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
