by George Moore
CHAP. VIII.
CHAP. IX.
CHAP. X.
CHAP. XI.
CHAP. XII.
CHAP. XIII.
CHAP. XIV.
CHAP. XV.
CHAP. XVI.
CHAP. XVII.
CHAP. XVIII.
CHAP. XIX.
CHAP. XX.
VOLUME II.
TO THE READER.
CHAP. XXI.
CHAP. XXII.
TO THE READER
CHAP. XXIII.
CHAP. XXIV.
CHAP. XXV.
CHAP. XXVI.
CHAP. XXVII.
CHAP. XXVIII.
CHAP. XXIX.
CHAP. XXX.
CHAP. XXXI.
CHAP. XXXII.
CHAP. XXXIII.
CHAP. XXXIV.
CHAP. XXXV.
CHAP. XXXVI.
CHAP. XXXVII.
CHAP. XXXVIII.
CHAP. XXXIX.
CHAP. XL.
CHAP. XLI.
CHAP. XLII.
Lady Maud Cunard (1872-1948) was an American-born, London-based society hostess. She had long relationships with Moore and the conductor Thomas Beecham, and was the muse of the former and a champion of and fund-raiser for the latter.
VOLUME I.
A MADAME X
G. M.
HÉLOÏSE ET ABÉLARD fut composé pour célébrer mon amour. Les épreuves sont corrigées, les brouillons au panier, l’encrier est à see. Erreur! J’en tire une dernière goutte et avec une plume estropiée je vous écris cette petite épître dédicatoire. Je vous prie de l’accepter, Madame, sans trop me chicaner sur un mot qui semblera trop fort à certains sots, pauvres êtres, qui voudraient remplacer le mot amour par celui d’amitié, ne sachant pas que le cœur ne connaît que l’amour.
CHAP. I.
PHILIPPE, THE CANON’S brother, was among the first to enlist in the army that Raymond assembled to rescue the Holy Sepulchre from the Infidel. He was leaving behind him Jeanne, his wife, and his daughter, a child of ten; to both he was devotedly attached, to his wife by memories of a romantic marriage (and to these were added memories of months of care bestowed upon her, for her health was failing), and to his daughter, Héloïse, he was not less attached, a child so unusually intelligent that he had begun to dream of a great future for her (a father’s hope takes wing quickly), and he was also leaving his career, for Philippe was a physician of no small repute. He was leaving all that he loved and all those that claimed him, and in the belief that he would not return. But he did not mention his forebodings to the Canon when he repaired to his house in the rue des Chantres to bid him good-bye. For why, he asked himself, should he speak things that would be painful for his brother to hear, wounds and death and burial, things of which he had no certain knowledge, only a vague premonition?
So very little was settled during the meeting of the brothers, who almost without words paced the room or stood by the window overlooking the Seine watching the water flowing past, perplexed by the apparent strangeness of their destinies; for while Philippe was fighting stiff battles with the Saracen, Fulbert would be going to and forth from the rue des Chantres to the Cathedral of Notre-Dame. To offer up the sacrifice of the Mass, Philippe interjected and Fulbert acquiesced, serving God, he said, in different modes, but one true and living God.
