by George Moore
Let us not waste time talking about the Cathedral. So thy hope is that when Héloïse has grown into womanhood she’ll marry? You want to know how I understand her? said Madelon. Well, she is just one of those women who may go through life without knowing how a man is made or giving it a thought, if she doesn’t find somebody who comes with the right candle. Ah, should she meet the right candle there’ll be a blaze in the hemp stalks, I’ll warrant. So that is how thou seest her, and maybe thou’rt right, the Canon muttered, half to himself. And having got that much out of me, Madelon answered, no more than anybody could see who had half-an-eye to see with, we’ll go downstairs, I to my kitchen and you to your study, where you will find her reading.
As they came down the stairs Madelon spoke of a wolf-hunt, saying that the hunters were waiting for the full moon to beguile the pack into the city. Madelon says there’s going to be a wolf-hunt, the Canon said, throwing open the study door. From whom didst get the news? Héloïse asked. From whom indeed? Madelon replied. Why, all the town is talking of it; nor are there two in the town except your two selves who don’t know of it. And as uncle and niece begged of her to remove their ignorance, she began to tell that the wolves had been in the streets lately after nightfall, picking up what they could get in the way of stray cats and dogs, and emboldened by hunger, for the snow was falling fast, they would soon come into the streets as they did in Brittany, for had she not seen a child eaten by an old grey wolf in her own village street? And lest the same disaster should fall out in Paris, as well it might if the wolves were not to be persecuted, the townsfolk were about to begin to rid themselves of the large pack that came down from the Orléans forest every night, a matter of fifty miles. But what is fifty miles, she said, to a wolf? Just no more than a little trot round to ourselves across the island from bridge to bridge. The squealing of a pig tied to a post by the Little Bridge will soon be heard, and the wolf that hears it will let off a howl to his comrades, a dozen or twenty, for no one knows the size of the pack, and these will soon be growling and fighting over piggy. Another will be tied within the island some yards behind the bridge, and he too will be eaten; and three nights from now, being full moon and the night almost as clear as day, a dozen wolves or more will be seeking for food beyond the bridge, and when they are well within the city the bridges will be held by spearmen. So let us pray for a fine night, for clear moonlight means the death of the pack. It will be a clever wolf who will escape with his life. So said Madelon, and it was as if God had answered their prayers, for on the night of the full moon a blue stream of light shone right across the island, and a dozen wolves were hunted through it, shapely grey animals with bushy tails, pretty triangular ears and long jaws filled with strangely devised teeth, harmonising in their variety; exquisite instruments of torture that would delight our executioner. Again and again the wolves escaped the spearmen in the street, but all the doors were closed against them and large dogs tracked them and drove them out of their hiding-places, and they were done to death in couples and singly, with spears and great beams of wood sharpened and hardened by fire, not dying, however, without a fight. But the wolf that stayed to bite was hued down or pierced with a sword, till at last the remnant began to see that only by swimming the stream could they escape. Some five or six plunged in and swam valiantly, but archers were placed along the left and the right banks behind the poplar and the willow trees, and when a wolf reached the middle of the stream an arrow struck him; he went under, the current swilled him away, and from their high balcony Héloïse, the Canon and Madelon watched the shooting from the right bank, seeing one grey, courageous animal reach the bank despite the mortal arrow. He is the last one, Héloïse said, but at these words a beautiful young wolf galloped down their street and, catching sight of Héloïse on the balcony, he laid himself down against the door, and howled for it to be opened to him; and she might have risked being bitten, but before there was time to ask for the Canon’s consent some hunters appeared in the street and the young wolf was slain in a corner, a big beam being driven through him.
There’s no better covering than a wolf-skin to wrap round the knees, said one of the hunters. But I cannot sit reading with the skin of the animal about my knees that howled to me for help, Héloïse said. We thought, said the hunter, that the skin came to you by right, he that wore it being killed at your door; and as Héloïse would not buy the wolf, he was slung over the beam and carried away for other knees.
CHAP. VI.
