Peter Abelard

by Helen Waddell

  “I thought I recognised the face,” said Pierre quietly.

  “You are not the only one,” said Gilles. He looked among the parchments in his lap. “There’s a pretty letter here from that old fox Roscelin.’And the seal wherewith you have signed your stinking letter is proof enough of the ardour with which you burn towards her still.’”

  “What right has Roscelin to speak of her?”

  Gilles shrugged his shoulders. “It is not the end of his civilities. The dowry that Abelard gave with her to Argenteuil he describes as his reward to his harlot for past prostitution, since similar pleasure in the present was not to be looked for.”

  Pierre stood silent, biting his under-lip.

  “You are new to the amenities of controversy,” said Gilles. “But hear the conclusion. ‘I am in some perplexity how to address this letter. Clerk you are not, for you have taken the cowl: monk you are not, for you have assumed the doctor: layman you are not, for behold your tonsure. There remains the name of Peter: yet Peter is the name of a man.’”

  “May God damn him,” said Pierre, very low.

  “One council did, to begin with,” said Gilles equably, “a good many years ago. It is the spite of the tailless fox: he would have Peter branded too. By the way, that same council was likewise held at Soissons. Soissons is a good place for a heresy hunt. It’s not so long since they had a couple of decent poor burghers up for Manichæism: they were in the bishop’s ward, but the crowd got at them and burnt one of them alive. What kind of monster they thought a Manichee was, I do not know: but they roasted him anyhow. And by the time Abelard rode in to attend the Council, they were ready to stone him in the streets. I think they would have, only for that young ox of a Thibault, riding behind him.”

  “How did they get their council summoned?”

  “Ask Alberic and Lotulf. First of all they barked that he had no master’s licence: but that fell flat, for the man who had ruled the Schools of Paris might surely teach in a country priory. By the way, they ate the countryside before them, his youngsters: they say it was like a swarm of locusts: you couldn’t buy so much as an egg in Provins market. Then they said that he was lecturing on the pagan poets as well as on the Fathers, but that was a stale herring too. And then Abelard played into their hands. Their enemy wrote a book. Here it is.”

  Pierre fastened on it. He turned over the pages, murmuring phrases to himself, now and then glancing up to share them with Gilles. “‘God the Father, Power: God the Son, Wisdom: God the Holy Ghost, Love . . . and this in a measure was revealed unto Plato, when he conceived his doctrine of the soul of the world.’ That must have roused friend Alberic. Listen, Gilles,” he broke into sudden laughter, “homo navigabilis, risibilis—isn’t it like him that the first human qualities he thinks of are that a man can laugh and can manage a boat?” He read on, his face softening.

  “‘If a man desire to understand God, let him prepare himself for that understanding by good life, and let him take the way of humility, for by that road alone may he come nigh that height of intellectual vision. Not indeed that he will ever attain thereto, so long as he is in this mortal flesh: for there shall no man see Him, and live. . . And concerning the mystery of the Trinity we make no promise to teach the final truth, which neither we nor any mortal can know, but at best some likeness of it, some neighbour to it in human reason . . . And so, whatever we may set forth concerning this most high philosophy, we declare it to be a shadow, not the truth.’” He laid down the book, transfigured. “There is no one like him, Gilles. But how dare they, after reading that, bring him to trial?”

  “I do not imagine for a moment that they have read it,” said Gilles placidly. “The first paragraph or so would be enough. Alberic leapt in the air at the suggestion that Plato might have been aware of the Holy Ghost, forgetting that St. Paul would probably have agreed. They dashed off to good old Archbishop Ralph, dining with his Eminence the Legate. Ralph knows as much about Plato as would cover his great toe, but he did know that Rheims was thin of scholars: the Legate did not even know that, but he has his instructions from His Holiness to humour the French clergy as much as possible, and presumably he took it that Abelard was in a minority. So a council was convened at Soissons.”

  “And Abelard summoned to attend?”

  “Invited, rather. His Eminence is a good diplomatist.” Gilles began to chuckle. “So the moment Abelard arrives, he goes straight to wait on his Eminence, presents him with his book, begs him to read it, and declares that if he has written anything contrary to the Catholic faith, he is prepared to make any correction or satisfaction that is demanded.”

