Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  You know, said Beatrice, I am not certain to which side I lean, whether the idealism of the troubadours was an off-shoot of the cloister, or of Plato’s philosophy. What causes you to hesitate? Hugh asked, and she answered: The book that we are going to translate for Percy. I thought we were going to translate Ferabras, said Hugh. You haven’t read the last of his letter; he inclines to the story of Gérard de Rousillon, and was not the object of the poet to contrast an ideal and an earthly love, his intention being clearly to exalt the earthly love above the spiritual? I should have said it was all the other way, Beatrice. But, my dear Hugh, you haven’t read the story properly. I have told it to you in fragments, and I think you will see when you read it that the heroine of the story is not the spiritual wife of Gérard but his earthly wife. Gérard and the Emperor of France married two sisters, the wife of the Emperor contracting a spiritual marriage with Gérard with the consent of her husband and her sister, and her sister devoting herself to Gérard’s welfare without fear during the years the Emperor waged war against him. And when Gérard was finally defeated, his earthly wife followed his miserable fortunes into a forest, wherein they met different hermits whom they consulted, and where they lost all their possessions, horses, armour, equipment, and the remnant that remained true to Gérard. A price was set upon the heads of Gérard and his wife, who journeyed through Europe, pursued by their enemies (Percy is right in this, the story of the pursuit is well told). They demanded refuge from the King of Hungary, but he bade them depart from his dominions, and they wandered back through countries devastated in the wars between Gérard and the Emperor, hearing in every village the Comte Gérard de Rousillon denounced as the accursed one. No words were too bad for him: Satan, Antichrist, Nero, and men turned aside to spit when his name was mentioned. And now comes, said Beatrice, the part of the story that would inspire Percy, and might even tempt readers to reconsider this well-nigh forgotten tale: Gérard’s appeal to his wife that they should pass out of the memory of men, not through death but by accepting work from a charcoal burner. And for twenty years Gérard journeyed between the forest and the town, carrying heavy sacks; but at the end of twenty years some knights gave a tournament to which all the town flocked, Gérard and his wife among the onlookers, and the sight of this great display of arms moved them to return to Paris, where Gérard met his spiritual wife in a chapel, who listened to his prayers and ultimately obtained his pardon from the Emperor. What I have told you is but a crude summary of the story, yet in my summary it must be plain that the intention of the poet was to place the real wife above the spiritual wife. Even in the Middle Ages men did not forget altogether to love life and to honour it, and without his real wife Gérard would have perished utterly.

  I suppose the story can be taken both ways, Hugh answered, but the morning is passing, and if we do not set to work at once we shall have nothing to show the Professor when he arrives to-morrow. And undisturbed by the rustlings, the patterings, the melancholy fall of a leaf, by the little noises that break the silences of a wood, they worked on for nearly two hours, till at last they could bear the strain no longer, and rising to stretch his legs, Hugh remarked that the hour of luncheon must have gone by without their perceiving it. Beatrice welcomed the suggestion; she admitted she was beginning to feel hungry. Hugh fetched two glasses from the gamekeeper’s house, and they were in the middle of their luncheon when voices were heard. Here is mother bringing her luncheon party to see the dogs, said Hugh. Shall we hide? I know a path by which we can escape them. But while Beatrice hesitated, unwilling to dodge her hostess, Mrs. Monfert spied the truants and came towards them, telling as she came that Hugh and Beatrice were translating a romance of old Provence into English; Percy, Beatrice’s brother, whose talent as an illustrator Hugh set above any man of his own time, was going to do the illustrations. Oh, how interesting! the guests cried, and may we not hope to hear what you have written this evening? We have only finished a few fragments, Hugh answered. Are you not coming back to luncheon with us? asked Mrs. Monfert. Our luncheon is over, mother. Mrs. Monfert’s face darkened for a moment; it was disappointing to have all her guests left on her hands, but that mattered little in comparison with her son’s marriage, which she and her visitors foresaw. Her face lit up and she was again all amiability and good humour. The keeper coming from his cottage with a number of dogs at his heels diverted the attention of the guests from the romance of old Provence, and ten minutes afterwards the guests and their hostess were on the way back to Wotton Hall, leaving Hugh and Beatrice to return to their work. But their interest in it was broken. There’s a badger come up from the forest, the keeper said; he has no earth, and if he delays to return to the forest the hounds will get him when they meet. Let us go away and explore, said Hugh; who knows, we may come upon this denizen of the woods. And after telling how the badger might be beguiled back into the forest to his earth, the keeper knowing of no means whereby this might be done, Hugh and Beatrice proceeded into the wood, sustained by the very faint hope that they might catch sight of this shy and nocturnal animal.

