another week, and still another, charity continuing to feed the nuns unfailingly. They brought back some small coins every day, and these Héloïse was counting when the door of the kitchen opened and a monk crossed the threshold and stood, his eyes fixed upon her. On seeing that she did not recognise him, for he stood against the light, he raised his hood, and the surprise was so great that for a moment she felt like dying, and leaned against the wall gasping, to fall into Abelard’s arms at last. Neither could speak, nor were words needed; it was enough for each to know that each was with the other. So thou hast come at last, broke from her sighing lips. So thou hast come, she repeated, and checked the words on her lips: after nine years, for she was now awaking from her almost swoon and would not have the sweetness of this meeting jarred by any untoward word, any word that he might apprehend as a reproach. Is it thou, Abelard? Is it thou? she repeated, clinging to him as if afraid that her senses deceived her and that the illusion might pass, leaving her alone in the nothingness that she dreaded. Yes, it is Abelard, and thou art Héloïse. The words came again to her lips: why didst thou stay away so long? but she checked them instinctively, almost without being aware of them, so great was her ravishment; and still speaking out of it she passed her hands through his hair, drawing tresses from his face. Grey hair! she said, and this time the words broke from her: why didst thou stay away? A long story that is, he answered, smoothing her hair. Not a grey thread in it, he continued; thou art the same, Héloïse, and thou hast been through much trouble, I can read it in thy face; but thine eyes are the same. Look at me like that again; keep thine eyes upon me, for they are what I remember best of thee, thy grey, earnest, idealistic eyes, that cloud like the sky and that clear like the sky. Abélard, it seems that I never loved thee till this day. But thine eyes wander from me; thou art tired and would sit. Yes, he answered, I am very weary, but glad to see thee. Only glad? she repeated. Is there any other word? he asked. Let me sit down, for my feet are aching, and there is a little giddiness that will soon pass away. Thou’lt not mind if we speak but little for a few minutes? Come, give me thy hand, Héloïse, so that I may know that thou art with me.
She gave him her hand and sat watching his lined face and his greying hair — a monk come out of the wilderness, she said; weary, hungry, and thirsty, no doubt. We have some wine; it will revive thee. And releasing her hand from his she fetched it; and hungry too, no doubt? I am too weary to eat, he answered, but will drink. As he sipped the wine she brought him, he told her of his arrival yesterday at Argenteuil, and how to his surprise and grief he found the convent closed. Why grief? she asked, and he answered her: because I was eager to see thee. And then he related, in the broken words of a man overtired, who fetches his words with difficulty, that he had slept in the inn that night but gained little rest; for I was overtired, and my sleep was short and starting. And despite thy tired limbs thou hast come to me? And have, been seeking through Paris for thee, he interjected, at last to find thee; that is enough. But let me loosen thy cloak, she said; let me relieve thee of it. And he let her do as she wished, and from his aching feet she drew the worn shoes.
Let me bathe the feet of the weary traveller, she said. Again he let her do as she wished; and when his feet were bathed, and he had eaten and drunk, something of himself returned to himself, and he asked her: where am I? She told him, and seeing his eyes going to the money she was counting, she said: that money was gathered this morning at the doors of Notre-Dame. So it is to find thee begging that I have come from the Abbey of Saint-Gildas. Of what concern may it be to thee or to me that I beg, since thou hast c
ome to me again? O, Abelard, I have longed for nine years to see thee, and the recompense is great enough for what I have suffered. But thou hast suffered, and the story will be told when thou art rested. So after the expulsion, he answered, of the nuns from their convent, thou earnest to Paris to live by begging with three or four or five of the sisters. Some of the sisters have returned to their parents, she answered, some have found other convents to receive them; and she waited for him to speak, but his words seemed to die out of his mind, and she watched him earnestly, with fear in her heart, afraid to speak, thinking that it might be that he had returned to her only to die in her arms. He will be better after food, she said, and began cooking. In the midst of it she heard him humming to himself some old tune of other days, and to hear him, she returned from the hearth, for in her heart he was a singer always, though in her intellect he was a philosopher always.