  “That is very like him. Well? Did Palestrina read it?”

  “The last man that saw Palestrina reading a book——But he soon recovered himself, and told Peter to take it to the Archbishop and his two accusers, since it was they who had brought the charge. It struck Abelard as an odd proceeding that the prosecutors were also to be the judges. On the other hand, he reflected that they had probably omitted to read the book. So he presented them with a copy of it. Oh, our friend is enjoying himself. You need waste no pity on him. And they have turned it upside down and inside out to find the cocatrice-egg, and meantime the council drags on—you know the usual formulae, De vita et honestate clericorum and so forth. And Abelard settled down to give a course of public lectures, and in a day or two the town was at his feet.”

  “How long will it sit?”

  “This week should see it ended. Geoffrey of Chartres——”

  “Is Geoffrey there?”

  “He is, thank God. He saw to that. Geoffrey is certain of victory. And so is Abelard. Especially after what happened on Sunday. I had it from Geoffrey himself. At long last—you know, all this time Abelard’s name has never been so much as mentioned in the council—Alberic comes to see Abelard, very bland, with a handful of his scholars, all bursting with excitement but all very civil, Alberic rubbing his hands and hoping Master Peter is comfortable in his lodging; and then he begins to talk about the book and the excellence of its style, and behind him the pack all wagging their sterns and panting, but not a yelp out of them yet, and their eyes all fixed on their master.

  “‘One thing I noted in your book that a little surprised me,’ says Alberic, ‘that although God begat God, and is but one, you nevertheless deny that God begat Himself.’

  “‘That is so,’ says Abelard. ‘And if you wish, I shall be happy to explain the reason.’

  “The word ‘reason’ was enough. The pack gave a kind of yelp. ‘We care not for human reason,’ says Alberic grandly, ‘nor our own interpretation of the sense in matters such as this: we ask only for the word of authority.’

  “‘Precisely,’ says Master Peter. ‘Turn the page, and you will find the authority.’

  “Alberic fumbles, and Abelard reaches for the book and finds it for him, ‘St. Augustine, De Trinitate. Book I. Chapter I. ‘“Whoso attributes to God the power of begetting Himself, is the more in error because it is not so, not only in respect of God, but of all creatures, corporeal or spiritual: peter for there is nothing whatever that begets itself.”’ The pack stopped wagging their sterns and their eyes got anxious. The sweat broke on Alberic, but he managed to stammer something.

  “‘It must,’ says he, ‘be rightly interpreted.’

  “‘I heartily agree with you,’ says Abelard lightly, ‘but that, after all, is nothing to the point, since what you asked of me was not the sense of the passage, but the words only. If, however, you care to consider the sense and the interpretation, I shall be happy to explain to you how on your own showing you have yourself fallen into that heresy which declares that the Father is His own son.’”

  “If I had been there!” sighed Pierre. “Well?”

  “Not so good,” said Gilles, his eyes darkening. “For our porker turned into a wild boar and took himself off, threatening all manner, and vowing that neither
his reasons nor his authorities would stand Abelard instead by the time he was done with him.”

  “But they’ll laugh him out of court,” said Pierre.

  “As our friend Peter says in that book you have there, most men are animal and not spiritual. And the bishops’ bench at Rheims is in no way remarkable for intelligence. But there’s Geoffrey. I do not think there will be much miscarriage of justice so long as he is there. I’m dry with talking, Pierre. Pour me out a drink, and another for yourself.”

  Pierre walked over to the dresser. “Angers? Or Bordeaux?”

  “Bordeaux, I think. It’s chilly, to be August. Well, I give you a toast, Pierre. Chartres!”

  “Chartres!” said Pierre solemnly, and raised his goblet. He stopped, the rim at his lips. “There’s someone on the stair, speaking to Jehan.”

  A low, imperious voice, a little impatient: Jehan’s slow foot hurrying in spite of himself.