  XI

  Now is this not an exquisite touch, Beatrice? he asked: Knights, said Floripar, will you pledge your word to me the service that I claim from you in front of Charlemagne? Yes, said Roland, and I speak for all. What do you wish? I ask for a husband, she continued, a knight brave and beautiful under arms. His name is Guy of Burgundy. You have what you ask, replied Roland; here is Guy of Burgundy, three steps from you. Let us be betrothed at once, knight, said Floripar, without waiting for a word from Guy, never believing that he would refuse. Guy, taken aback by such unexpected good fortune, would have liked some time given to him for deliberation, but he dared not vex a Princess whose mind was so clearly made up, and who might order his hanging and that of his companions. And Roland, taking the fair one and the knight by the hand, betrothed each to the other in all seriousness. And this betrothal ends, said Hugh, with a touch that nobody but a man of genius could have found: Floripar, who had not tried to disguise the violence of her love, but showed it almost wantonly, said: God be praised! Now I have him whom I love better than all the world, and for whom I will accept baptism. On these words she passed her hands about his neck and pressed him to her, but she did not dare to kiss him, despite her desire to do so. Can you guess why, Beatrice? I am afraid I cannot, the girl answered. Because she was still a Pagan, Hugh said. But would that keep a woman from kissing a man if she loved him? Beatrice asked, and he answered that Floripar’s restraint was a fragrant innocency, a sort of lavender-like shyness — Very different from, what shall I say, the usual onion. I am sorry, she said, that I fail to realize your high ideals. My dear Beatrice! he cried. Her smile reassured him, and they continued to translate, Hugh almost miserable in the memory of his words; he desired a reconciliation more conclusive than a smile, and there were moments when he thought he would like to kiss her. At last the roar of the gong roused him from his brooding, and all the evening he took pleasure in the mien and motion of her body under her dress. He was caught at dawn in dreams, and all next day he sought to keep forbidden thoughts from his mind, thoughts of Beatrice and Percy — very often he could not tell of which he was thinking, and in his dreams they were often by him, singly and together. Every day he let his opportunities pass and they were many, for Mrs. Monfert never missed a chance to leave them alone; and each time she left the room she expected to hear on her return that they were engaged. In sending him to the Hunt Ball with Beatrice her plan was to provoke rumours of an approaching marriage, for as soon as these rumours came to Hugh’s ears he would be obliged to consult her. He is timid, she thought; he is afraid to take the step and will never take it if left to himself. But he may be pushed over the brink.

