by George Moore
I wouldn’t be interrupting you again but for the longing within me to hear how Sir Ulick’s songs brought many a fine young girl downstairs to her sins. I’m afraid, Alec, that I understand your stories better than you do mine. How is that, your honour? Have I not said that Ulick de Burgo went to France, there being no career open to him in Ireland? and you should have understood by now, Alec, that France is no more than a pause in my story, just as Scotland was a pause in the bard’s story of Deirdre. He gives but a page to her life in Scotland, and when Finn abandons the pursuit of Diarmuid and Grania the bard tells no more than that they live happily amid their flocks and herds along the slopes of Ben Bulban. I could give you many another example of the need for blank spaces. Old Timothy knew the value of them — Why wouldn’t he? said Alec, for ’tis the practice we get travelling from cabin to cabin telling stories to this one and the next that teaches — Interrupting him without apology I continued: As soon as Timothy came over the hill he’d ask the turf-boy, or anybody whom he met on the way, to take a message that I’d find him waiting for me in the stable-yard, and many times I came down from the big house hoping to hear the adventures of Ulick and Tadhg in France. I remember the stablemen pressing him: Now, Tim, don’t be refusing the young master, and his answer: I have no master but myself and no estate but the roads of the world; and if they continued to press him he’d turn upon them angrily, saying he had just come from his confession at Carnacun and wasn’t going to tell stories of the old hat to a young youth — Dirty country talk! I heard him mutter. And having no interest whatever in anybody’s old hat and being greedy to hear that Ulick had climbed by a rope ladder to a lady’s window, I asked him to tell if there were no rope ladders in Ireland, and got for an answer that wherever Sir Ulick went a lady came down from her window — Bringing the old hat with her! a stableman interposed, causing much laughter which I felt to be obscene; and feeling that the dignity of the young master was being imperilled thereby, I asked Tim to follow me into the garden, where in the turret under the ilex trees I heard from him that when Ulick returned from France a real princess would come down a rope ladder. And in view of what was in store for me I gave a patient ear to a long-drawn-out beginning, of which I remember nothing except the fait that Sir Ulick rode every three months to Courancy, expecting to find there a letter from his father recalling him to Ireland. Money and letters awaited him, but no letter came summoning him to Ireland, and I’d say: Tim, begin with the letter that brings him home. Your honour has the makings of a story-teller in you. Sir Ulick was as impatient as yourself at the delay, for he could tell by the answers he got from the messenger that the Bruces were making great headway in Ireland. The letter the messenger hands him this time orders him home? No, your honour, not exactly; but it brings great news of the Bruces. Sir Ulick read in it that the Earl was deserted by his brother-in-law, Felim OConor, on his way northward, was pursued and defeated at Connor by Edward Bruce, that Felim lost his life and his army the following year at Athenry, and that Edward Bruce having beaten the Normans in eighteen battles, Robert Bruce was coming over in the spring with a great army of veterans to complete the conquest of Ireland. The brothers would meet at Larne, and from Larne they would march on Dublin. And if they take Dublin the Norman cause in Ireland is lost! Ulick said to himself, and thrust the Earl’s letter into his tunic without a word to Tadhg, who waited to hear the news, which he judged from Sir Ulick’s face to be bad. But neither that day nor the next did Ulick speak of the Bruces, and it was not till the third evening, as they rode round a bent of the Seine, that he said at the end of a long silence: If the Bruces take Dublin we shall be driven into the sea. They are not likely to take Dublin, Tadhg answered, for the walls are stout and will be well defended, and they are without rams and catapults and war accoutrements. Tadhg’s answer relieved Ulick’s mind and he found contentment in the thought that whatever might happen in the future the next three months would be free for the writing of songs. Again the season came for them to turn their horses’ heads towards Courancy, and as they rode thither Ulick said: I have a feeling that this is the last time we shall ride to Courancy. In this he was wrong. His father’s letter did not recall them to Ireland. The Earl does not say that the gates of Dublin were opened to the Bruces, nor does he say that Edward is sending an army to Ireland. His letter tells me nothing. So once more they turned their horses’ heads towards Paris, and it was not till the summer of 1318 that Sir Ulick rode to Courancy and heard from the taverner that a tall, thick-set man had come from Ireland three days back. An Irishman? No, as French as myself, the taverner answered; a craftsman I should say, but of what craft I cannot tell. Can this craftsman be Roudier returned from Ireland? Ulick asked himself. He swung himself out of the saddle and was barely seated when Roudier entered.