The low and irritating ripple of the Seine reached their ears and it seemed to remind the Canon that he preferred the part that he had chosen from the beginning of his life, knowing well that it would secure to him the same circumstance and the same hope always, rather than the adventure that had befallen his brother suddenly and from which there was no escape, for it would be a family dishonour if one member of the family at least did not answer the call — Jerusalem for Christendom. They spoke to each other in snatches of the ships that were assembled in the ports of Marseilles and Toulon to carry the Crusaders to Acre, a lengthy voyage of many weeks even if the winds should prove favourable, and God would see they were; unless, indeed, he wished to try the faith of the Crusaders in their enterprise by delaying them with contrary winds; but God was good, and it was natural that he should wish the city to be given back to the faith for which his Son had perished, nor could the war be a long one. Jerusalem will fall speedily and thou’lt kneel in the Sepulchre, and we shall see each other again, the Canon said. Philippe did not answer him, and the perplexed Canon returned to the window, thinking that if his brother did not come back from the Holy City Jeanne and Héloïse would fall to his charge. I shall have to bring them here to live with me, he said to himself, and the fear grew upon him of daily attendance on an ailing woman, and that the life he had sought and found in the rue des Chantres would be plucked from him, and his house be no longer his own. Even if Jeanne did not live very long, Héloïse and her future would become a business from which he could not escape any more than Philippe could from the Holy Land; for all the choir and the chapter would look upon him with contempt if his whole life were not placed at the disposal of the widow and child of a man who had given his life to the service of Our Lord Jesus Christ. And while Fulbert was thinking of these things Philippe sat on one of the oak chests along the wall that served as seats, all expression having faded from his face, pale at the thought that he might never see his brother again, and Fulbert said to himself: he is thinking that if he should turn round suddenly and take my hands in his he might get a vow from me that his wife and child shall want for nothing as long as I live. But it will make little difference whether he asks me or not; my life is pledged to his service.
That he should feel so much unwillingness to stand by his sister-in-law alarmed him, and he tried to find consolation in the thought that the irksome task would be approved in the sight of God and in the sight of men and in his own sight because of its irksomeness. For it is no small thing to ask a man to give up his life; God is asking as much from me as he is asking from Philippe; and I will do my duty as Philippe does his. And the Canon vowed to slough the sensual coil when the time came for him to choose between shame and honour. But it might never come; if it did, Philippe would be dead. His brother’s footsteps startled him from his reverie and he turned from the window to bid him good-bye abruptly, unable to bear the strain of the parting any longer; he heard the clink of the mail on the staircase, and still seeing the spare figure of the Crusader in his mind’s eye, Fulbert could not do else than contrast the narrow, helmeted skull with his own great bald head, its rim of reddish hair rising no higher than the ears, and meditate on his canonical belly swelling under the purple robe, whose rustling silk reminded him of his own increasing vanity.
But we are never at quarrel with ourselves for long, and his thoughts soon passed from Philippe to Jeanne, who could not live more than six months; if so, his care of her could be borne fairly easily, and he began to compose the picture, saying to himself that if he were to sit by her bedside twice a week he would be doing all that could be expected of him. Two visits in the week, he said, I shall hardly be able to manage two; a weekly visit, however, would not conflict with his work in the Cathedral, so he thought, but life is always more elaborate in its processes than we think for, and it fell out that despite his intentions the Canon did not succeed in crossing the Little Bridge more than four times during the three months that Jeanne lingered between life and death. The fourth time he went to Sainte-Geneviève was to hear her last message to her husband, if he should return, and to confer the last sacrament upon her. All hope of saving her is at an end. he said, on his way home; and a little later, as he passed the Cathedral, he muttered: things have not fallen out as evilly as they might have; I shall only have the girl to contend with, and the hardship of the burden may not prove too great, for Héloïse may be all Philippe thinks she is, and if she be no more than half she deserves education and the best that can be given to her.
