Читать книгу Farewell My Only One - Antoine Audouard - Страница 14

V

I saw her first, at the entrance to the Close, just as I was arriving with Arnold. She was walking in silence with a servant, a woman with skin as black as coal. She was wearing that blue cloak which had first caught my eye – and I was not surprised to admit that I fell in love with her before I had really set eyes on her. Arnold caught me looking at her and gave me a slap.

‘Heloise,’ he said. ‘So you already know Canon Fulbert’s beautiful niece, do you?’

‘I scarcely knew her before I was clasping her to me. You see how close we are . . .’

He gazed at me, eyebrows raised, before dragging me onwards. As we made our way through the streets of the Close with its houses built of wood and stone, amid the atmosphere of calm that was such a change after the excitement and chaos of the rest of the Île de la Cité, Heloise’s name buried itself within my heart.

Arnold told me that Master Peter Abelard’s lesson was held in a house which Archdeacon Stephen had lent to the chapterhouse in return for a promise that at every full moon a Mass for his soul would be served by two canons at the chapel of Saint-Aignan.

We caught up with a short man with fair, close-cut hair whose blue eyes shone with kindness.

‘William, allow me to introduce Peter the Child – the Child,’ said Arnold enthusiastically. ‘William has traversed Europe from east to west and north to south in search of a master the equal to ours . . .’

‘And Arnold has convinced me that I’m now here for good,’ I said, laughing.

‘I admire Abelard and his philosophy, but I have only one master,’ said the Child as he turned to Arnold.

Arnold raised his arms heavenwards, ‘So, too, do I, Child most wise. I, too, am subject to Our Lord . . .’

The Child gave a reassuring smile and they began to talk about what was going on in town. The subject of their discussion meant nothing to me, nor did the names: Senlis, Garlande, Galon, Gerbert . . . I heard tell of hatred that could lead to murder, of the brutality that motivates men’s emotions, be it in the name of God, or the name of the king.

As we drew near to the school, other small groups attached themselves to ours: the sons of Breton lords, the lame, the crippled bastard offspring of bishops, absconding novices and simonious priests – and even humble students intent on learning. The desire for knowledge is never expressed in silence: they were bawling.

We entered the cavernous room, a former warehouse where a smell of spices still lingered; those who had arrived first were seated on benches, while others were placed wherever they could fit; the shortest climbed up onto the shoulders of the stronger ones. In the middle of the circle, you could see the master’s back. He was wearing a black linen gown (later he told me how he had organised his wardrobe once and for all: a linen gown if the weather was warm, a woolen one if it was cold, and black whatever the weather or the season).

He raised his hand and there was silence; at last he turned round and I could feel his gaze settle on me, as if I was the only one he was going to address. Even though this impression was doubtless shared by everybody in the room, the conviction that it was true wafted over me like a strong, sweet liqueur. I wanted to be loyal to this man even if he asked nothing of me. I wanted him to recognise me and to like me.

‘God,’ he began, gently drawing out the word, ‘can he do other than what he does?’

He waited for the silence to be broken by a few murmurings.

‘God made it rain yesterday,’ he continued with a smile, ‘despite Bishop Galon.’

Laughter filled the room. Arnold nudged me with his elbow.

‘. . . But could God have wished for it not to rain? Could he have wished for something to happen that did not happen? Or for something not to happen that did happen? Or again that it should have happened differently – fine rain instead of a downpour?’

The grey light of day seeped through the arches of the gallery that opened onto the street, and some torches had been lit. Faces were illuminated by the quivering light of the flames; there were expressions ranging from admiration to fear – and even, in certain cases, hatred.

‘Well, my friends! Is it to be the blind leading the blind? Or will one among you enlighten us?’

Some voices were raised, invoking the Evangelists, Augustine, Origen or Boethius. He listened, approving or rejecting with a nod or a look. Then he called a halt to the proceedings. His eyes were gleaming with mischievousness.

‘At this stage there’s no need for all these eminent authorities, for you must know that I am talking to you under their guidance . . .’

He raised his eyes heavenwards, as an acrobat might, adopting an anxious and immediately contrite expression.