  “Light the candles, Pierre,” said Gilles. He was shaking. The door opened and Jehan looked round it.

  “My Lord of Chartres,” he growled.

  Pierre turned from the fire, the candles in his hand, his eyes shining. Gilles heaved himself out of his chair, and took a step or two. The arras swung, and a tall figure came through the doorway.

  “You’re welcome, Geoffrey. Good news travels fast——” He stopped, for the candlelight had fallen on Geoffrey’s face.

  Mechanically, Pierre de Montboissier moved over to the table and set the candles down upon it, very carefully. He even busied himself trimming the wick of one of them that hung over. And still Geoffrey did not speak.

  “So they’ve damned him,” said Gilles.

  Geoffrey nodded. He was haggard with fatigue, and his lips grey with dust. Pierre poured out a goblet and brought it to him, his hands trembling. The tired eyes noted it, travelled up to the young wretched face; and the bitter mouth relaxed into a smile of astonishing sweetness.

  “Don’t fret, lad,” he said. “We’ll have it annulled. That is why I rode so fast. I was determined I would see the Archbishop at Sens before they did.”

  He took a long drink, still standing, and then sat down, stretching his long legs in front of him.

  “It might be worse, Gilles. When I saw how it was going I told him to make no protest, but submit to whatever they chose to demand. His book is burnt, and he is sent for penance to St. Médard.”

  “St. Médard!” It broke from Pierre almost like a howl. “But it’s the penitentiary for all France!”

  “I know. I know.” Again the tired eyes rested on Pierre’s angry face, as though they eased their pain in that passionate loyalty. “But it will not be a penitentiary for him. They have a new abbot, Geoffrey of the Stag Neck: and if I know him, he’ll receive his prisoner like a prince-bishop, instead of a penitent.”

  “It is more than his Prior will do,” said Gilles, speaking for the first time, his voice at its harshest. “Maybe you have forgotten that he is the pious youngster we used to call the Blessed Gosvin.”

  Geoffrey opened his mouth to speak and shut it. His brows knit.

  “You’re right, Gilles. I never thought of him. I thought that he was at Anchin.”

  “He has the reputation, I believe, of being very efficacious in dealing with the refractory,” went on Gilles. “That is why he was transferred from his own abbey to the stonier ground at St. Mélard.”

  Pierre de Montboissier got to his feet. He was looking at Geoffrey with cold hatred.

  “I think I had better be going, sir,” he said to Gilles. “They think better of Master Peter at Cluny than they seem to do here. And the sooner I get back with the news, the better. They will maybe stir themselves a little for his release.” The young voice cracked dangerously. He stooped to take Gilles’ hand, but a long arm shot out, gripped his shoulder in a vice and swung him round.

  “So you think I flung him to the wolves?” said the tired voice. The grip suddenly relaxed, and he leant back, his hand over his eyes. “And perhaps you’re right, young Pierre. Perhaps you’re right.”

  The young man stood irresolute. He saw the statesman’s mask, furrowed with disappointment, the heavy line from nose to chin, the droop of the rigid mouth: and from that his eyes travelled to the riding-boots, white with dust. This man had been in the saddle for twelve hours, and for no other end than that which he in his arrogance had claimed.

  “Forgive me, sir,” he said. “I think I was beside myself. I——” he hesitated. “Whatever you did, it was—it was for Master Peter.”

  “For God’s sake give me a drink and sit down,” said Gilles. “And maybe, Geoffrey, if this malapert would pour you out another, you would rouse yourself from your private reflections, and tell us what did happen.”

  Geoffrey’s face relaxed into a sudden smile. He stretched out his arms in a long yawn, and stooping forward began to struggle with his boots. In a flash Pierre was on his knees, his hands on the heel. The older man made no protest. “Indeed, it is a Christian act, lad,” said he, “for I am so stiff I can hardly straighten my knees.”

  Gilles had got out of his chair and was busy carving at the dresser.

  “There’s a cold partridge here, Geoffrey, and whatever Pierre left of a venison pasty. It is a poor welcome we have given an over-ridden man, but you will bear us no grudge.”