Jeanne died even sooner than was expected; she did not outlive the week, and on returning from the funeral he remembered that three
learned women had joined the Benedictine convent at Argenteuil lately, and he asked himself as he strolled if he could do better than place Héloïse in their charge. Some carts were going thither next morning; could he do better than avail himself of them? Nothing will be gained by delay, he said to himself, and to his serving-woman: Madelon, I will give thee a letter to the Prioress; and thou’lt take Héloïse to Argenteuil to-morrow. He spoke firmly, for he was afraid that Madelon would raise objections and begin to argue with him, saying that his niece should pass a few days in the rue des Chantres, long enough to recover from the shock of her mother’s death, and that Latin and Arithmetic were not like green vegetables, but could wait. All the way down the staircase I shall hear her muttering, he said; she’ll make me pay for this in many little ways. And he fell to thinking. But so convinced was he that it would be for Héloïse’s good to go straight to the convent without tarrying in his house, that he overruled Madelon, surprising her not a little by his firmness. Never have I seen him so stubborn, she growled, pausing at her kitchen door, uncertain if she should return; and next morning when the carts stopped in the street the Canon heard her still muttering: a fine hurry indeed he is in to get rid of the child; frightened, I suppose, lest anything should come between him and his books. Madelon, the carts are waiting, Canon Fulbert cried up the staircase; Héloïse is waiting, no doubt, expecting thee; the carts will call for her. Madelon continued to mutter, and his ear catching certain words — cruel, selfish old fellow — he began to think that he was no longer master in his own house. But the thought of separating himself from Madelon and throwing himself upon the charity of a new servant, who, though she might not have the faults that Madelon had, would have other faults, intervened, and the thought of Madelon’s dismissal was dropped almost as quickly as it had come. Madelon has her faults, he said; everybody has, none is without faults; all the same, it is strange that she mistrusts me, for she should know that I always act thoughtfully. On listening again, it seemed to him that he heard the words: not even for one night! That is how it seems to her, for she is not able to look ahead; the actual moment in front of her is all that she apprehends. Madelon does not see that if Héloïse were here for one night I should have to keep her several. Why one night rather than two — why not a week? And at the end of a week it would be hard to get her away, for children are propense to acquire habits; and he imagined Héloïse drifting about the house, in and out of the kitchen, dabbling in the selt with the ducks along the river’s edge (to the great danger of her life), for to whose care could he confide her? There was no one in the house except Madelon, and Madelon’s work occupied all her time. If he kept his niece in the house for a week, she would wish to return to it. He would receive letters asking if she might come for holidays.... Holy Virgin! would that packing upstairs never come to an end? And once more he ran up half-a-dozen steps and called to Madelon to hasten, saying: the carts will not wait any longer. Madelon paid no heed to his warnings. It may be, he said to himself, that she hopes to gain her point, thinking that if the carters refuse to wait any longer I shall never summon enough courage again to do what I am doing now. The carters reassured him, and once more he picked up the thread of his thoughts, that servants do not see farther ahead than a day; two or three days at most. If Madelon were a gossip! But he never heard Jeanne complain of Madelon carrying stories to and fro. She had her faults, of course, but she was trustworthy; and the Canon fell to thinking how this excellent woman came into the family. About ten years ago it was, soon after Héloïse was born; he was certain of the year, but could not remember if Madelon had come from Brittany before Héloïse was born or a few weeks later. However, it doesn’t matter, he said; what is certain is that she came hither to suckle Héloïse. Alas! one of the many sad cases of girls led astray. But she had to leave on account of the drying up of her milk, and he recalled Jeanne’s despair, how she had come to him to ask if he knew anybody who could replace Madelon. He didn’t, but he was glad to overlook Madelon’s fault and — A smile gathered about his lips, but he did not linger unduly over the first years that he and Madelon lived together, but passed on to some years later, when he discovered that Madelon always looked upon herself as his niece’s mother. So it was only natural that she should not like Héloïse to be hurried off to a convent the day after her mother’s funeral. His thoughts fell once more on the short-sightedness of servants. Governed always, he said, by the seeming need of the moment, unable to weigh and consider the alternatives, whether it would be wiser for her to spend a few idle days in the rue des Chantres or to go to the convent with the impression of her mother’s death fresh in her memory, for if she were as Philippe believed her to be, and as himself believed her to be, a child of very rare mind, it would be well to prepare her for the acceptance of the religious life. For outside the religious life, he said, there is nothing but trouble and anxiety, nor is advancement possible except through the Church. It was then, remembering his age (he was fifty), that he asked himself what would become of this orphan at his death. Not many years remained in front of him; ten or fifteen, twenty at the most! His meditation on life’s brevity was interrupted by Madelon coming down the stairs with her packages; a great relief it was, and having instructed the carters, he returned into his house soothed, for he knew now of a certainty his life would continue flowing in the same even current for several years at least. By going to the convent, he said, as a child, she will not carry with her any memories of the world, and rubbing his hands cheerfully he continued his thoughts: Madelon’s chatter is full of danger; a good woman, but one without foresight, always speaking her mind without knowing that she is speaking it, which would not matter if Héloïse were a common child; a common child might have stayed here for a few days; but being exceptionally quick she would have been influenced, and have gone to the convent with her memory a store of undesirable thoughts; so there could be no doubt that I acted rightly, none whatever.