THE NEWS OF the hunt in the streets and markets next morning was that eleven wolves had been killed. The twelfth had escaped, and this was looked upon as part of the general good fortune, for he, so it was said, would tell his comrades of the danger of venturing into men’s cities, especially those built on islands. It was hoped that the snow, which had begun to come down again, would not fetch further wolves out of their forests; it was hoped, too, that it would not be long upon the ground; a week was spoken of as likely, they being now in February. But almost while the folk were talking of the coming of spring, the blue sky darkened to a dun grey overhead; copper and sulphur it was along the horizon, betokening more snow. The wind rose and shrieked all night about the pointed towers and the peaked gables; and in the morning snow was falling thickly, large flakes more wonderful than any leaf or flower or shell, for nothing compares with the large, white friable snow that passes into a drop of water almost as soon as it falls into the hand that catches it. But in eleven hundred and seventeen it lay on the frozen ground, deepening every hour, day after day filling the roadway and the roofs, whitening the tops of the towers, bearing down the branches of the trees; a wonderful sight truly is a city seen through the white flutter, falling relentlessly, falling always, as if the sky sought to bury the world. Will the flakes never cease from falling? was the thought in everybody’s mind, and looking out of their narrow windows, the folk saw little else but snow. It will snow all night, they said; and if it snows all to-morrow and the next night we shall not be able to open our doors. But at last the snow ceased to fall, and shovels were again heard clearing the streets, piling the snow up on either side of the roadway, the ditches rising to seven, eight, and even ten feet high.
It was often on the tongue that if a thaw came quickly water would ooze and trickle down the walls of the houses through the ceilings, bringing them down and littering the floors; and God began to seem ungrateful, to all, for the armies that had been sent to Palestine to rescue the Sepulchre from the Infidel were in everybody’s mind. Even the prelacy could not put their doubts aside, and so weary were all of the cold that it came to be said that the Seine might rise and drown them without anybody caring; better drowning than freezing; and the fear, too, was prevalent that great packs of wolves were assembling in the Orleans forest, and would come one night across the ice and devour the half-starved, who were without power to fight them. Be this as it may, from near and far the wolves howled their hunger over frozen fields, and under all their blankets the shivering folk bethought themselves of the animals lolloping through the streets, quarrelling over the watchmen and then waiting for the doors to be opened, or giving occasional chase to houseless cats and dogs, and when these lacked following the ducks and geese that had come up from the sea, and grabbing starveling birds hardly able to fly. Very often a fox, sneaking along the river-side in the hope of picking up a rat or two, was picked up himself by the wolves and eaten, despite cousinship. Hawks and hooded crows were about, glad to get a bit of entrail or skin left behind by the wolves, and as for the birds, Héloïse said, they seem all to have come out of the woods and fields hoping to find warmth and food in the city, for though there is not much of either in Paris, still Paris must be warmer than the country, and we always have a few crumbs for them. Do they tell each other? she asked herself, as she overlooked the feathered company gathered about on Madelon’s balcony, green and gold finches, sparrows, robins, blackbirds and thrushes, bullfinches and even wrens, and as she fed them she caught sight of all the country beyond the r
iver. Never did the drama of life and death cease, taking unexpected turns. A great grey bird came down the sky one day, the silver lining of his wings showing as he wheeled, a heron in search of an open pool, she said; and it was not long before she saw the bird strike at something, but what the capture might be the wriggle along the bank did not express. Was it newt or frog? she asked, or a rat perchance? And after swallowing whatever might have been his breakfast, the bird disappeared into the sedges, raising from time to time a watchful, ecclesiastical head. He has found a pool where the current is likely to break up the ice to-morrow or the day after, she said; he would not have settled himself in the sedges, chosen that corner, if he did not sense a thaw. Ah, a fox is lurking, and will get the heron and the rat together. But the watchful bird rose, escaping capture, leaving behind a hungry fox who watched the grey wings aloft, carrying the bird, it seemed, no faster than himself could run. If I had made my rush a little sooner I might have got him, the fox is saying to himself, Héloïse said, as she entered the house, with the intention of seeking more bread in the kitchen; for there is no end to my beggars, she added. On her way thither she met Madelon returning from the market with a long tale to tell that no food had come into Paris that morning, carts having been delayed on their way by the snow, which had become like ice. The horses slipped and slithered, she said, unable to get their loads along, and the city farriers were gone to reshoe the horses, but the frosting will soon wear down. And then the farriers will have to reshoe the horses, Héloïse replied; a remark that Madelon seemed to resent, for she retired growling.
