by George Moore
One day as he meditated in the shade of a wood by a brook, he heard his name spoken, and looking up from the water he was watching he saw Rodebœuf himself. Good friend, said Abélard, I have come from Blois, where I spent a week writing poems, the best — But I may not praise my poems, since the poem I wrote for thee failed to gain the prize. Thy poem, Rodeboeuf answered, gained the prize; but I lost it. Thou speakest in riddles, said Abélard. One that is easily unriddled, replied Rodeboeuf. One of the poets heard me learning thy poem, and becoming possessed of the music and the words he could not help himself from singing it, I not being present in the hall to protest, and it was whilst walking in the garden with a lutanist appointed to accompany me, studying how each phrase might be enhanced in the singing, that the story of my ill luck was broken upon me by the crowd coming from the hall bearing the false poet in a litter, crowned with the laurels that rightly belonged to me. It even behoved me to see him crowned with laurels and to hear him sing my poem to the crowd, for verily I believe he looked upon it as his own, so great is the power of self-love. Some of it was mine; but that many of the lines were thine robbed me of all power to claim it at the moment, and the ruling of the Vicomtesse de Chatelleraud was that my claim should have been made on the day of the competition. My disgrace is such that I must hie to Palestine without further delay; some great deed may blot out the memory of a disgraceful incident, and if that deed be not accomplished, why then death — A sad story, good friend, and one common enough in this world, the false always being accepted rather than the true, and small satisfaction it is to us that the truth shall prevail in the end, Abélard said, looking up from the long, flowering grasses in which he was lying. A sad and humble countenance Rodeboeuf wore, and Abélard was sorry for him. A dejected figure he stood in the sunny landscape, already on his way to Palestine in his imagination, where the sky could hardly be bluer than the sky above the stream at whose edge he stood. A great eel wriggled its way from beneath the stone on which Rodeboeuf was standing in the stream, and it and the silence and the shadows of the reeds in the water, and the birds coming to drink and going away again, perplexed them. A fish leaped, all was still again; but their hearts were not still, and the world began to seem a mockery to Abélard and Rodeboeuf. But if that be so, God himself is part of the mockery. And while Abélard paused to consider this sudden thought he was startled by a step coming through the wood, and on looking up he saw an old man standing amid its fringes, whom he judged to be an inhabitant of the place, belike a hermit, though in many little ways he differed from the hermit who forsakes the world to meditate on the nature of the soul that God has given him and the nature of God.
Although an old man, he was of erect carriage, full of vigour and health, and his staff was not of the rough-and-ready kind that hermits make for themselves out of some dry branch, but shaped with craft, polished, ivory-headed. And Abélard tried in vain to associate him with some religious community, deciding quickly that he was not a Benedictine nor a Carthusian; and, rejecting the Carmelites, which next rose up in his mind, he fell to a closer examination of the intruder, perceiving him to be a tall man with sloping shoulders, inclined to bulk about the hips, one whose face was long, of the horse kind, but redeemed by an amiable forehead and lit with pale, ironical eyes that hinted a smile even when they ceased to smile. Abélard waited for a word from him, but he did not speak, and the twain began to take pleasure in his appearance, which was not disagreeable after the first glance. His quizzical eyes began to smile again, and it became a question which should speak first. Abélard and Rodeboeuf held their tongues by mutual consent, it seeming to them that the duty of finding the first words fell to the hermit, since he was a denizen of the woods and cliffs and they were but casual passengers; and while waiting for him to break the silence their thoughts were: with what phrase will he break it, and what will his voice be like? An engaging tenor voice was not expected, yet when it came it seemed the only voice that their hermit could speak suitably, and they were asked with much grace and courtesy if they were comers from the Court of Love which was now in session. At once Abélard began to speak of a great miscarriage of justice and was pointing to his friend, the Comte de Rodebœuf, when the old man said that he had not come from his cell to give ear to a case of injustice, but in the hope of hearing news of the Lady Malberge.