‘To take a different tack, all that we require is a little care and some grammar . . . What did I actually say that alarmed you so? Firstly, I asked whether God could before asking whether he would. What are we talking about, in fact, his will or his power? For if it’s to do with his will, I have made a statement that must have struck you as obvious and made you want to strip me of my clothing for being a bad master and a false prophet . . . What kind of God would it be who did not want to do what he wishes, or did other than he wishes? He would not even be Plato’s demiurge, who has the excuse of not being God . . . But if, then, we are discussing his power, we’re going to have to know the meaning of words: for the very fact that God is capable and has the power to do everything is what defines Him. Do we not call him the Omnipotent? And in the Trinity, if the Holy Spirit is wisdom and Jesus Christ is goodness, then God is power. So who is this all-powerful being who is incapable? It could not be God. But perhaps, albeit slightly against our wishes, we should go back to the preceding notion: could he wish something to be better than it is and yet isn’t? Or else for something to take place at a different time to when it does take place? Before – if that were in his power? Or afterwards? But then it is his infinite goodness that causes us to doubt. How are we to understand a God who does not wish for everything to be for the best? And thus, my friends, the matter of a little rain has led us to confront an awesome question . . . If, during this period of heat that parched our throats and made most of you drink too much beer, God did not want it to rain, then he has no Goodness – and yet he has; if he wanted it but was unable to create it, then he has no Power – yet he has; and if he neither wanted it nor could create it, then – I scarcely dare whisper it – then he doesn’t exist – yet he does. Is there in this room a mind filled with the Spirit who, through logic or dialectic, involucrum or integumentum, can help us out of this quandary in which, if we persist, we have the choice between the anguish of aporia and excommunication followed by eternal damnation?’

Those who had come with wax tablets were scribbling away furiously, sitting cross-legged or else standing and using the backs of those in front of them. My ears were buzzing and I felt as if my mind were not progressing quickly enough.

Outside, the storm was now raging and we could hear the rain pattering down on the cobbled lanes of the Close; as the mud rose, everyone from priests to beggars sought shelter. Inside, a volley of questions and answers rang out. One man had been following the teachings of Hugues at Saint-Victor and was setting his traps; another remembered St Jerome; Master Peter skilfully steered his path in the direction that he had chosen from the start.

‘Did you see? Did you hear!’ Arnold whispered.

Abelard was now conducting a discussion with a fanatical nominalist who was trying to make him say that, since three names had been assigned to God in the Trinity, there were therefore three Gods; then a monk in a white habit asked him anxiously if he had really said that we have to be doubtful of everything, even God.

He stood his ground, grew impatient, counter-attacked; he harassed his adversaries, wore them down and took them on at their own game. He waxed and waned, he made them laugh. He was a master of words as well as a master of silence.

At the end (once he had established that since God is able to do anything, he only does what is right, in other words what is), there was a sigh of relief, and as the first of the students left the room it was as if a magic circle were traced round him. Not that Arnold knew anything about magic; he took my arm and dragged me forward.

‘Master Peter! I have a wrangler here with me . . .’

The master looked at me: there was a little perspiration on his brow and weariness in his eyes. He was panting softly, rather like a wrestler, and there was a smile on his face. I noticed the silver brooch, depicting a wonderfully graceful lamb, that buttoned his cloak.

‘I know him, your wrangler . . .’

I could see the lines that ran across his forehead and furrowed his cheeks, like scars from the thrusts of swords that he had suffered in his jousting with words.

‘I came, as you see . . .’

He smiled. His eyes peered into mine: serious, intense and with that dancing light in them.

‘I was expecting you,’ he said, taking me by the arm. ‘Come with us – we’re going for a drink.’

I followed him out into the street, where a noisy, happy little group had clustered around him, trying to catch his attention. The young lady, Heloise was returning alone.

‘I’ll catch you up!’ I called to Arnold.

I walked behind her along the streets of the Close as far as her door where an angel was keeping watch.

‘Your name is Heloise.’

She turned round and smiled – her pale blue eyes misted over in the rain.

‘I said that I wouldn’t forget you.’

‘You left without telling me your name.’

‘You must believe me, William. I take my promises seriously, as well as my follies.’

‘I do believe you.’

It was as if an invisible veil that separated me from her made me shy and almost stupid. I had known women; I had never known a woman like her. I told her that Peter Abelard was my master.

‘What is he teaching at the moment? Logic, the Categories? Or is it what he blasphemously calls “Theology”?’

There was a touch of irony in her voice and she spoke with the familiarity of an equal. I mumbled. The lesson that I had just attended was still whirling around in my head.

‘He speaks powerfully and he looks upon others as if they ought only to exist in the shade of his sunlight.’

Heloise’s face was hidden in the large hood of her blue cloak. She had the insubstantiality of a dream – and she knew how to show herself off while concealing herself better. I was standing very close to her, like a miserable wretch, and I had a burning desire to speak to her, to tell her how I felt: the lure of a woman, my friend, can undo you and tear you to pieces.

‘Are you going to let me into my own house or does my uncle have to come and do battle with you?’

‘Will you come to a lesson with me?’