  I don’t know, mother, he said one day, if you have heard a rumour, only a rumour, that some busybodies have set going, that — well — that — That you are engaged to Beatrice? she anticipated. So you have heard it? Of course I have heard your names mentioned together. How could
it be otherwise? Have you forgotten the day we came upon you picnicking by yourselves and how embarrassed you were? I was not embarrassed, mother. We only went into the woods so that we might work undisturbed at the translation we are making of Gérard de Kousillon. But do you think she ought to remain here any longer? If it gets into the newspapers — I have heard a great deal about the chivalry of the twelfth and the thirteenth centuries, Hugh; the name of Sir Galahad has been dinned into my ears; but anything less chivalrous than your question it would be difficult to imagine. That he should have acted unchivalrously towards Beatrice stung him to the quick, and he said: Of course, mother, if you think that my duty to Beatrice — Duty isn’t the word that’s in my mind, Hugh. Your attentions to Beatrice have become a matter of common gossip and your names may be coupled together in the newspapers. Honour, not duty, is the word I should use. She could see that the word had stung him, and sure that she had gained her end she refrained from further words. I dare say you are right, mother, he said, and stood gazing at her, uncertain what to say next. Footsteps were heard coming towards them, and a moment after Beatrice appeared between the pillars; but seeing that her host and hostess were engaged in private conversation, she said: I only came to fetch a book. My dear Beatrice, you have arrived opportunely, Hugh answered; we were talking about you, regretting the indiscretions of our friends, who have coupled our names together and spoken of an engagement. I say regretting, Beatrice, for they may be mischief-makers, or else — and he stood trying to find words. I do not understand, Hugh, Beatrice answered. Well, it’s simple enough, Beatrice. We are being talked about, and an announcement of our engagement may appear at any moment in the papers; and if such an announcement should appear, I will, of course, deny it — if you wish it. If I wish it? Beatrice said. I should only be too happy, Beatrice, that the papers should publish our engagement. I am a little confused, Hugh. What answer am I to make to this? Mrs. Monfert, will you tell me? If you and Hugh like each other, there can be only one answer to make, Mrs. Monfert answered. Hugh was about to speak to you privately about the matter; he was talking it over with me first, for he was not certain what answer you would give. Then you came into the room unexpectedly, opportunely, too, and being overcome he spoke to you at once. Overcome! Beatrice said, her face lighting up. As well he might be, Mrs. Monfert replied. Well, Beatrice, what is your answer? Hugh asked. Is it to be or is it not to be? Hugh, you do not give Beatrice any time for consideration, Mrs. Monfert interposed, and then regretting her words, as if they were an indiscretion, she said: — I suppose you both know your minds. If Hugh likes me well enough, Beatrice began, — I shall never like anybody half as well again, and he took her in his arms and kissed her on the cheek. And when Mrs. Monfert rose and clasped her future daughter-in-law in her arms, saying: Beatrice, Beatrice, you have made me very happy, Hugh spoke of some letters he had to write. And leaving his mother and Beatrice seated on the sofa, wearing, it seemed to him, a triumphant air, he hurried along the passages to the Barn, where he stood contemplating the valley and the ascending hills, unable to think or even to see, with one cry in his head, like a cicala in a lime: The step is taken, the step is taken, the step is taken; the cry varied a little: — There’s no going back, there’s no going back; and again it was varied: Your life is fixed, your life is fixed. Then awaking suddenly, as from a painful dream, he said: If I am to catch the last post I must write at once to Dr. Knight.

  MY DEAR DR. KNIGHT, — It will surprise you to read this letter, but your surprise in reading it will not be greater than mine is whilst writing it, for it brings you the news that Beatrice has consented to be my wife. You will not, I think, raise any objection to our marriage. To write: — I think you will not raise any objection, seems presumptuous, but I cannot forget that we have been friends always. You were kind to me when I was a little boy at school, and the only note of happiness in my schooldays was you, as I think I have told you. You were kind enough to come down here when I asked you to settle some differences that had arisen between my mother and myself, differences now happily settled if you do not withhold your consent. That you will give it I hope, and am writing to you out of a full heart to tell you that this engagement came about gradually, without us being aware of any change in our mutual sympathy, as we sat at a table translating an old romance for Percy to illustrate. Beatrice is cleverer than I am at languages, and after working together for two or three hours in the Barn we went for walks in the woods, talking of everything that came into our minds, but always returning to our work, which Percy’s genius will illustrate. We thought always of Percy, and the book will be a sacred book for us in the future. We owe our happiness to it, and a copy printed on vellum and illuminated by Percy himself will always be on the table before our eyes, lest we should forget how much we owe to him. For had it not been for this book Beatrice might have left Wotton Hall without anything being said, and once human beings part they never know when they may come together again. It was the thought of losing Beatrice that gave me courage to ask her. Now I have said all that I may say, Dr. Knight, if I am to catch the post. I would not like to miss it, for I want you to know the news to-morrow morning.