But you wear a puzzled look, good sir. As well I may, Abelard replied, for my friend and myself mistook you for a hermit come to live in a quiet wood that he might better meditate on the nature of his soul. Your guessing does you credit, sirs, the hermit answered. It was for naught else certainly that I came hither. None deserts the world but to come to terms with his soul. But the wood, good hermit, is not an hour’s walk from a Court of Love, Abélard interposed; nor is this the whole of the paradox; the Christian hermits flee from the world to escape from thoughts of women, and do not leave their cells at the sound of footsteps and voices to enquire for news of them. Your views of hermits are narrow, said the old man, raising his hand some five or six inches higher up, thereby gaining a more picturesque attitude. If the Lady Malberge should be the hermit’s soul, would you have him flee from the Court of Love in which she presides? The Lady Malberge the hermit’s soul! Abélard muttered, and Rodebœuf awoke for a moment from his despondency. You will easily apprehend my philosophy, or that science of life which I have come by, the hermit said. Hearken! If we have a fair image in our minds always, the world passes away from us and a great part of ourselves; only what is most real in us remains. Rodebœuf would have moved on, for he was in no humour to listen to such discourses, but Abelard’s religious curiosity obliged him to put further questions, and he asked the hermit what great spiritual crisis compelled him to live apart from the Lady Malberge, whom he understood to be none other than the Vicomtesse de Chatelleraud. But I do not live apart; she is always with me and that she should never be far from me is my reason for having withdrawn myself from her. It was not fear of hell nor desire of heaven that drove you hither? said Abélard. By no means, good sir, the hermit answered, but that I might meditate upon the nature of my soul. But if, continued Abélard, becoming more and more interested, you are careless of heaven and hell, as though they concern you not — I am afraid I do not understand you, good hermit. That may be, good sir, for you are unaware that I am Gaucelm d’Arembert, whose soul is well known to be the Lady Malberge. I cannot call my love of her anything else, for it abides when all other things have passed, and day by day it grows clearer to me and nearer to me, and the soul, we have always been told, is what is most essential in us. If that be so, and who will say it is not, Malberge is my soul, for nothing is essential in me except her. Without her I should not have been myself, and were she taken from me I should be nothing; therefore I say, and not without reason, it seems to me, that the Lady Malberge is my soul. Or my love of her is my soul, if your mood, sir, is to split hairs. But, said Abélard, the soul is all spirit. My love is all spirit, Gaucelm answered. Was your love then unfleshly? Abélard asked. By no means; it was in my lady’s bed that I came to know myself. I was nothing before I entered it, merely a man given over to vain commerce with every woman that took his fancy. And you have never wavered from your love? Abélard enquired. Wavered from my love? You might as well ask if I have wavered from my senses. All I see and hear is my Lady Malberge. She is the bird that sings within me; she is the fruit that I taste — In memory, Abélard interposed.
Memory is the truer reality, Gaucelm answered. She is the flower that I meet upon my way and that I gather, and for each flower I gather another springs up in its place, the same flower sometimes or else a more beautiful flower than the one I have gathered. And you are satisfied to live alone in this hermitage? Abélard asked. Why not? Gaucelm replied. My friends bring me food, and the birds and the beasts of the wood bring me entertainment. I have friends amongst them all. They share my meals with me, and when I am not with them I meditate, which reminds me that I must bid you good-bye, for the hour of my meditation h
as come. But, said Abelard, we regret to interrupt your meditations, but your knowledge of life is so instructive that we would wish to hear you on this subject to which you have dedicated your life. To which, Gaucelm answered, I would devote many lives, had I many for giving, for all that is not Malberge is death. Many of us live without suspicion of the real life. It was so with me; for twenty years I was without it, living on rinds and shucks and husks, but when I met Malberge I began to live the essential life. For ten years I have lived with her in what is known as reality, and ever since have been living it in a memory which is even sweeter than the reality. But how, good hermit, did this good fortune come about? Abélard asked. There were twenty years — That I was without knowledge of Malberge, the hermit interrupted. Yes, if we begin to count our life from the eighteenth year, for I was thirty-eight before my eyes were won by her beauty and my ears ravished by her voice, for Malberge’s voice is — Good hermit, tell us, Abélard intervened, of how you met the Lady Malberge. At a tournament it was, good sirs, in which another knight was to carry her colours; but after a few words with me her fancy changed, and she said that I should wear her colours; and when it was pointed out to her by her first husband (Malberge has been wedded twice), that she could not put aside the knight she had chosen, she answered him, saying: the tournament is given in my honour, therefore my mind may change as it pleases, and I will not sit on the balcony and watch the knights charging each other in the lists if Gaucelm d’Arembert does not wear my colours; here is my sleeve for him. And she cut her sleeve from her gown and gave it to me, and all were amazed. But she would have her way, and her sleeve pinned upon my arm gave it such great favour that I overthrew all. That day none could withstand my prowess. And next day when I went to the Lady Malberge to return to her her sleeve, she raised her face to mine, and when our lips met in a kiss all my nature took fire, and the flame that was lighted that day shall never be quenched.