Nobody stirred out of doors who could remain within, but walls are poor shelter from great masses of snow piled along the streets, grimy heaps that might be dust-heaps but for patches of white here and there; snow soon loses its beauty in the city. The sky darkened again and the yellow rim over the horizon told of more snow. As soon as it ceased to fall men were at work raising the ditches higher. It began to be felt that none could redeem the city but God. To win him over, Masses were announced, and for these the Canon had to struggle up the street, he and Héloïse supporting each other, and, losing their shoes from time to time in the snow, they spoke, whilst they sought them, of the cities of the North, whose fate it was to lie three or four months of the year under snow.
But the North has sledges, the Canon said, and great stoves in the houses; we are unprepared against the snow and must pray for a thaw. The noise of stamping feet almost silenced the celebrant, and the preacher could only beg the folk to put their trust in God, and to his exhortations the folk answered inly: what have we done to deserve this plague? We are not Egyptians who keep the Lord’s people in captivity. Have we not sent the flower of France to Palestine? Of what good to be good if a winter like this is our one reward? God is laughing at us. Such was the talk in the rue des Chantres as the folk went back and forth from the Cathedral through the thin wintry day, a small passage of daylight between the long nights.
It is in our legs that we suffer, Fulbert said; one can keep the body warm but not the legs. And Héloïse thought of the wolf-skin she had refused as they sat watching the spluttering log, not daring to ask Madelon for another, knowing well she would say: if you ask for any more logs it will be the worse for you; you’ll be without dinner in three weeks, for there is no telling that the snow won’t be with us till then.
The last time they asked for a log she told them that she had seen snow lying on the ground in Brittany for months at a time, and that whilst the snow lasted no logs could come up from the forest. Only in our beds are we warm, Héloïse said, speaking at the end of a long silence; but we cannot remain in bed all day and all night. She had a little pan that she kept within her muff, for her finger-tips burned so bitterly that she could not fix her attention on her book. The Canon had long ago ceased to read, and sat stamping his feet on the cold hearth in which there were but some glimmering ashes, careless whether Héloïse was reading Plato or Aristotle, or had returned from philosophy to poetry; nor had he any longer thought of her future, whether she should return to the cloister or marry one of the great nobles that came up from the provinces for the Easter ceremonies at the Cathedral. And giving utterance one day to the hope that if she did marry she would live in a well-wooded country, she asked him if he would like to see her a comtesse or an abbess, and they talked for a while on the married and the celibate life, without much interest in these questions, a burning log having become more important.
It may be that a change is come; let us go and see, said the Canon. The stars were shining, alas! and they went to their beds disconsolate, thinking of a completely frozen river, for if this last calamity were to fall out then indeed they might say their prayers and prepare for paradise. Or hell, Héloïse said, and the Canon had no heart to reprove her for her levity.
But the frost they detected in the air did not last. The wind changed, clouds began to gather, and once more they were living in a moist atmosphere, but the cold was not less than before, for the streets were full of snow. Dirty, ignominious, earth-disgraced snow, the Canon said, and leaving the rest of his thoughts to be inferred from the context, that the fallen snow and the fallen soul were comparable, he started to wade through mud and water to the Cathedral, stopping on his threshold to remind Héloïse that news had not come from Palestine for many weeks. Have the Crusaders been defeated? he asked. Is the Sepulchre again in the hands of the Saracens?