‘Wait and see,’ she said as she pushed open the door, her sad eyes laughing.

The rain had stopped. I ran, light-footed, holding my gown in both hands as I danced my way through the puddles.

Leaving the paved Close, I could not avoid the mud in the square. In the distance, near the Jewish quarter, I could see the philosopher and his friends. I ran and caught up with them.

Peter Abelard moved forward as if he were the only person present, chatting to people here and there.

‘Did you see?’ whispered Arnold, ‘Even the animals turn away from him.’

I looked at him to see whether he was being funny; his expression was serious. He really does believe that he has met Jesus; after all, it’s no different from what happened to the apostles. All we lack are one or two miraculous cures.

They were jostling each other with their elbows and speaking too loudly. There was a certainty about the knowledge these young men had and therefore a confidence that was naïve, pretentious and touching.

Peter the Child, the man with the chubby face, was quieter than the others. He wore the black habit of the monks from Cluny. He said that his prior sent him to Paris last winter to keep up with what was being discussed at the Schools.

‘And what have you discovered?’

‘I listen and I learn; everything is beneficial to those who wish to sing the praise of God.’

‘Why do they call you Child?’

‘Because as a child, I collected miracles. I continue to do so.’

He smiled. There was honesty in his blue eyes; a virtuousness that concealed further virtues still. I can decipher faces.

Behind the synagogue, in the heart of the maze of alleyways in the Jewish quarter, the group entered a tavern at the sign of Vulcan and a man who was actually very ugly welcomed Abelard.

‘I am your servant Samuel, Lord, here to serve you.’

‘That’s enough, Samuel, your prophecies will lead you to blasphemy.’

The inn-keeper dragged his almost dead leg as if it belonged to someone else and yet he moved about with remarkable agility. His large hands protruded from short, powerful arms and he had the shoulders of a wrestler.

We passed through a curtain and entered Vulcan’s forge: it was a curious, warlike cavern in which everything was painted dark red and the walls were decorated with shields, lances and swords.

Abelard presided at the head of the table; opposite him was Peter the Child. Then came Simeon the doctor, Robert le Roux and Cervelle, a small, slender man who spoke in a high-pitched voice. Immediately next to me was Christian, a fair-haired young prophet, bearded and hirsute like a Norman.

Arnold was helping Samuel to bring the ale and he set the goblets on the table – a thick brown, mossy liquid like milk from Sainte-Mère-du-Houblon, as warm as a fire, as a woman.

‘Where does he come from?’ Christian asked Arnold, pointing his finger at me.

‘I was born in England, at the court of a rather violent prince, near a landscape of damp hills . . . And I’ve come from Fontevrault, where I’ve relinquished my duties as a copyist . . .’

Christian swept a slender hand through his blond hair.

‘I knew it, I knew we were brothers! I, too, copy bibles at the abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. And since the monks are pleased with my delicate handiwork, I show them something of the art I learned in Northumberland, and I lay aside my pens and bring out my paintbrushes, my gold fluid, my pots of purple or saffron . . .’

‘What do you paint for them?’

‘Images that dwell within them day and night . . . Holy virgins wearing sky-blue mantles . . . but also fiendish animals coupling, worse than griffins and monsters . . .’

‘I should very much like to see them . . .’

Christian just smiled.

‘William!’ called Abelard.

I got up from the end of my bench. He gestured to me to come forward and, in spite of the swearing, I made my way among the students, being careful not to spill the ale in their goblets.

When Peter Abelard smiles, the lines on his cheeks widen and his dark eyes sparkle. And yet, even in that moment of abandon, I could not fail to notice the flicker of anxiety that glistened beneath his gaze.

‘Do you want me to call you Master?’

‘Call me whatever you wish, I don’t mind . . . With some people I insist, who knows why . . . From those who pay me, all I expect is their money . . . From those disciples who are dear to me I ask nothing – whether they call me Peter, or friend, or nothing at all.’

‘Disciples?’

‘Discere – to learn and nothing more. I don’t walk upon the waters, I haven’t founded the church which is already there, we won’t all go about en masse curing the sick and preaching the gospel. If you wish, I shall awaken you to reason and I shall help you to search not for the truth, but the things that resemble it, and with which you can live and face the world.’

‘Where did you obtain all your learning?’