The fire still smoulders under the ashes of many years; stir it and it will flame again. Your questions bring it all back to me and that is why I have not sent you away and retired into meditation of the great benefits I have received from my dear lady. But how, good hermit, did it fall out, Abelard asked, that on the death of her first husband, or divorce, whichever happened that separated them one from another, you did not wed the Lady Malberge? Our wedding was often in our minds, but I felt, and Malberge shared my belief, that love could not exist in marriage, and I said to her: Malberge, if I wed thee thou wilt hate me in six months, but if we are wise and stint our desires to blessed adultery, our love shall last to the end of our lives. Ponder well before thou choosest another husband; and to the best of my power I did advise the Lady Malberge in her choice, and the Vicomte de Chatelleraud has proved worthy of the confidence that I placed in him.
For two years during the life of her first husband I lived in the memory of my last meeting with Malberge, and each time I entered the Lady Malberge’s bed it seemed to me more clear than the last time that it was not a mortal woman I lay down beside, but divinity, Venus herself, and our union was, or seemed to me to be, which is the same thing, a sacramental deed, in harmony with the universe and part of it. You will think me mad, good sirs, but that is a matter for your concern rather than mine, whose only care now is to discover the truth about myself and the Lady Malberge — my foible, and the last one. A pleasure it is to speak of her to you, for I am without any company except the birds and the beasts of these woods, and the castle servants, who bring me presents of food from Malberge, and the peasants from whom I buy it, therefore I thank you for having allowed me the privilege of speaking the truth to you. Does Malberge come to visit you here in your hermitage? Does she sit and talk with you of the days when you loved each other? Abélard asked. Malberge, the hermit answered, speaks very little of the days when we loved each other, and methinks she cares little to hear me remind her of them; but she comes to see me and I possess her affection, and there is little that I might ask that she would not do for me. And never during all those years did another woman tempt you? Rodeboeuf enquired, feeling that he had been for a long time like one forgotten. My good sir, he who has enjoyed divinity turns aside from merely mortal woman. And was Malberge as faithful to you, sir, as you were to her? Rodeboeuf asked. Eighteen years lay between me and Malberge. She was twenty when I was thirty-eight, and her imagination was as mine was in my youth. Men captured her imagination as women captured mine. Thou wilt not chide me if I spend part of to-morrow with a certain knight? she said to me. And I answered: Malberge, I hear thee with a certain sorrow, but thou canst not be else than what thou art, and if thou wert else I might not love thee. So be thyself. My prudence was rewarded, for after a very little while she quitted the new knight. It has fallen out that Malberge has wept naked in my arms, telling me that I must help her to obtain some man who had caught her fancy, reminding me of our long love, her tears flowing on her cheeks. Thou wilt help me, she has said, for I must have both of you. One is not enough, I must have both, I must live with both of you; and on these words she surrendered her beautiful body to me and her tears were forgotten. A strange lady was thine, good hermit, one such as we have never heard of before, cried Rodeboeuf. And now, said Abélard, you have set up a hermitage in her domain, and she holds a Court of Love at Chatelleraud. Yes; and sometimes I mingle with the crowd and catch sight of her, and sometimes a whim brings her here to me, and I look upon my life as it has come to me through Malberge as a perfect gift. My death, which cannot be far away now, only affects me in this much, that I shall not see Malberge any more; and not seeing her, I shall be indifferent to all things after death as I am during life, indifferent to all things but Malberge.