  On reading his letter over, Hugh paused, chilled by its unlikeness to himself. It might have been written by almost anybody except himself, and he attributed the impersonality of the letter to the fact that he was writing to his father-in-law, (to his coming father-in-law.) But should that make any difference? He frowned and fell to thinking. He had written what was in his mind and nobody could do more than that; so the letter must go. And feeling that he could not entrust it to anybody, he walked to the post town himself, after telling his mother and Beatrice, who still sat talking on the sofa, where he was going. I don’t like to entrust the letter to anybody else. Moreover, I haven’t had a walk to-day; I must get one. Neither woman answered him, and when the door was closed Mrs. Monfert said: — You see, Beatrice, how anxious he is for your father to know that everything is settled. Settled, Mrs. Monfert! Is everything settled? But how can you doubt it, my dear Beatrice? He has asked you to marry him and you have consented. Do you think he loves me, Mrs. Monfert? We are good friends, I know, but good friendship is not enough for marriage. Do you really think that gossip has not had much to do with this sudden proposal? Do you think he would have proposed to me if you hadn’t told him about it? But I didn’t tell him; he knew it, Mrs. Monfert answered. My dear Beatrice, nobody knows a man so well as his mother, and Hugh is timid; he reveals himself slowly, at certain moments, and then retires into his shell. He kissed me, Beatrice replied, as he might — well, as he might have kissed you, Mrs. Monfert. I can’t get it out of my head that there is something wrong. Well, Beatrice, if you think like that I shall be heartbroken, for you will break off the marriage. Everything will come right, if you will only have patience. Men are all timid and reticent, but he will be different when you are married. As they spoke a dash of rain rattled on the window panes, blurring them, and Mrs. Monfert and Beatrice abandoned their thought of a walk, seeing in their minds Hugh, wrapped in a waterproof, marching through the mud and murk across the fields.

  A little wind soughed nearly always round Wotton Hall, and on the day that Hugh walked to the post with his letter to Dr. Knight it soughed among the pines, bringing down sudden showers from the swaying elms, forcing him to take refuge under his umbrella at the risk of having it turned inside out at any moment. And whilst he waited the women by the window watched the heavy, lagging clouds trail across the sky, till at last Mrs. Monfert left Beatrice to her book or to her thoughts; and it was at the same moment, when nearly half-way between Ongar and Wotton Hall, that Hugh stopped suddenly, remembering that he had not written to Percy. He was sorely minded to return to write a letter to Percy, but if he did he would miss the post; so he walked on under the grey sky, startling a cloud of little birds out of the hedges that soon returned to their shelters, or if the rain passed over, sought an evening meal under the wheat-stacks. And noticing that the cocks
pursued their quarrels even on a day like this, he said: Mother and Beatrice are talking together, and of what should they talk but of me? Mother is telling Beatrice that she brought me up very strictly on account of my father’s taste for village maidens, and that I shall be different when I am married. So I am to be married in a month or six weeks, as soon as it can be arranged. The word called up an hotel. Married people, he continued, always go to one for their honeymoon, and in six weeks I shall be on mine, finding her in bed.... He would ask her if he might come into bed; but did married people put such questions to each other? It seemed rude to take the quilt, to uncover her, and to lie down; yet this was an episode in the life of every man, strange and thrilling enough at first, soon, however, to drift into commonplace.

  And he continued every day to wonder what his life would be when he was married. On leaving his bed in the morning, as he stood before his glass shaving, when he set forth on his walk through the wet, wind-worn country, he questioned himself, but without getting any answer to his questions. He questioned himself regarding the nature of his feelings towards her, for now that she was no longer at Wotton Hall (she had gone to London to her aunt — they would be married from her aunt’s London house), he seemed to love her, and even to desire that the days which divided them might pass over more quickly. Only fifteen more days of bachelorhood remained; in fifteen days he would be waiting for her at the Brompton Oratory. He would have liked to be married by Beatrice’s father, but nobody had ever been married in the chapel of Stanislaus College; perhaps it was not advisable to set schoolboys thinking of marriage. Dr. Knight was coming to London; Percy was coming with him, and Percy’s letter was still unanswered.