by Sherry Jones
He stepped over to my bed and lifted the volume. “Ah, the Ars amatoria. ‘The Art of Love.’ Is love an art, or artifice?”
“I have only begun to read it.”
“Would you learn about love from a book, Heloise?” His tone, gentle but chiding, made me want to seize the volume from his hands.
He lowered his eyelids as if sheltering a secret. Warmth flooded my skin. I should order him out of my room. But why should he respect me? My mother dead, my father unknown, I was as worthless as a foundling in Uncle’s eyes—and now, perhaps, in the eyes of the magister, as well. I struggled to find the words to restore his high opinion. Otherwise, he would never deign to teach me anything.
“The Scriptures teach us all we need to know of love.” I tossed my head, hoping I appeared more confident than I felt, and would have looked him directly in the eyes had they not followed the fall of my hair across my arms.
“ ‘How beautiful you are, my darling! Oh, how beautiful! Your eyes are doves,’ ” he murmured. I knew well his allusion, having read the Song of Songs many times. What would it be like to have a man whisper such words to me? I used to wonder. Suddenly thirsty, I took from my windowsill the gourd I used to collect rainwater and drank deeply from it.
“ ‘Love is patient; love is kind,’ ” I said when I had finished—returning Scripture for Scripture. “ ‘It does not envy; it does not boast; it is not proud. It does not dishonor others. It is not self-seeking; it is not easily angered; it keeps no record of wrongs.’ ”
He lowered his eyelids as I spoke, hiding his reaction. When I had finished, he peered out at me from beneath curling lashes. I heard, again, the song he had sung to me—could it be that very day? So much had changed since then. I pressed my hand to the wall behind me, steadying myself.
“There are several different kinds of love, Heloise,” he said with a sly smile.
“Non, magister, you are wrong. There is only one.”
3
May the bestower of every art and the most bountiful giver of human talent fill the depths of my breast with the skill of the art of philosophy, in order that I might greet you in writing, most beloved, in accord with my will.
—HELOISE TO ABELARD
My uncle’s horse nuzzled my shoulder and I clapped the tablet shut, as if the creature might read the words written upon it. As I stood on the mounting stone, Uncle’s shrewd stare made me want to hide the tablet behind my back, but I did not. I had nothing to hide, or so I told myself.
“Another letter from Petrus?” he said as I climbed onto the mare he had brought with him. “By God, I wonder if he gives so much attention to all his scholars? If I didn’t know the man to be continent, I might suspect him of seducing you, heh-heh.”
I felt glad that he could not see the flush of heat that spread across my face.
To one who is sweeter from day to day, is loved now as much as possible and is always to be loved more than anything, he had written.
“Except for love, why else would a man write so many letters to a woman—why?” Uncle said.
We joined the tide of horses with their riders swelling toward the Saint-Etienne Cathedral for the great event—the long-anticipated sermon by the renowned orator Bernard of Clairvaux. Even the misting rain that caused my teeth to chatter and stiffened my hands did nothing, it seemed, to deter the Parisians from going to hear the man who had denounced them, and their way of life, as degraded. Uncle and I moved so slowly that I wished I had walked—but I would not want to stain my tunic with mud, not when I had hopes of seeing Abelard.
“He writes to you daily, non? Yesterday, I saw his messenger thrice at our door. That sort of devotion usually means one thing.”
I forced a laugh. “Why, Master Petrus is devoted to philosophy, and the teaching of it. You ought to appreciate his efforts on my behalf.”
“Oui, I ought, given the fortune I pay him—a fortune!” A dog darted in front of us, startling our horse. Uncle’s arms, on either side of me, tightened. “Adelard of Bath commanded an equally high fee, but he didn’t show such a personal interest. It makes me wonder what sort of lessons our Petrus intends for you.”
“I do not know what you mean.”
“Has he spoken of love to you? Has he touched you?”
I laughed again. “Master Petrus, in love with me? What philosopher ever squandered his time on women?”
“I have seen the way the girls crowd around him, young beauties, and wealthy widows, too, straining to touch the hem of his garment as if he were the Christ—the Christ! No man could resist such temptation.”