But however sure the Canon was at times that he had acted rightly, a doubt rose up from the depths occasionally, and once it almost compelled him to mount his nag and ride to Argenteuil to see his niece. But he had fallen into fat; horseriding was not to his taste, and as he sat in his chair trying to balance the advantages and the disadvantages that would accrue from a ride to Argenteuil, it occurred to him suddenly that his visit could not fail to remind her of two things: that as a Canon of Notre-Dame he would have money to leave, and that his money would eventually come to her, she being his nearest relative. But he had sent her to the convent the day after her mother’s funeral; and for that she thinks harshly of me, he said, and the nuns think the same and maybe have put the thought into her head. A word is enough to poison her mind, and of all a word spoken casually. On the other hand, they might like to keep her; convents are always on the watch to catch a clever girl and the Prioress will understand ——
All the same I ought to have asked her to spend her holidays here, and yet... His thoughts melted away, and three days after a letter came from the convent that restored to the Canon confidence in his own wisdom. Héloïse was already more proficient in Latin than anybody else in the convent and should prove a great ornament to the Church if it were her lot to be called to the religious life. She will discover a vocation if left undisturbed, he said, and was more than ever certain that he had acted rightly in sending her to Argenteuil and allowing his niece’s mind to ripen altogether in the influence of those holy women. And with such thoughts and reflections he continued to cajole his conscience, now and then troubled by a fear that Philippe, on his return from Jerusalem, would think it strange, even harsh, that Héloïse had been left all this time at Argenteuil. It was true that Philippe had sent a letter saying that he approved of putting Héloïse to school at Argenteuil, but the Canon’s conscience was not easy; he was afraid that when Philippe returned from Palestine he would be grieved to hear that his brother had not been once to see his charge, nor once sent for her to spend a few days of her holidays under his roof. I shall
tell him that I wished to remove Héloïse from all worldly influences, so that she might discover a vocation in herself. For what would her position be if I were to die suddenly and thou in Palestine? I mean, he continued, addressing his brother’s supposed shade, if God chose to ask for thy life.
It was painful to the Canon to contemplate his brother’s death, for what was most real in him, most true and fundamental, was his love of Philippe; and when the news came to him that his brother was killed in the siege of Jerusalem, he wrote a letter to the Prioress acquainting her of the fact, saying that he relied upon her to break the news to Héloïse, and to tell her that if he did not come to see her it was because he was too broken-hearted. Not to speak to her of her father would be impossible, and to speak of Philippe was, he said, beyond his power, he would break down; so he begged the Prioress to make these things plain sooner or later to his niece, expressing a hope that she would understand and not judge harshly his absence from her at this terrible moment of their lives. He paused to ask himself if he were finding excuses for not doing things that were inconvenient for him to do. As likely as not he was, for alas! selfishness is the human lot. Be this as it may (he was writing the exact truth so far as he knew it), he could not talk about Philippe to Héloïse. Nor to anybody, he said, springing out of his chair, and going to the kitchen he gave a solemn order to Madelon that she was never to speak his brothers name in his presence; and when his colleagues became aware of his reticence they paid silent respect to the Canon’s grief, without, however, giving their approval to this closing up of the heart and treating it as a sort of mortuary-chamber. For we are but houses and require fresh air; ghosts choose deserted houses for their dwelling-places; were remarks that were often made behind the Canon’s back. It was also said that the Canon never sought to discover any new fact from the soldiers who were returning from Jerusalem telling stories about everybody.