‘I was aware of books all too quickly and they became a part of me without my learning them. Unable to discuss matters with my brothers any longer, I set off debating all over Brittany, Normandy and France. I searched for Origen or Boethius, Socrates and Augustine. Above all, I searched for Jerome, to whom I’ve been strangely attracted ever since I first read his letters . . . But masters great or small – I had none. Everywhere I went I came across nothing but old priests who repeated what old priests used to say, droning on and waving their arms about in the air, and explaining Genesis with an inspiration that they thought was divine but which was nothing but the same thing rehashed over and over again: “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. What does holy scripture tell us? That God first created the heavens, then the earth . . .” You don’t say . . . ! I wanted to beat them with my fists, but instead I beat them with words, to their great shame and humiliation. Having worn out all these false masters I became a master myself. Occasionally, I regret not being a knight like my brothers Gérard and Yves, and not having been a crusader; but there’s a fire in me that even the destruction of Antioch and the massacre of all the infidels would not quench. William?’

He laid his hand on my arm and squeezed it gently. His cloak trailed at his feet; beads of sweat dripped down from his chin onto the powerful neck that rose up from his tunic.

‘William, do you hear me?’

I nodded without replying.

‘I wasn’t joking when I said I was expecting you. Will you stay with me? Will you go to war with me?’

‘War!’

He was one of those men who was able to trap you with a glance and whose thunderous speech could caress you; when he took your hand, you wanted to be his friend and brother, and you wanted him to talk to you privately, from his heart. You couldn’t imagine what a peculiar honour it was to serve him.

‘That may seem a strange word to use – and I grant you that we won’t have to take down from the walls the trophies that Samuel has had forged at the Vulcan . . . But we shall have to fight, nevertheless! Don’t rely on today’s lesson, don’t be taken in by the appearance of outward calm! That priest with the modest expression who questioned me about the Trinity, he hates me! And that shifty monk who doubts whether reason can serve revelation, he loathes me too! And even the person who pretends to admire me, who imbibes my words during my discourse on Ezekiel and calls me “Master” and pays me twice the amount, he also hates me! I’ve upset too many people to be left in peace for long . . . And then I’m not sure I like peace . . .’

‘War, how funny . . .’

Peter Abelard didn’t care for people being funny.

‘There are the enemies whom I know and there are those more powerful ones whom I do not yet know . . . There are all those who do not like the fact that as a man I speak to other men about all manner of things, including God.’

‘I do like your war, Peter, it’s a war that’s worth fighting and losing. I’ll fight it with you, if you wish.’

‘Look at our army,’ he smiled. ‘Doesn’t it cut a proud figure? Look at them getting drunk so as to give themselves courage on the eve of fierce battles. William, I want to ask you something else.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Why did you pursue Heloise?’

‘Pursue her?’

He burst out laughing.

‘Pursue? Pursue?’ he repeated, mimicking me as if it was the funniest thing in the world. ‘Yes, pursued,’ he roared. ‘I saw you, you were pursuing . . .’

‘I noticed her yesterday, during the procession. I snatched her away from the crowd, which was crushing her. I saw her once more, before the lesson and again, on leaving.’

‘Three times. You must have thought it was a sign . . .’

‘Probably.’

‘They say she’s a scholar . . .’

‘Is that what is said?’

‘He irks me with his questions. They do say that and they’re certainly wrong because she’s never followed the teachings of a real philosopher.’

‘Perhaps she will come now . . .’

‘Now that you’ve pursued her? I leave her to you, she’s no beauty!’

I had been holding my breath during his questions. His last remark released me. I gestured to Arnold to get up and I joined him; I caught fair-haired Christian’s expression and made a clumsy attempt to wave goodbye. He called out something which I did not hear.

The street was alive. It was never completely dark at night; and even in daylight one came across bewildering or alarming nocturnal scenes. Over there, children were begging for food from those who had less than them; here, there were old women volunteering younger ones – their daughters, they said – for one-night marriages that meant the girls had to be stitched up again next morning. A virgin’s blood had a certain value or else was worth nothing, it all depended. You could hear the sound of the horses, made dangerous and magnificent by the darkness, as their hooves hammered the ground and echoed over the cobblestones; there were pigs which, since they never slept, might trip you up at the corners of alleyways and which squealed horribly when they were struck. A man holding a torch and walking at a blind man’s pace was muttering psalms to himself taken from an unauthorised bible. Suddenly silent, we were walking in the direction of the Close, which was where our house was, feeling as ill as our sick brethren.

At the end of the boards of the Mivrai, we crossed the Place de Grève. The market stalls were closed but the stench of rotting fish and meat turned our stomachs. Now that the downpour had stopped, the heat was beginning to rise up from the ground.

I thought, with a kind of terror, I think that I am in love but I don’t know what it is to love and I think I am in love for the first time. It’s enough to make me want to laugh, to laugh until I choke. Arnold takes me in his arms; he clasps me and lets me go, clasps me, then lets me go. He doesn’t ask anything.