So thou halt returned at last from Ireland, Philippe Roudier! After two years’ absence, Roudier answered, bringing to you a letter from your father and his portrait which I was sent to draw. Whilst Ulick read Roudier sought the Earl’s portrait in his portfolio; and when he had found it he stood watching Ulick’s face darkening as he read. I must leave for Ireland to-morrow; but tell me, Roudier, is all this true? Ulick read portions of the Earl’s letter, Roudier supplying from time to time details that the Earl had omitted, and to Ulick’s question: Will the Scots or the Normans hold Ireland? Roudier answered: If the Bruces had taken Dublin all the Irish chieftains would have hurried to the Scottish standard. How was it that the Bruces failed to take Dublin? Ulick asked. For lack of engines of war, catapults and battering-rams, Roudier replied, and passing on from Dublin to Limerick they failed there too, and for the same reason. But, Sir Ulick, I beg you to read your father’s letter. My father writes: The first march on Dublin was attempted in February, when the fields were empty, but in the autumn Bruce will get all he needs for his army on the march, and should he succeed in taking Dublin my prophecy to the Mayor will come true: all the waverers will flock to his standard and we are not numerous enough to resist a united Ireland. So did I speak to Nottingham, who locked me in a prison lest I should open the gates to the Bruces, otherwise treating me kindly, releasing me — Released! cried Ulick. My father released! Nottingham put him in prison exactly as he says, and released him by order of Edward of England; and now all depends upon Sir John Bermingham, who will meet Edward Bruce on his way to Dublin in the autumn. Thou bringest terrible news, Roudier. I can see my father plain in thy drawing, plain enough, but I cannot give my mind to it. To-morrow morning we ride to take ship at Havre, Tadhg and myself, and may never see thee again. Tadhg I must seek at once and give orders — You have heard, Sir Ulick, all of my news that concerns Ireland, but I have a story to tell that concerns yourself. Of what importance can any story be compared with Ireland’s story? It may be of importance to you, sir, and I have promised to tell it. You will give me a few minutes?
After having drawn your father’s portrait I drew portraits of Sir John Bermingham, Sir Richard Bermingham, and Sir Edmund Butler, to the satisfaction of a great number of lords and ladies in Galway, who desired me to do theirs; and so I was kept busy, not only in Galway but in Mayo, where I did many portraits and received good money for them which I hoped to bring back to France. But at the end of a long talk with the Earl — about you, sir, of course, and then of the misfortunes that had befallen him, he said: One thing I have forgotten, Roudier. The fame of thy portraits has extended far into Ireland. An Irish chieftain, King OMelaghlin (we allow him the title out of courtesy; he favours our cause), has sent me a letter asking me to lend him the great craftsman come from France, to draw portraits of himself and his daughters, three beautiful girls often spoken of as the Three Celtic Graces. I answered your father, sir, that I had been in Ireland longer than the holiday the Comtesse d’Artois had granted me, and that my thoughts were on the decoration of the horse-litter I had left unfinished and on the cage I was making for her parrot. I recognise the Comtesse in thy words, Roudier, he said, the same Comtesse that I knew thirty yea
rs ago, intent on acquisitions: tapestries, embroideries, ivories, psalters, reliquaries. My son has seen all these things at Hesdin? I replied that you were often at Hesdin, sir, at which he seemed pleased. I would not, Roudier, that OMelaghlin’s boon should be an idle one. The Comtesse would not deny me, so why shouldst thou? Thou’lt go to Lough Ennel? I hesitated, but could not refuse your father, sir. He sent me under escort, and horses at every stage of the journey awaited us, a journey of three days; and at the end of the journey I received a welcome greater than I had expected from the King. Almost a familiar welcome it was; the Irish are a courteous nation, from king to shepherd. OMelaghlin was flattered that Earl de Burgo had granted his request, and I would say here, sir, that though your father lost a great deal of power through his defeat at Connor, he has recovered a great deal, it being understood now how formidable the Bruces are and how impossible it is to overcome them except by superior forces. My first portrait was of the King himself, and I had little trouble with it, for he sat like a statue and never asked to see my drawing till the third day. I brought it to him, for I was at work on his robes and wished to finish some folds. He was looking at the portrait when the Princess Liadin and Muirgil came in, two beautiful girls who spoke in Irish to their father, translating what they had said into Latin afterwards so that I might understand them, saying that the water in a well could not give back a truer image of their father. Clapping their hands they withdrew, smiling to reward me for my work. I hope my drawing of your daughters will please you, sir, as well as my drawing of you seems to please them. Two beautiful girls will make a more attractive picture