“In his eyes, I am but a scholar, one of many under his care.”
“I hope so, for his sake—and for yours. Be vigilant, my girl! Guard your purity. Your future as an abbess depends upon it, as does my career.”
“I am well aware of that, dear uncle.” I kept my tone light, reminding myself that, when he was sober, I had nothing to fear from him.
“If he ever speaks of love or touches you in—in that way, I want to know. Do you understand?”
Before I could answer, my uncle’s assistant, Roger, called his name and came toward us, waving his arms. “One of the deacons has fallen ill and cannot walk in the procession,” he said, beaming. “The bishop of Paris wants you to take his place. Make haste, Canon Fulbert!”
As I followed my uncle into the Saint-Etienne Cathedral, I searched for Abelard in vain. Only by some miracle would I find him amid all these people. The entire city, it seemed, waited to hear the renowned monk, filling four of the great chapel’s five naves and pressing against the marble columns: monks, clergy, and canons on either side of the center aisle; nobles along the far right side, their brilliant yellows, greens, and peacock blues competing with the colorful mosaics adorning the walls; merchants and townspeople on the far left; villeins and servants in the back, stretching their necks for a view of the proceedings. My uncle secured a place for me at the foot of the altar, with the nobles, then hastened to don his ceremonial robes and join the processional. As soon as he left, I slipped the wax tablet from the pouch on my belt and resumed reading Abelard’s letter.
An unclouded night: would that it were with me!
The magister had suggested letter writing as our first exercise, to my surprise, for I had expected to learn the art of dialectic—of debate and discussion—for which he was famous.
“I have never lost a debate,” he had said in our first lesson, his voice swaggering. “I humiliated William of Champeaux. I ground Anselm of Laon into the dust with the heel of my logic. I made Roscelin weep. The greatest teachers in the realm could not compete with me.” He thumped his chest. “I may be the only true philosopher in the world.”
“You have not debated me.”
He laughed. “Debate a woman? That would be as unchivalrous as attacking you with my sword.”
“Not so, master. You would best me with a sword.” He laughed his lion’s roar, delighted with my riposte.
Yet, after several weeks of lessons, I had learned little of philosophy or dialectic. Instead, we wrote letters—an art at which I must excel, Abelard said, to succeed as an abbess.
“Let us write as though we were lovers,” he had said, slanting his eyes at me. “Then I shall discern how much you are learning from Ovid.”
But all the books in the world could not begin to teach what I was already learning from this man.
To her heart’s love, more sweetly scented than any spice, I wrote to him, from she who is his in heart and body: the freshness of eternal happiness as the flowers fade of your youth.
“Here,” he said, tapping with his stylus the tablet on which I had written my first letter, “you have wished me ‘the freshness of eternal happiness as the flowers fade of your youth.’ ” He smiled but his eyes held a dazed expression, as if staring into a too-bright sun.
“Do you approve of the greeting?” I thought it quite elegant and waited for his praise.
“As the flowers fade o
f my youth?” His smile slipped nearly off his face. “In your eyes, I am an old man.”
I blinked, uncomprehending. What philosopher had ever concerned himself with such things? Who had heeded the wisdom of Socrates before that great thinker grew his beard? Christ himself had not taught until he was nearly Abelard’s age.
“I had thought that, for a philosopher, youth would be a burden,” I said.
“Not if youth is preferred by the woman he admires.”
A song began to play inside me. I closed my eyes, which always revealed too much. My uncle had flown into rages because of my eyes. “Chienne! I know what you are thinking,” he would snarl, lifting his hand against me. At Argenteuil, the abbess had read my sullen thoughts and wielded the cane herself, panting, her hand trembling as she’d lifted my skirt to deliver the blows.
“Heloise,” Abelard had said. “Look at me.”
