historia calamitatum
dreamed a scholar-philosopher, a bitter man of middle-age, brilliant and sharp and handsome. he had been a teacher, he had been a monk, too good at both and succeeding at neither: too successful as a professor, he had made envious enemies; too worldly for a man of the cloth, he estranged all his mendicant brothers.
we were all in love with him, the whole village. we loved him and hated him; he was arrogant and beautiful and fine. he was smarter than all of us and he knew it. his poetry could move you to tears; his songs were every one of them sweet and sad and true. he lived alone, these days. he took no pupils, saw no guests. it drove us all to distraction. when he would cross our paths in the marketplace, his quick wit and elegant silhouette and withering scorn would leave us all bleeding.
i was a young man, and i believed i could change him, that i would be the finest student he had ever had. with the recklessness of youth, i crept into his study and stole his keys. i remember them clearly, the weight and shape of them, a different metal for each different room, copper, silver, steel. i moved through his house and locked every door i could find: the library, the laboratory, the orrery, the owlery. even the cabinets, the cupboards; everything that had a keyhole, i locked. (i remember treasure troves of herbs and spices, of astronomical tools, of inkpots and quills, of reams and reams of new-made paper.)
i sought to make him more than angry, i sought to make him mad-- and to finally make him take heed of me. i left no trace, no fingerprint, no footprint. i was on fire with the thought of him meeting my eye at last, man to man, unmistakable.
the last room i came to was little more than a closet; sitting inside was a beautiful young woman, younger than me. her hair was golden and her face was exquisitely lovely. young man that i was, i loved her at once-- loved her and hated her too, because it was clear to me that she was the scholar's lover, and my eternal rival. i greeted her... and she looked at me with quizzical blankness. was she deaf? was she simple? i tried again, as though she were a child, speaking slowly. she interrupted me, in perfect latin. who was i, and what did i think i was doing?
latin she spoke, and classical greek, and hebrew! but not french (which is of course what i was speaking). i had thought myself some talent at languages, but she surpassed me by far. and it only angered me more. the scholar hid a beauty in his house, locked her in a closet, and only allowed her to speak the ancient tongues? what sort of academic arrogance was this (and what chance did i have, in hoping to win his heart and his respect)?
i remembered the keys in my hand. i asked her, in latin, if she would run away with me. she laughed, and even her laughter was cultured and antique.
no, she said proudly, my father would be quite displeased.
and i realized all at once, of course, he was abelard. the beautiful girl was his daughter, the scandal that had ruined his career, hidden alone in his house and raised to be the brilliant mind her mother had been.
i locked her in her closet with the golden key.
he came home at that moment, did pierre abelard, furious and fabulous. for a second i believed that i had triumphed; he was at my command, and did not guess that i held all his keys in a vest-pocket close to my heart. (i wondered if what they said was true, if they had taken his manhood when they sent his lover away to her convent. i wondered if it mattered; he was still a man of passion and what we all admired was his mind.)
then i woke up.
[in waking and refreshing my memory, heloise's child by abelard was a son, named astrolabius-- after the astronomical instrument. history doesn't tell us what became of him.]
we were all in love with him, the whole village. we loved him and hated him; he was arrogant and beautiful and fine. he was smarter than all of us and he knew it. his poetry could move you to tears; his songs were every one of them sweet and sad and true. he lived alone, these days. he took no pupils, saw no guests. it drove us all to distraction. when he would cross our paths in the marketplace, his quick wit and elegant silhouette and withering scorn would leave us all bleeding.
i was a young man, and i believed i could change him, that i would be the finest student he had ever had. with the recklessness of youth, i crept into his study and stole his keys. i remember them clearly, the weight and shape of them, a different metal for each different room, copper, silver, steel. i moved through his house and locked every door i could find: the library, the laboratory, the orrery, the owlery. even the cabinets, the cupboards; everything that had a keyhole, i locked. (i remember treasure troves of herbs and spices, of astronomical tools, of inkpots and quills, of reams and reams of new-made paper.)
i sought to make him more than angry, i sought to make him mad-- and to finally make him take heed of me. i left no trace, no fingerprint, no footprint. i was on fire with the thought of him meeting my eye at last, man to man, unmistakable.
the last room i came to was little more than a closet; sitting inside was a beautiful young woman, younger than me. her hair was golden and her face was exquisitely lovely. young man that i was, i loved her at once-- loved her and hated her too, because it was clear to me that she was the scholar's lover, and my eternal rival. i greeted her... and she looked at me with quizzical blankness. was she deaf? was she simple? i tried again, as though she were a child, speaking slowly. she interrupted me, in perfect latin. who was i, and what did i think i was doing?
latin she spoke, and classical greek, and hebrew! but not french (which is of course what i was speaking). i had thought myself some talent at languages, but she surpassed me by far. and it only angered me more. the scholar hid a beauty in his house, locked her in a closet, and only allowed her to speak the ancient tongues? what sort of academic arrogance was this (and what chance did i have, in hoping to win his heart and his respect)?
i remembered the keys in my hand. i asked her, in latin, if she would run away with me. she laughed, and even her laughter was cultured and antique.
no, she said proudly, my father would be quite displeased.
and i realized all at once, of course, he was abelard. the beautiful girl was his daughter, the scandal that had ruined his career, hidden alone in his house and raised to be the brilliant mind her mother had been.
i locked her in her closet with the golden key.
he came home at that moment, did pierre abelard, furious and fabulous. for a second i believed that i had triumphed; he was at my command, and did not guess that i held all his keys in a vest-pocket close to my heart. (i wondered if what they said was true, if they had taken his manhood when they sent his lover away to her convent. i wondered if it mattered; he was still a man of passion and what we all admired was his mind.)
then i woke up.
[in waking and refreshing my memory, heloise's child by abelard was a son, named astrolabius-- after the astronomical instrument. history doesn't tell us what became of him.]