  Geoffrey reached for the platter gratefully, but after a few mouthfuls he pushed it from him.

  “I’ll get rid of my load first,” said he. “You had my letter?”

  Gilles nodded. “We were talking of it, even as you came. What turned the tide? You thought it was flowing pretty strongly, then.”

  “And so I did, as late as yesterday at noon. I tell you, before stupidity the gods themselves are dumb. If it weren’t a tragedy this precious Council was as good a farce as any mime ever played.”

  He paused a moment, arranging his memories.

  “It began with a kind of informal meeting in the chapter-house, yesterday morning, before the Council sat. Palestrina has no great intelligence—sub-intellex, Peter Abelard calls him—but he has a good deal of common sense; and he asked them pretty sharply why they had prevailed on him to summon a council to judge a heretic, and from that day to this there had not been so much as a cheep out of them, and neither the man’s name nor his book ever mentioned. Had they found anything to question, or had they not? Alberic got up and stammered out a few things: I kept my eye on him, and he got red about the ears, contradicted himself, and sat down. There was some whispering and nudging, and at last I got up.

  “‘My Lords,’ said I, ‘you know the quality of this man’s teaching, you know his genius. You know that whatever he chooses to study, he so draws men after him that he has outstripped the fame of the men who were his masters and ours, and like a vine his branches have spread from sea to sea. If you should—as I trust not—condemn him unheard, you know that you will outrage many, and that there are not a few who will come to his defence: above all, since we see nothing in this present book which demands any kind of open censure: remembering too that saying of Jerome’s, “It is the strong who have most enemies: it is on the mountain peaks that the thunderbolts fall.” Look to it that violence on your part does not but increase his peter fame, and that we do not find ourselves credited with jealousy, rather than justice. A slander, as that great doctor of the Church again reminds us, is soon crushed: and the future is the judge of the past. If, on the other hand, you are minded to follow the canonical procedure, let his accusers bring forward one dogma or one script which is indubitably his, let him be questioned upon it, and given freedom to reply: so that if convicted or brought to confusion, he may hereafter hold his peace: and herein follow the counsel of the blessed Nicodemus when he said, “Doth our law judge any man before it hear him and know what he doeth?” ’ ”

  “There is more of Ulysses in you than Nicodemus, Geoffrey,” said
Gilles. “Well?”

  “That roused them,” said Geoffrey, smiling in retrospect. “If they had been silent before, they were noisy enough now. ‘Rare advice, surely,’ they shouted, ‘for the like of us to controvert with him, when the whole world could not stand against his sophistries and his arguing!’

  “‘Doubtless,’ said I, ‘the Sanhedrim felt something of the same diffidence in the case I have mentioned.’”

  Gilles sighed. “I fear you were wasted on them, Geoffrey. Well?”

  Geoffrey’s face clouded. “The thing was hopeless. Nothing would induce them to give him a hearing. They knew, Alberic anyhow, that he would make them a laughing-stock. So I made my final move. I said that after all perhaps they were right: that we were few indeed to try a matter of such serious import, and that the case demanded much more prolonged examination than was in our power to give. So therefore I would now suggest that judgment be postponed: that the accused should be taken back to his own abbey of St. Denis by his abbot, whom we had the good fortune to see amongst us: and there, might be convened an assembly more numerous and more expert than ourselves, and the case be submitted to their closer examination.”

  “Superb,” said Gilles. He had forgotten the issue, in sheer delight at the technique. But Pierre de Montboissier sat looking at the ground, his eyes unlit.

  “It swept the board,” said Geoffrey. “Palestrina’s gasp of relief was like the spouting of a whale. Before they had time to think, he had put it to them and was on his feet, bidding them attend him to the Mass of the Holy Ghost that would open the final meeting of the Council: and passing me he bade me—it’s a good-hearted soul—to go to Peter Abelard and tell him he was free to return to St. Denis, and there await further consideration. I was glad enough of the errand. But if I had known——” He got to his feet and came over to the fire, holding out his hands to it as if suddenly cold.

  “You are chilled after sweating with your riding,” said Gilles. “Put another log on the fire, Pierre.”