When I lifted my gaze so shyly to his face, did he behold the girl dancing inside me? Could he hear the music playing so sweetly? At night, alone in the study of my uncle’s house, reading the Porphyry assigned to me and writing my arguments, I would hear that tune begin quietly, as if played by a distant piper, then increase until it had filled me to overflowing and drowned out all thoughts but those of Abelard. How intently he gazed into my eyes as I spoke, pouring out my very soul to him in our long talks. Who had ever listened to anything that I said? Who had ever responded with smiles and compliments? With him, I became utterly myself as never before—and, to my astonishment, when I looked into his eyes like mirrors reflecting myself back to me, I admired the person I beheld there. Thinking of him, bathed in that sweet music, I would take up a new tablet and write verses to accompany that tune—words not of feigned love, as in our letters, but of the elation that had seized me on the day we met, and which aroused my spirit more with every moment I spent in his presence.
For him, I’d told myself, our letters made up an elaborate game of elocution, and no more. Every teacher played similarly with his scholars, writing letters as an exercise, an amusement. Love? What had a philosopher to do with love?
To one who is sweeter from day to day, is loved now as much as possible and is always to be loved more than anything. Standing in the cathedral, reading these words, I felt a fullness in my chest, as though my heart expanded. Who had ever loved me?
In the next instant, I berated myself. Abelard had written as a master to his scholar, from the mind and not from the heart.
Now I feared I would miss my chance to speak with him today at Bernard’s sermon. Perhaps he stood in the processional outside the cathedral doors. I slipped the tablet into my pouch and turned my head to see—and heard his deep, rich laughter, already so dear. My pulse skipped a beat. There he stood, not far from me, also in the nobles’ section, with a woman whose braids, shining from under a cloth of shimmering gold, rivaled the red in Abelard’s tunic. Her slanting eyes gazed boldly into Abelard’s; her pretty mouth curved upward as she told a tale that he seemed to find exceedingly amusing. I turned my attention to the choir. He could laugh with whomever he wished.
The choir halted its chant and the procession entered the cathedral, stepping slowly down the center aisle: the master of the boys, followed by four boys singing a verse and response; the cloister subdeacons, including my uncle, and deacons in green chasubles carrying oil, balsam, and candles; a boy holding the ceremonial cross; and the bishops and abbots in their vestments of white and gold. Galon, the bishop of Paris, stepped weakly on his aged legs, squinting to see with his rheumy eyes. Etienne of Garlande, the archdeacon of Paris and the king’s chancellor, flashed his gold rings and looked over the crowd as though he were, as rumored, more powerful than the king. Then came Abelard’s nemesis William of Champeaux, now bishop of Châlons-sur-Marne, flaring the nostrils of his long, sharp nose, followed by Bernard, in a hooded tunic of undyed wool. His head, tonsured nearly to baldness with only a small fringe of hair, glistened with perspiration; his face held a glum expression, as though he marched at his own funeral.
When they had ascended the stair to the altar, Galon stepped up to the pulpit. A hush fell over the room. In the voice he used for services—high, almost singing, pretentious—he introduced Bernard. The young monk had come on an important mission, Galon said: to denounce the spread of decadence in the Church.
“I have come to talk about decadence, yes,” Bernard said when Galon had ceded the pulpit. In contrast to Galon’s whine, his voice resonated like a struck bell.
“In particular, I wish to discuss the degradation occurring in our most sacred places. A foul influence corrupts what should be pure, namely, the hearts and souls of those of us chosen to serve the Almighty God.” His stare fell upon Abelard’s red-haired companion like an accusing finger, then shifted to me.
“Brothers,” he said, “answer me this: If dogs defecated on the cathedral steps, would you not scrub them clean? Do you allow lepers to handle your saints’ relics, or to urinate in your baptismal fountain?”
Murmurs spread in a low rumble, then swelled to a clamor. Abelard’s friend waved an ivory fan before her face. Abelard wrapped a hand around her arm, as protective as a sibling—but his intimate glances were anything but brotherly.
“Then why,” Bernard said when the din had settled, “do I see women in this cloister?”
His eyes flew open to stare at me with such loathing that I dropped my gaze all the way to the floor, my face as hot as if I had been caught in some unspeakable, indecent act.
