Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  The sound of his voice brought back the first months of their love story in the company-room in the rue des Chantres, and so intense were her memories that at first she did not hear which song he was singing. Not one of his own, she said, recovering herself suddenly, for she knew all the old songs. A light broke upon her face, and she said: he is singing snatches of the song that the gleemen sang at Étampes. He looked up, and seeing her in her black Benedictine robe he said: in those days the gleemen sang to a false friar and to false nuns, and now the false has become the true. And they sat recalling their memories of that delightful journey, till at last Héloïse said: let us not think of what is behind us, but of what is in front of us now that we are together again. Let the past be forgotten, its joys and its griefs, to which Abélard made no answer; and she thought that mayhap she had said something not to his liking, though how that could be she could but faintly understand. And anxious to regain the mood which chance words had lost to her, she asked him to tell her the story of his exile in the monastery of Saint-Gildas, among rocks where the tides are moaning always if they are not crashing. Tell thee the story of my exile? he said. It is a long one, and to be understood must be told from the beginning. When thou art rested thou’lt tell it, she said. I am rested enough now, he answered, and it had better be told.

  Thou hast heard of my trial for heresy at Soissons and my condemnation to burn my book whilst reciting the Athanasian Creed and to be imprisoned in the monastery of Saint-Médard? So much of my story must have reached thee. That thou wert tried for heresy and condemned and thy book burnt, that much of thy story was brought from Paris to Argenteuil by Stephen, our chaplain, but he could not tell us how the plot against thee began, the causes of it, and who began it. The beginnings of the hatreds that were raised up against me are to be found in my success in the school, which surpassed that of any other teacher. After leaving thee at Argenteuil my triumphs were greater than ever I had known before. But, Abélard, when we parted did I not tell thee that thy triumphs were within the Church and not without it? How often did we not say: there is no advancement for any man outside of the Church? We follow, Héloïse, the way that is open to us; sometimes it is a path and sometimes it is a road, and on leaving thee my thoughts were set upon discovering for myself a close and humble life, obedient to the Church in wrong as well as in right, vowing that not till the mitre was placed on my head would I teach that faith and reason should walk together, hand in hand, each dependent on the other, twin sisters, always with their eyes set on the ultimate goal which is man’s knowledge of God. But my renown closed the way to me. That was the way we chose together, but everywhere was I claimed the true teacher, and when I opened a school, my school emptied, as before, all other schools. I fled from renown, but it followed me, till wherever I went there were houses too few for my disciples and pupils to find lodgings.

  Canst blame me, Héloïse, that being what I am, I taught that which was within me to teach, theology? And to theology I added the study of secular learning, thereby bringing to my school new disciples, new pupils. It was secular learning they desired to learn from me, and it was used by me as a bait to attract them to the study of the true philosophy, according to the method attributed by ecclesiastical history to the greatest of Christian philosophers, Origen. And as the Lord seemed to have gifted me equally for the teaching of profane as well as sacred history, pupils continued to flock from every side to hear me. The schools, as I think I have said before, emptied before me. This could not happen without exciting the hatred of the masters, and it became the need of all to seek my overthrow by every means within their reach. As I have said, I withdrew from Paris, and this withdrawal was taken advantage of by two of my inveterate enemies. Why, they asked, does he teach secular learning, he who is not in Orders. And why does he teach philosophy? And still oftener they said that it was wrong for one not in Orders to teach theology. Thou seest, therefore, Héloïse, that their plans were to exclude me from all teaching, for, not being in Orders, I should not teach secular learning, and for the same reason I should not teach theology. And these enemies of mine never ceased to urge these reasons for my exclusion upon all bishops, archbishops, and abbots — in a word, upon everybody in the ecclesiastical hierarchy.

  It was about this time that I was attracted above all by the thought of making plain the fundamental principles of our faith by analogies, and to do this I composed a treatise on the unity of the divine Trinity for the use of my pupils, who asked for human and philosophical reasons. They said that they did not seek for vain words, and that nobody could believe what he did not understand, and that it was ridiculous to preach what one did not understand oneself. The Lord himself reproved the blind men for leading the blind. My treatise was written and was generally approved of, for it seemed to answer all questions, even the most difficult, and in proportion as the gravity of the subject was appreciated, greater was the admiration it called forth, thereby infuriating my enemies, compelling them to discover means for my overthrow. Albéric and Lotulfe took the lead, and they were powerful, having a school at Rheims; and by their reiterated suggestions they at last succeeded in obliging their Archbishop, Raoul, to call upon Conan, the papal legate, to assemble a Council at Soissons, and to invite me to bring thither my celebrated treatise on the Trinity.