The rain poured and the wind howled. Now and then the sky blackened a little, giving token of another downpour, and an icy flood carried by a whirling wind swept about the streets. We are back in the original marsh, the people said; the earth is without green and the sky without blue. Not a streak of blue for many months. A late» spring, said another, and his words were understood as ironical. God indeed seemed angry with his people, for at the beginning of March snow began to fall again and an old willow, the one, Héloïse said, in which the bees had made their nests, crashed into the storm and was carried away by the swirling water. Madelon, who thought more of honey than of the bees, said: we have lost many pounds of honey. Not many, Héloïse answered; for the bees perhaped died this winter for lack of honey; we may have taken too much from them. Of that I know naught, Madelon said; they are gone and the tree with them. But Madelon, said Héloïse, are we going to get any spring this year? It doesn’t look much like it at present, Madelon answered, the snow still on the ground and we in March. And Héloïse, who had not seen many springs, fell to thinking that the prophecy that the world would end in the year one thousand was about to be fulfilled. The prophets had miscalculated the date of the end by a hundred years, that was all. The beginning of the end is at hand, she said; and next morning she awoke to find that she was mistaken, the sky was blue, the air warm, and before evening the passengers were walking in the middle of the street to avoid the drip, talking about the rising river and saying that boats would soon be plying about the Cathedral. But the river sank despite the melting snows, and every morning an almost summer sun was busy drying up the streets, turning the marshes into fields again, the genial warmth and gaiety of the sky permitting Héloïse to sit in the company-room without a fire, a rug about her knees, reading in the window, hearing (in her mind’s ear, of course) the great minstrel Orpheus singing as the galley pranced over the curling waves, through the Hellespont, passing island after island, the Chorus telling new stories of adventure, enchantment and prophecy, that new worlds shall be discovered in the age to come, that the imprisoning ocean shall he thrown open till there shall be no land alone, no ultima Thule. After many months of absence from the play, she returned to it to learn that Jason, having lived with Medea for two years, wearied of her enough to marry Creusa, the daughter of Creon, King of Corinth. The poet’s reason for including the murder of the children in the story eluded Héloïse, making her so unhappy that the thrill of happiness was extraordinarily keen when she perceived in a sudden inspiration that the murder of the children was the act of the barbarian girl and not of the sorc
eress. For Medea’s nature was a double one: two souls in one body, each striving for mastery. A true woman and a type of humanity, for every human being contains two different souls, neither of which ever succeeds in overcoming the other. But was she aware, Héloïse asked herself, that there were a barbarian girl and a great sorceress within her? And casting a glance inward she asked herself for the first time — she had never put the question to herself before, certainly not so plainly — if she had a destiny, glad or sad, no matter which, but a destiny — and waited for an answer that did not come. Her life, as she apprehended it, looking back, seemed strangely trivial and inconsequential. I seem to have been walking in my sleep till now, almost unaware of what might betide, but now I feel like rousing. And she began to examine and weigh words that she had let go by without consideration. The dead, she said, have a hold upon us that the living haven’t; my father rules from his grave in Palestine. And in one intense moment of vision she saw into life as it is offered to women, the obliteration of themselves in marriage or the obliteration of themselves in convent rules, and understood that she must marry or return to Argenteuil.
Her uncle had sent for her under compulsion, urged by her father’s ghost, and she had come to Paris to spend a week, not longer; but her uncle had detained her so that she might read Virgil. She had read Virgil and many other poets, but reading Latin was not enough. A time comes when a woman must choose, and the choice is stinted, convent or marriage, it’s always that for a woman. But the pain of choosing is great, she said; the power of choice not being within us; and the happy woman is she who doesn’t choose but allows time to choose for her. But time is laggard. A few years will decide better than I and far better than they which is my natural bourne, the cloister or the castle. Why press me to choose? But nobody is pressing me; and she began to ask herself what might be the cause of her disquiet. Like Medea, she said, two destinies are struggling for mastery; and feeling that she could not sit thinking of herself any longer she began to ask herself if a walk in the woods and the gathering of violets, which would be sure to be springing up almost everywhere, would reveal to her some truth about herself, or if she would gain knowledge of herself by going to the Cathedral and addressing a prayer to the Virgin. And being unable to choose between violets and prayer, she left fate to decide this not very important question. The river drew her that day as it did every day; and overlooking it she watched the ducks swimming in it, saying to herself: Virgil does not speak of the beauty of ducks swimming in a river, the softness of their voices and their round, black eyes so intelligent, but I should not have known how beautiful they are when swimming in a river if I had not read Virgil, and might well have lived my life out from birth to death without knowing that ducks swam with their pert tails turned up to the sky. It is strange that he should have no words about water-lilies, yet he taught me to see their great leathery leaves. He loved the earth, for man lives by the earth as well as on the earth; and her thoughts returning to the fields that repaid the peasant for his labour, she figured him returning in the dusk.