And on these words Gaucelm d’Arembert turned away, thinking that he had said enough. But Abelard detained him still and said: you, who have found a perfect answer to the riddle of life, may counsel me in my distress, which is a sore one. Better counsellor than you I shall never find, good hermit. Not so, good sir, no man can advise another; wisdom is a gift that we bring into the world, and what we bring with us we may not pass on to another. If we could, we should be angels by this time. Return to your business, whatever it may be. If poet or philosopher, return to poetry or philosophy, or to both, or to wedded life, or to adulterous if you be a lover. You have detained me long enough; my meditations, too long delayed, must be begun. Good-bye, sirs.
CHAP. XXIII.
A FEW MINUTES after his dismissal, Abelard and Rodebœuf returned through the wood seeking Gaucelm’s hermitage, and when they came upon it they cried: will you, good sir, delay your meditations a few moments to hear a great miscarriage of justice at the Court of Love presided over by the Lady Malberge? And Gaucelm answered: any story that concerns the Lady Malberge I will listen to willingly and with gratitude. Abélard then told how a valuable prize had been given, not to the man who wrote the poem and composed the music, but to a man who had learned it from another as a parrot learns. Gaucelm listened with an attention and interest in the story that persuaded Abélard he would use his influence with the Lady Malberge to have the decision of the Court reversed and the prize taken away from him who had stolen it. But in this he was mistaken. Gaucelm was averse to Abélard’s plan that he should go to the Court and tell the story to the Lady Malberge herself, or at least say that he believed the story to be true, and that a test might be put which would discover the truth. The rival singers might be asked to add a verse, and in the added verse the true authorship of the poem would appear. The test that you propose to me is ingenious and has my sympathy, good sirs, but I have removed myself from the world, and to see the Lady Malberge among the great assembly would be painful to me and distract my thoughts from herself. For she has no real being except in me; she is here, and nowhere else, and the hermit pointed to his heart. Abélard heard Rodebœuf sigh and move away, for with the hermit’s refusal to intervene he knew that his last hope of gaining the prize was lost. Your words, Gaucelm, leave us no hope, but the trouvère who was once
you would like to hear the song. And Gaucelm signifying that he had no reason for not listening for a few moments longer, Abélard said: my friend has moved away into the wood, and I have no lute. There is one in my cell, the hermit said; I will fetch it. Thank you, Gaucelm, for your lute, and now I will sing you the song that gained the prize.
The first preliminary chords called forth a few words of praise from the hermit, who said: I hear plainly that you are among the first of lute-players, good sir. And Abélard answered: I was thought to be such when a gleeman in Rodeboeuf’s service. Abélard continued playing a little while on the lute and then began his song, which Gaucelm listened to devoutly, religiously, for he was listening to words and music that had charmed the Lady Malberge. Whatever the song was he would have admired it for that reason, enough reason for him, and in consideration of the pleasure that it had given him, he asked Abélard why he had abandoned lute-playing. For philosophy, my good sir, I laid the lute aside; I am Pierre Abélard, of whom you have heard, no doubt. But Gaucelm’s face told Abélard that he had not heard the name before, and to pass over an awkward moment Abélard began to tell of his love for a girl whom he had left with his relatives at Tours. She is with child by me, he exclaimed, in the hope of capturing the hermit’s attention. But Gaucelm was too deeply engaged with his own dreams to hear him, and with an absent-minded air he asked, after a long silence, what Abélard’s reasons were for abandoning music for dialectics. I heard, he said, the word philosophy and also the word gleeman, and from your lute-playing and your singing I judged that you were on the way to becoming a trouvère. You should have been content with your lute-playing and left dialectics to others; they are the web that the spider weaves to trap unwary flies. In reply to another question — why did he leave Rodeboeuf’s service? — Abélard answered that though at first Rodeboeuf and himself seemed to be at one with regard to music and poetry, in the second year of his service differences arose, for whereas it seemed to Abélard that the business of the melody was to express as far as possible the meaning of the words, the taste of Rodeboeuf, who was more musician than poet, was to adorn his tunes, not only his own tunes, but mine, said Abélard, with grace notes, appoggiaturas and slurred intervals. At first our differences were slight, and it amused us to wrangle over an art that was dear to both of us; but in the second year we wearied of our differences, and one day, owing to his insistence regarding devices which seemed to me useless, if not ridiculous, we came to words, and exasperated beyond endurance I rode away from his castle, angry with myself and poetry, my thoughts returning to dialectics, which for two years I had almost forgotten.