“Women—daughters of Eve!” he cried. “Nay, you are Eve, the gateway of the devil. The one who unsealed the curse of the forbidden tree. The first to turn her back on the divine law. You are the one who persuaded him whom the devil was not capable of corrupting; you easily destroyed the image of God, that is, Adam.”
I winced under the force of his words. For this occasion, why had Bernard resurrected a speech by Tertullian, the ancient Roman whose disgust for women permeated his writings? ‘Daughters of Eve’? Would the Church visit the iniquities of the mother upon the daughters? Didn’t the Scriptures say, Each one shall be put to death for his own sin?
Bernard had become a monk only after the death of his mother, to whom he was said to be deeply attached. Now he praised the Virgin Mary as the supreme example of womanhood, apparently forgetting that, had his mother remained chaste, he would not have been born. Did only virgins merit God’s love? Why, then, had the Lord given us wombs? And why did such men as Bernard blame women for the death of Man? Didn’t God banish the first couple from the garden out of fear that they might eat from the Tree of Life and live forever? Weren’t they, therefore, already destined to die?
As Bernard continued, his voice rising to a shout, his face reddening, a monk standing behind him—Suger, from the Saint-Denis monastery, I later discovered—narrowed his small, close-set eyes at me; his nostrils quivered as though I wafted a putrid odor. Flushing, I sought Abelard’s eyes and found him whispering into her ear, his lips twitching with suppressed laughter. She smiled, showing teeth like matched pearls.
When the sermon had ended, my uncle joined me on the floor. I begged him to take me home. Never had I felt more unwelcome, and in the cathedral where I had so often prayed. He bade me to wait, however. We ought, at least, to speak with the magister, he said—but I knew he wanted to ingratiate himself with Bernard and also with Etienne of Garlande, who had descended to the floor and now talked with Abelard and his companion. Curious about the girl, I followed Uncle through the crowd of clerics and monks who now shrank back to avoid touching me.
“Remarkable,” the girl was saying to Abelard and Etienne, the king’s chief adviser. But my gaze did not remain on them for long: I could not help staring at the girl, whose bliaut fit her so tightly that I wondered how she could breathe, and whose neckline plunged to expose the curve and swell of her breasts—revealing attire, indeed, for the mass.
“What did you think of Bernard’s sermon?” Abelard said to me.
My unc
le, fearing I would embarrass him in front of the king’s chancellor, squeezed my hand so hard I flinched from his grasp. But all waited for my reply. Pulling away from my uncle, I said, “Like your friend, I found it remarkable—for its irrelevance.”
“Voilà! Your opinion is also mine,” Abelard said. “I wonder if our reasoning is the same?”
“This is not the classroom, magister,” the girl said, prodding him with an elbow. But he kept his eyes on me.
“The speech was written nine hundred years ago,” I said.
“By Tertullianus!” Abelard cried in delight. “You have read him, also? Etienne. Agnes. Did I speak the truth about her, or not?”
“I knew the phrase ‘daughters of Eve’ sounded familiar,” Etienne said.
“Blaming Eve for Adam’s weakness is certainly convenient, isn’t it?” Agnes said.
“Adam himself did so,” I said.
“Now we know how far backward the reformists would take us all—to the days of Tertullianus, the second century. Soon they will call for the veiling of virgins,” my uncle said, beaming at his own cleverness.
“Bernard has already done worse, in demanding that women be expelled from the cloister,” Agnes said. “I wonder that you did not challenge him, Pierre.”
Pierre? I lifted my eyebrows at him, but he was looking at her, not me.
“Challenge him? Why? I see no error in his remarks. We men are weak, and women are to blame for all our sins—especially lust.” The grin Abelard exchanged with her sent a pang through my breast.
“Wickedness resides not in the bodies of women, but in the hearts of men,” I said, more sharply than I had intended.
“Non—not in their hearts, but elsewhere,” Agnes said, making Abelard laugh.
Etienne turned to me. “You bore Bernard’s insults most gracefully.”
“I did not consider them insults, since they did not pertain to me.”
“Do you mean to say that you are neither a harlot nor a whore?” Agnes said. “How disappointing.”