than one old man, he answered, and to turn his thoughts from a mournful subject, I said: Earl de Burgo spoke of a third daughter, and three would make a happier picture than two. A happier picture, the King muttered, but for whom? And afraid that this third daughter might have died lately, I said no more. But the desire of speech was upon the King, and he continued: My youngest daughter has turned from the paths of this world into the path that leads heavenward. A great blow this was to me, Philippe Roudier, for the flesh is weak. I loved my daughter Soracha better, perhaps, than Liadin and Muirgil, and it may be for that weakness God in his wisdom chose to take her from me. But though my daughter is taken from me, my confessor will not deem it a sin if I tell him that I would have a portrait of her. The convent of Durrow is but seven miles from Lough Ennel, and I went thither bearing a letter from King OMelaghlin to the Abbess, who entertained me with pleasant talk about your father and Ireland till our converse grew wearisome. Perhaps you would like to see Sister Soracha? she said. I answered that I would, and she returned bringing with her the Princess Soracha; and we sat talking about the King and her sisters till at last taking courage I said: Princess — Sister Soracha, please, she answered. Shall I begin your portrait to-day, or shall we leave it over till to-morrow? Why not begin it at once? the Abbess asked, and I answered: I am ready. But I did not draw Sister Soracha’s portrait easily; I tore up two drawings; and one day she said: The French only come to Ireland to help the Normans — Who have, I answered, become Irish. They come hither to rob our country, she continued, and to do this they have to oppress, and Ireland will never be at peace again. Tears rose to her eyes, which I feigned not to see, and to distrait her thoughts, I said: I came from France to draw a portrait of Earl de Burgo for his son, Sir Ulick de Burgo, a trouvère. I thought there were no more trouvères. So you have heard here in Ireland of our trouvères and troubadours, I said. Their impieties and wanton lives, she answered, have been reported. Reports, I said, which have no doubt contained some grain of truth, but no more. A grain of wheat in a bushel of chaff, she answered smiling, and seeing that for a nun her mind was freer from conventional beliefs than I had supposed it to be, I continued: Yes, Sir Ulick is a trouvère, the last of them. We spoke of the great trouvères of the twelfth century, and I sang some of their songs to her. Why do you not sing to me some of Sir Ulick de Burgo’s songs? I sang snatches from your songs, all I could remember, and even in my poor singing they seemed admirable to her and to me, superior in many little ways to the songs of Thibaut de Champagne and Colin Muset. The trouvères have not come to an ignoble end, she said, and she asked me if I could make a drawing of you from memory. I said I could put some lines upon paper, and after looking at the drawing I had done of you she left me to continue my altar-piece: the crowning of the Virgin in heaven by her son, with all the saints about them, the nuns coming and going; and when I had drawn them all the Princess Soracha returned, and we spent some more time talking of you.
I would have you make a portrait of me to take to Sir Ulick de Burgo, she said. Will you do one for him? When the sitting was over and she came round to see what I had done, she asked me if Sir Ulick would see her with my eyes or quite differently. I am a nun, and men do not consider nuns as they do other women; or rarely, she added after a pause. I asked her why she had taken the veil, and she answered that when she was nearly eighteen she could think only of Jesus, but she had resisted the craving for her father’s sake till her eighteenth birthday. He is a pious man, she said, and would like God’s will to be done on earth as it is in heaven, however great the pain might be in separating himself from me; for my father loves me dearly, above the love that he gives to my sisters — so I have been led to think. And when I asked if she were happy in the convent, she answered Jesus was nearer to me before I came hither, and sometimes it seems to me that I love him no longer. As she spoke these words her face and voice told me that the stories I had related of you, sir, and your picture, were as sparks fallen on tinder, and I watched her, wondering, for she seemed to have been absent from herself for a very long while. The woman is never the same as the girl, she said, breaking into speech suddenly. We make promises that we cannot fulfil, or fulfil indifferently. And until the woman within her dies, every nun dreams of being carried away. She knows that she will be buried in her habit, but she puts a taper in her window and lies down watching it, uncertain whether she would follow the knight if he came, only certain that she is guilty of a sin in putting the light there, though it lure nobody. She falls asleep watching the taper, and finds the charred wick in the morning. So her life goes by. Shall I tell all you have told me, Princess Soracha, to Sir Ulick de Burgo? I asked. Tell him what you please, she answered; yes, tell him that I burn tapers in my window, knowing well that no knight will climb the pear tree that grows beneath.