  It is a long, long story, Héloïse, he said. She waited for him to say that he would postpone telling it, or that, however long it was and wearying to tell, he must tell it. But he made no answer, and she sat watching, anxious, for he seemed to have faded away out of himself again till little seemed to remain of Abelard in the man sitting by her. And this being the second time that his wits seemed to have left him, she was alarmed and began to ask herself if she should run and call for help. As she was about to do so he began to speak, telling that if a man sins it were better to leave God to punish or forgive him as he pleased when the time came, and for him to apply himself instead to learning rather than censorship. But what does he mean? she asked herself, trembling. And again breaking the pause, Abélard continued: men hate the truth, for few are of the intellect, whereas all are of the flesh; and not knowing the truth well, or being unable to accept it then, as perhaps I am still unable to accept it, I told the monks that one day, while reading in their library, I had come upon a passage in the venerable Bede’s commentary upon the Apostles, in which the author says that Denys l’Areopagite was Bishop of Corinth and not of Athens. But nothing that I could say could have annoyed the monks more than this, for their boast was that the founder of their Order was Denys l’Areopagite. The truth did not seem to concern them in the least — it was their interest and pride that the founder of their Order should have been Bishop of Athens — and without giving a moment’s thought to Bede’s statement they declared him to be an impostor, and that Abbot, Hildun, was worthy of belief, saying that he had been to Greece and verified the fact, placing it beyond all doubt. One of the monks begged me to say which I thought most worthy of belief — Bede or Hildun — and I answered that Bede, whose writings were accepted by all the Latin Church, seemed to me a more considerable authority. Thou’lt hardly believe it, but my simple desire to make plain a truth set the monastery on fire, as it were, and from the lowest monk to the highest they were agreed that I had been from the beginning the plague spot of the monastery. And they ran to the Abbot to tell him what I had said, who of course was glad to find me in a trap, for he feared me even more than his monks. He called a council of the monks and I was threatened, this time not with a charge of heresy but of a historical untruth which, in his opinion, amounted to an attack not only on the monastery but on the Crown itself. Nor could he see any way of dealing with me but to send me to the King to be punished. My answer to his threats was that I was ready to submit myself to judgment if I could be proved to be guilty; but I was not listened to, and the end of the story was that three or four monks took pity on me, and with their help I escaped one night and took refuge in the domain of the Comte de Thibaud, whom I kne
w to be kindly disposed towards me, having heard of my misfortunes.

  I tell this story, Héloïse, thinking that thou’lt see the significance of it. Those who are addicted to the truth — who love it and seek it on all occasions — find little favour among men. Well, to continue my story. One day it fell out that the Abbot of Saint-Denis came with several of his monks to the castle to speak with the Comte upon some personal matters, and hearing of their visit I went to the Comte and begged him to use his influence with the monks to obtain permission from them for me to be allowed to live as a monk wherever it might please me to live. The Abbot and his monks asked for some time to consider the question, and withdrew, saying that their answer would be given before leaving. At once it became clear that they were opposed to granting our request, for very soon they were reminding each other, hypocritically, of course, that so great a personage as myself was of great value to their monastery and that they could not hear of my leaving it and enrolling myself in another Order, for to do this would be to cast a slur on the monastery of Saint-Denis — to degrade it, and that they would dishonour themselves by so doing. No, they could not grant our request, and they left — the Abbot declaring he would pronounce a sentence of excommunication against me if I did not return at once, and against the Prior (I forgot to say that there was a Prior on the Comte’s lands) for sheltering me. He was for the time being my host and guardian. The Comte, too, feared excommunication if I remained, and it is hard to say what would have befallen me if the Abbot’s death had not rescued me from him. He died soon after; and was succeeded by Suger.

  It is an implicated and bitter intricate story, Héloïse, and of what use can it be to go over it again? But I must hear it, she answered; omit no detail, I beg of thee, and Abélard, acquiescing in her wish, related how he had approached the Archbishop of Meaux, who seemed to be well disposed towards him, and to wish that an end and surcease should be made of the obligations he had incurred towards the monastery of Saint-Denis; he had reason to know that the King and his Council would approve of his request, and that the new Abbot would not oppose it, for Suger was anxious to purchase the King’s pardon for the irregularities of his monastery while under the rule of his predecessor, by submission and the payment of a large ransom. It may have been to enable them to pay this ransom that the monks of Saint-Denis revived the old charter granted to them by Clothaire III., which, as thou knowest, had been in abeyance for at least a hundred years. So it all came to this — Suger and his monks agreed to grant me my freedom and that I might go and live as it best pleased me to do, so long as I did not join another Order, conditions that were drawn up in the presence of the King and his ministers; and I withdrew penniless to the neighbourhood of Troyes with a single friend and disciple, an Englishman, a poet, to some barren fields, and we two together raised from reeds and clay a sort of oratory, our chapel it was of the diocese, dedicated to the Holy Trinity with the consent of the bishop. And there, hidden and believing myself to be forgotten of the world, I often said at daybreak when we rose from the clay on which we rested: Hilary, we can say, like David: lo, then would I wander far off and remain in the wilderness.

  But, Héloïse, my story wearies thee. Abélard, thou hast forgotten much to think that I am indifferent to anything concerning thee; and vowing that her face should not again betray her, she begged him to continue his story. But how much better I could listen if he would speak the words: the story that may have reached thine ears about me is not true. At these words she would leap into his arms, and the story of their past sufferings would be a pleasant story for the fireside. But if it were not true, why had he not come before? The thought almost forced a cry from her lips, and that he might not read her face, she hid her face in her hands.

