Peter Abelard

P8T8R ABELARD Books by Helen Waddell BEASTS AND SAINTS THE DESERT FATHERS MEDIAEVAL LATIN LYRICS PETER ABELARD THE WANDERING SCHOLARS ABELARD A NOVEL BY HELEN WADDELL DRAWINGS BY LASZLO MATULAY NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY CONTENTS BOOK I THE CLOISTER OF NOTRE DAME BOOK II BRITTANY 101 BOOK III PARIS 161 BOOK IV THE PARACLETE 221 BOOK I THE CLOISTER OF NOTRE DAME June 1116 May 1117 CHAPTER I Temps sen va, Et rien nai fait . . . A LARD raised his head. It was a pleasant voice, though a little drunken, and the words came clearly enough, a trifle blurred about the con sonants, to the high window of the Maison du Poirier. The window was open, for the June night was hot, and there were few noises after ten oclock in the Place du Parvis Notre Dame. Time goes by, And naught do I. Time comes again, . . . Et ne fais rien Abelards smile broadened. I am very sure, my friend, said he, that you do not. But at any rate he had found a good tune. The listeners ear was quick. He began not ing it on the margin of his manuscript, while his brain busied itself fitting Latin words to the original a pity to waste so good a tune and so profound a sentiment on a language that was the breath of a day, Fugit hora, Absque mora, Nihil facio . . . Not to that tune. The insinuating, if doomed, vernacu lar lilted again. Abelard realized that he was spoiling the 3 PETER ABELARD margin of his Commentary on Ezekiel, and turned back resolutely. Now, as Augustine says, our concern with any man is not with what eloquence he teaches, but with what evidence. But the thread of his argument was broken he got up and came over to the window. The singing had stopped, but he could see the tonsured head below him, glimmeringlike a mushroom in the dusk, while the legs tacked uncertainly across the broad pavement of the Parvis Notre Dame on their way to the cheerful squalors of the Petit Pont. Suddenly they halted the moon had come out from a drifting haze, and the singer, pausing on the edge of a pool of light, peered at it anxiously, and then lifted up his eyes. The voice rose again, chastened, this time in the venerable cadences of the hymn for dawn Jam lucis orto sidere Statini oportct bibere. The blasphemous pup, said Abelard. He leaned out, to hear the rest of it Now risen is the star of day. Let us arise and drink straightway. That we in peace this day may spend, Drink we and drink, nor make an end. This was a better parody, because a simpler, than the one he had made upon it himself ten years ago, to illus trate for his students the difference between the acci dents and the essential, the accidents being the words, the essential the tune. Lord, the Blessed Gosvins face when he began singing it Doubtless he would be the Blessed Gosvin some day so holy a youth could not fail of a 4 THE CLOISTER OF NOTRE DAME sanctified old age. St. Gosvin perhaps the youngster was Prior already at ... he had forgotten where. The im pudent, smooth-faced prig. Abelards mind was running down a channel it knew and did not like the moment in the classroom at St. Genevieve, when Gosvins reedy treble had interrupted the resonant voice from the rostrum with those innocent questionings, answered contemptuously, the masters eyes half averted and his mind less than half attentive, till the sudden horrid silence brought him to his senses and he realized that he was trapped, even as he had so often trapped that good old goat, William of Champeaux. He had recovered, magnificently but for the moment he had felt the hounds at his throat. And the cheering had been too vehement they knew. Somebody on the lie de Cite that night made a song about David and Goliath, not a very good song, but the name had stuck to him since, though not many remembered the origin of it. A pity, all the same, that Gosvin took to the cloister. It w r ould be very pleasant to have him lecturing to empty benches at St. Genevieve, while at Notre Dame the stu dents wedged open the doors and stood thick on the stairs...