Bishop Gerbert, who had succeeded Galon and did not care for Peter, had nonetheless promised him a new school, in one of his outhouses, behind the cathedral. In his gardens there were trees that produced rare essences as well as an olive tree from the Mount of Olives. Ill-intentioned gossips used to say that in this way, within hearing distance of the Pope’s representative, Abelard would be more restrained in his audacity and his blasphemous comparisons. In the meantime, his lessons given on the waters gained him a reputation which went largely beyond clerical circles. From one of the bridges, from the boards of Mibrai, from the shores of the island, people would often call out to us: ‘Disciples! Would you walk on the water with Jesus?’ But though they made fun, there was respect too, as if these simple folk knew that lessons given on water are finer than those given on land.
Yes, nothing could have done more for Peter Abelard’s renown than this inland navigation. Not since the Normans, three centuries earlier, had Paris experienced such an invasion; every morning new vessels could be seen joining the fleet of logic. Words were passed from boat to boat and they changed meaning at the whim of the lapping waves. Over the broad arm of the Seine, amid the sandbanks and the barges, the sound mingled with that of the offshore wind, the disorderly waves and the gulls.
Later on, when the legend and the curse of Peter Abelard had begun to take root, it was said that his lessons delivered on the water had been the result of his being banned from teaching on terra firma. But for us, discovering the world in the ebb and flow of the river, these early autumn days were wonderful. Blessed are you who sow beside the waters . . .
On the morning of the third day, Heloise came, bringing with her birds that chirped as they chased each other above the bishop’s garden.
My legs were heavy from bad dreams and drinking too much. I longed to say ‘I love you’ once more to this woman who did not love me. I forgot: I had never said anything to her; my lips had been sealed, so as to make sure she didn’t hear me.
She looked at me and waved as she walked quietly by, but she didn’t stop; I was sitting sifting soil between my fingers, a fistful of soil that I let run from one hand to another until nothing but a little dust was left. When I’d finished, I started again. The master was alone, a few feet away, beneath the olive tree. He was reading a book – Timaeus, I think – which he had been talking to us about for several days, comparing the Soul of the World with the Holy Spirit. The earth was without form and void, and darkness was upon the face of the deep; and the Spirit of God was moving over the face of the waters. He saw her and sprang to his feet.
They exchange words with one another, but I do not hear them – the humming in my ears. There are others who are closer to them, but I do not see them – the veil that covers my eyes. I could stir myself, but I am motionless, apart from the movement of my hands which, ceaselessly, vainly, sift the soil. Now I can see: they are alone.
It’s a solitude that my body remembers: the solitude of lovers. It’s a solitude that I would know even if I had not experienced it: a solitude that can drive one to despair if one is on one’s own. You speak to me and I alone hear you. I speak to you and you alone understand me. What I know, you already knew. What you begin, I finish. Have you noticed how beautiful the world is? Do you know how to float off into the sky? Do you want to walk, to talk, to be silent? They speak, they smile. They are silent, they smile. The sun rises over the vineyards of Bercy and the Seine shimmers with golden reflections – my hand would not caress your body any better than this.
‘Did you see?’
It was Christian who was pulling me by the sleeve. I wanted to say ‘I know’ – but the words didn’t pass my lips.
‘Come.’
He took me by the arm but I didn’t want to move. I wanted to stay like that, for ever, suffering just a few feet away from them.
One by one they drifted away: Peter the Child, Cervelle and Simeon, Célestin, Gilbert, Geoffrey of Chartres, even Arnold, who had not understood quite what was going on, but whom Christian dragged along with him.
Heloise and Abelard didn’t see me: whether I was present or absent was unimportant. The garden sloped gently down to the shore: they walked side by side, gracefully, without touching. I was aware of Heloise’s gracefulness. Abelard’s was something new, something stranger; his black linen gown seemed more delicate, his waist was thinner, his bear-like gait more nimble.
That day, all but one of the boats would remain empty.
IX
He came to the priory with her and we spent the evening laughing and singing. Our queen with the bright, shining face was not to be outdone. She loved being the only woman amongst all these men who for the most part had not known any and were discovering the mystery in her eyes. Arnold had lit a fire in the hearth because it had been cold. Late in the evening, we saw their hands searching for one another, as well as the looks they exchanged, which were evidence of an intimacy in which we had had no part to play. My friends left the room one after the other to return to the dormitory which was on the second floor. I did not want to leave – and silence set in. The bell of Saint-Victor chimed: I had lost track of time, I think it was for the vigil.
Go forth, o daughters of Zion,and behold King Solomon,with the crown with which his mother crowned himon the day of his wedding,on the day of his gladness of heart.
I began to laugh to myself and they looked at me. I glanced and saw the dying embers; I was dying with them – on the day of his gladness of heart. I desired your death, Solomon Abelard, I want you to be accursed and to die in pain.
I went up to bed with the others.
I thought that I had got over it all, but the night was still long. I could not sleep. I kept my eyes open: the crackle of the fire, the breathing of men in the night hours, the world at prayer. I was alone. Alone: in a sense.
I could hear them.
Softly spoken words, stifled laughter, silences . . . the rustle of material, the creaking of the wood . . . My God, why are they making love here, a few feet away from me? Why continue to crush me and trample me, as if I had done harm? I know I have blasphemed with words, but You are my witness that I have sinned very little – the lowliest priest is a hundred times worse than me. My God, remember your servant Job and do not allow him to fall into the hands of Satan, be merciful . . .
I rose and went down the first few steps of the staircase, and in a low voice, like that of a supplicant, I said: ‘Peter . . .’ Nothing had changed; our friends were all asleep, and I was the only wretch to share in their fornication without being a part of it. I wanted to escape and join my beloved statues, but it meant going past them – he inside her, in her warmth and her tenderness, each of them lost in the other’s desire, each of them trying unsuccessfully to muffle any noise.
Heloise was smiling, her eyes closed, lost in a world which I would not enter. Would I not touch her? It was as well. Did she not love me? That was as well, too.
But I still loved her.
I felt very much alive as I walked out into the night. Heloise’s shadow was alongside me and would not leave. She bathed beside me in the Bièvre stream and she laughed as she caught moonfish with her hands. She stripped off her surcoat, her gown and her blouse as women do in eastern fairy tales – a dance in which the naked flesh is never revealed because one veil always conceals another.
Sing, my love, sing of your new love for the greatest philosopher in the world! Sing of the astonishment coursing through both your bodies as the master’s disciples leave the house and, eyes dull with sleep, join me beside the river.
They