  So thou seest, Héloïse, hard as thy lot was in the convent of Argenteuil, mine was not easier. I know nothing, she answered, of the hermitage at Troyes, but my heart goes out to thank Hilary for his devotion to thee. And were ye long together? she asked, jealousy rising in her voice. Not for long; peace is never long in my life, and very soon disciples came from afar, leaving towns and castles, to live in a desert in huts that they built with their own hands, never regretting the delicate food they had left behind as they munched black bread and watercress; as I walked by night, I often said: they sleep better on the moss than on feather beds, and my thoughts turned to the Essenes sleeping peacefully in the huts by Jordan. We have often talked about the Essenes, who left towns and villages to live in huts on the eastern bank of the Jordan, living on the produce of their gardens and the milk from their yoes, speaking rarely, hiding their heads under white hoods. Thou canst not have forgotten, Héloïse? I have forgotten none of thy words, she answered, and Abelard continued to tell that the number of disciples multiplied, and, that there was peace at Troyes, till envy began to stir his enemies to hatred; and with the same voice of dangerous fascination that had thrown her at his feet, he continued to speak of the peace of the desert, asking why it was that the Pythagoreans avoided all that could flatter the senses, living like the early Christians in deserts, not forgetting to tell how Diogenes came to Plato and roused him in his rich bed with a foot covered with mud, and that Plato rose, and in agreement with the advice of the sage withdrew from the town and chose an abandoned pestilential country-side as the most suitable for his academy, so that the continual care of his health might calm the rage of his passions, and his disciples should not know other joys and pleasures save those of learning.

  It was with the bodily ear she heard him, for in her soul a voice was crying: will he tell me if Suger’s story be true? But instead of speaking the words which she desired, which he was afraid to speak, he told her that the world contrives always to thrust itself between men and happiness, and that our poverty, which gives us happiness, robs us of it in the end; for as the number of my disciples increased, he said, the difficulties of life in the wilderness multiplied, and to supply our wants there was no other way for me except to open a school of philosophy. To get my living I had thought of returning to the world to beg, but to beg I was ashamed, and dig I could not, having tried and failed, for though digging is never spoken of as an art, it is an art in this much, that it must be practised from boyhood. My disciples said: well undertake to relieve you, master, of all bodily needs. Food and clothing we will bring and you will give us divine philosophy, and we shall profit greatly in health by prescription of the great air and in learning, and our minds will advance, keeping pace with yours always as far as may be.

  We spoke and lived like the philosophers of old, and there being a disused quarry on a hill-side near to our oratory, we often repaired thither on fine evenings for discourse. A spacious place wanned by the sunset, the semblance of a ruin, it was, with stone seats for those who chose to sit, and passage enough for those who would walk back and forth, with creeping plants falling like curtains over the edge above us, and pine-trees pointing to the sky. Daws and choughs nested in the clefts, and very often men and birds were talking together. I have pleasure in recalling that place, for our best hours were spent there. Yet, as often happens in this life of ours, the ruin and misfortune that awaited us was discovered there by one of our number — a sort of Judas, but an unwitting Judas — the architect of our oratory, and one more devoted, mayhap, than all the others, who said one evening: master, how easily that stone could be detached and cut to the form of a sculptured group above the portal of our church. And I said: the stone could be detached, but what group wouldst thou cut upon it? The group, he said, is set forth by the stone itself. And he called me to follow the lines that he pointed out, of three figures, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, but which I could not see, though he averred they were distinct to his eye. Some of the disciples saw the Father, some the Son, but none saw the Triptic clearly from the first but the sculptor. A little chipping, he said, will make it plain to all. And before long he wrought the three divine Persons out of the stone, with the Father in the middle, in a long robe with a stole crossed
over his breast, the ends tucked under his girdle. His cloak extended from his shoulders over the other two Persons, and from its buckle hung a gold band, bearing these words: Filius meus et tu. On the right of the Father was the Son, but without a girdle; he carried his hands in the form of a cross over his breast and a ribbon bore the words: Pater meus et tu. The Holy Ghost, in a like robe, held his hands crossed over his breast, and his legend was: Ego utrisque spiraculum. The Son wore a crown of thorns, the Holy Ghost a crown of wild olives. The Father’s crown was closed, in his hand he held a globe, signifying empire, and the Son and the Holy Ghost watched the Father, who alone was sandalled. An assemblage of the country-side was needed to bring the stone from the quarry to the church, at first dedicated to the Holy Trinity, now placed under the protection of the Holy Ghost and called the Paraclete, in memory of myself come hither as a fugitive, who, in the crisis of my despair, found peace and consolation and divine grace. My enemies were seeking an excuse to attack me, and began at once to ask if it were seemly to consecrate a church to the Holy Ghost rather than to the Father. It should have been dedicated to the Father, the Son or the entire Trinity.