‘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