But if a knight came, would she follow, Roudier? I know no more than I have told you, sir. Look into the portrait and read the character in it that it pleases you to read. Show her to me at once; I can bear the delay no longer! Roudier handed him the vellum and after looking at it intently, Ulick said, speaking like one in a dream: She is a little taller than I saw her whilst listening to thy story. She looks taller in my drawing than she is, sir. Thou hast drawn to good purpose, Roudier, for I read a woman into whose mind an ugly thought never comes nor yet an ugly dream, and I guess her voice to be a low, winning one. You divine her well, said Roudier. We are diviners, Ulick answered; poet and craftsman have the same eyes. I like the small, high head; it seems to sway on the slender neck; and never before did I see thick hair growing so low that only a faint strip of ivory forehead shows above the clear, faraway eyes, looking out of their paleness inquiringly and yet shyly. Again you have divined well, sir; and Roudier continued: A face rather wide than long, with small features, almost colourless, very beautiful in tone and quality of skin. Longer, slenderer hands I have never seen; her soul is in her eyes, but some of it seems to have trickled into her hands. Thou hast given her a languid grace, Roudier. Then my drawing is at fault, sir; none is less languid. But continue your reading of the portrait, sir. It seems to me, Roudier, that I discover a life-seeker in thy portrait, one who would leave her convent to taste the life that should prepare us for the life to come. I read a conflict in her, and thou wast aware of the conflict else it would not be here.... So this is the Princess Soracha, who is waiting at her window for a knight to com
e to release her. She lights a taper to guide him. For how long will she light it? Will God again claim her, or will Bruce carry her away and make her his Queen? So this is the Princess Soracha! And gazing into the wistful eyes of the portrait he stood like one entranced. A beautiful face, he said at last; thou wert well inspired whilst drawing her. And then afraid that his great interest in the Princess’s portrait might represent him in a false light: as a young man who would abandon his duty to his father to clamber up a convent wall to a nun’s window, he asked if Sir Richard or Sir John Bermingham or Sir Edmund Butler would command the great army that was mustering to meet Bruce on his way to Dublin.
The Normans are flocking to the standard of Sir John Bermingham, Roudier answered, and much is expected from Sir John Maupas, a young knight who has vowed at Athassel to seek out Bruce in the coming battle and take his life or to have his own taken. Sir John Maupas, Ulick muttered, speaks well when he says that the coming battle will be decided by single combat; so it behoves me to be before him. Thy words, Roudier, are an inspiration. My father cannot give me the command of an army, but none can prevent me from reaching Bruce before Maupas. None, if the tide of battle favours you, Sir Ulick; but the tide of battle is less certain than the sea’s tides. Bruce fights in the front rank, Ulick continued, and if Maupas reaches him before me and he kills Maupas, he will have to kill me. Edward Bruce has fought in the forefront of eighteen battles, Roudier answered, and his confidence in himself is enough for him to accept the challenge; but would Bermingham, with thirty thousand men behind him, entrust the issue to a single knight? Fortune was unkind to me in my birth and will avail herself of this chance to retrieve the wrong she did me! He continued to walk up and down the room, foreseeing the battle in his imagination, till Roudier, believing he wished for no further parley, rose from his seat, saying: I see, sir, you are already in Ireland in your thoughts, and will be there within a few weeks in person; and as there is much to be done before your departure — clothes to fold and to pack, horses to sell, I will not delay you. But these portraits? Ulick asked. Are for you, sir, to keep. I would bring them with me, Roudier, and shall seek in some jeweller’s shop in Rouen or Honfleur a box — Why not lay them back in the pyx out of which I took them? And Ulick’s eyes going to the portraits and the beautifully engraved silver box or pyx on the table, he said: I may never see thee again, Roudier; and they were struck to the quick by the words, both he who spoke them and he who heard them. Wouldst have me accept these portraits and the pyx they came in as a gift? I would indeed, sir, for as you say, we may never see each other again. And I would have you ride to Hesdin to say good-bye to the Comtesse; her distress will be great. I can do no more than write a letter, Roudier. Four days there and four days back, and mayhap a ship missed. Good-byes are painful; I am without courage for them; but tell the Comtesse all I say. And now whilst I write a letter to her, do thou seal the pyx with my seal. Ulick called for pen and ink, and when he had turned a few lines that seemed to tell some of his sorrow at leaving France and his dear friend, he inscribed these, and sealing the parchment he gave it to Roudier, who returned to him the pyx containing the portraits. You could get no box in Rouen or Honfleur easier to carry inside your tunic than this one, and by your leave I will warn you against leaving it in your tunic when you lie down at night. I will put it under my pillow, said Ulick. But do not forget it in the morning, else your servant will examine it. He will, faith, and mayhap the best plan would be for me to give it to Tadhg himself. It will, sir, if you can trust him; and the men lingered over their good-byes, as well they might, it seeming that they were about to part for eternity. As Roudier moved towards the door Tadhg opened it. Philippe Roudier, said he, come back from Ireland! Thou hast learnt more French than I have learnt Irish, Roudier answered.