the last.
I learned of my father’s death when I was in Venice, gazing at the lagoon and contemplating boarding a ship and, contrary to his wishes, going to war at last. For I was sick of all these new experiences the world offered, all these universe builders. I wanted to watch my face as my tears fell in the green water. I caught a brief glimpse of myself with perfect clarity; and then my features disintegrated in the little waves, and what I had learned about myself sank for ever.
My headaches as well as my sorrows deserted me.
I went to visit my father’s grave and, without knowing why, planted a tree a few feet away. It was a comfort for me to see that I was looked upon as a stranger in my own village too. To make of the whole world a place of exile, to be at home everywhere.
I re-embarked on a quiet ship full of pilgrims, who sang as they made their way to Sainte-Foy de Conques.
I grazed my hands pulling on their oars and hoisting their sails. We sang to the glory of God and even to the beauty of women. At sea, when the moon is full in the dark sky, all routes become one: at the whim of the wind, the soul submits.
They were not seeking miracles or begging favours. Others might build churches; at the risk of their lives, these people were offering their songs to the glory of God.
They never volunteered the notion that I might join them; in a moment of vanity which was probably the result of seasickness, I think this secretly upset me.
I left them on the sandy shore, lifting their gowns above their white ankles to avoid the sea, hopping about like frogs and laughing like children.
As I departed along a path that passed behind the dunes before disappearing into the woods, tears were streaming down my cheeks. I wasn’t even sad. It was simply that I knew I could never participate in the happiness of others; I would be the one who arrives too early or leaves too late, the one who is not called or who, when invited, wakes up in the middle of the night knowing that the party is over.
II
I arrived at Fontevrault abbey having followed the course of the Loire. Some devout but prudent pilgrims had advised me against the place: the order was the creation of a lunatic. His heart aflame with promises, Robert of Arbrissel ventured into brothels to make his conversions and slept naked among the nuns, who were virgins or young widows. The worst part of it, they would tell me, was not so much that there was a priory for men and another for women within the same walls – which in itself was the source of terrible scandals – but that on the instructions of the founder, the head of the order was a woman.
I liked this touch of lunacy which accorded secretly with my own madness. I also needed to stop for a while and share the company of humans.
Fontevrault was in disarray: while on a visit to the priory at Orsan, Robert had been taken ill. In the panic that ensued, the abbess, Petronilla, had gone to be with him. On the return journey, Robert’s body fell victim to all kinds of greed and envy – from peasants and nobles alike, who wanted to cut out his heart and put it in a shrine so as to attract God’s blessing on their wretched church and some revenue from pilgrimages.
Thanks to my fine handwriting, I had succeeded in obtaining employment from the armarius, Brother Andrew, whose scribe had just died. The old man was writing the story of Robert’s life in order that he should be made a saint.
Days passed and we waited for news from a messenger or a traveller. All we had were rumours: his body had drifted away on the current, like that of Moses, or had been carried off on a chariot of fire. Brother Andrew shook his head: the life of a saint – a genuine one – was not founded on such nonsense.
The doors of the abbey opened and a hymn could be heard; outside, an unruly crowd clustered around. It was he, it was Robert who had come back to die on his own land, surrounded by his little brothers and sisters.
‘Hurry up,’ Brother Andrew grumbled at me, ‘you’ll see, there won’t be any room left in the church.’
He sighed as he watched the smoke rising from the great cones on the kitchen roofs. We hadn’t even had time to eat. I supported him, pushed him forward, dragging him and crying out: ‘Make way! Make way!’
Petronilla came at the head, walking beside the bower of branches on which Robert lay. He had been carried along byways and floated down rivers by a succession of men and women who took it in turns so that his soul did not escape during a moment of inattention. Behind the abbess came some important figures: his friend Geoffrey of Vendôme, Archbishop Léger of Bourges and a host of priests and monks who grieved for him as forsaken lovers do.
‘Is he dead or alive?’ asked Brother Andrew. ‘Tell me; I can’t see anything.’
Robert’s withered hands were folded over his cilice and his eyes were closed. And yet it seemed to me that breath still filled his lungs and that a little blood flowed through his cheeks.
‘I don’t know,’ I told Andrew.
The procession halted at the entry to the nave; far off, a lifetime away, the choir gleamed. The monks and religious did not pause for a moment: they took their places near the altar, while the poor gathered together at the back of the church. Many had to remain outside for lack of space.
Two men walked down the central aisle, moving at the same pace, but so dissimilar that it was as if they had come from separate worlds: the one dark, the other pale in appearance; the one strong and handsome, rather like a bear, the other younger, with a face that was already haggard, and with sparse hair and hollow cheeks, looking as if he were returning from travels that had subjugated all wolfish desires.
Petronilla advanced towards them. Andrew caught my sleeve.
‘Bernard of Fontaines,’ he whispered. ‘He’s just left the abbey of Cîteaux to found a monastery at Clairvaux, in a valley infested with wild beasts.
‘The tall one?’
‘No, the other one. His name is Peter Abelard. He thinks he’s the greatest philosopher in the world.’
I could see him from the corner of my eye as a slight smile raised the wrinkles in his face on which everything was always plainly written.
‘They loathe one another,’ muttered Andrew, not displeased.
‘Do they know each other?’
‘They don’t need to in order to hate each other. Anyway, watch . . .’
With a sign to the lay brethren, Petronilla gave the order for the litter to be lifted and carried up to the altar. Bernard and Peter stepped aside. She stood beside Robert and took his hands, placing one over the other.
My gaze was fixed on Peter Abelard. He was a cleric with an unkempt tonsure, bushy eyebrows and a nose that was too large; he had lively, laughing eyes that were very dark and which moved from irony to anger at the merest impulse.
Without turning round, Bernard went to close the double doors.
‘He’s young but tiresome,’ Andrew declared with a hint of respect. ‘Apparently he forced his entire family to take the veil, and he has threatened hell-fire on those women who do not submit.’
Petronilla presented the cross to Robert and his lips remained closed, as
