Of the woman, still less could have been said. She was dressed in a light cotton dress, down to the mid-calf, a sun hat on her head, but didn’t seem to be in a holiday mood. She had her own beauty, but it was not a conventional appeal. It was the intensity of her expression, staring determinedly and unflinchingly at the camera, which caught the eye. She stood like someone issuing a challenge. The more fanciful—filling in the gaps with imagination when firm conclusions cannot be reached—might have detected an impatience. Look, she is thinking, why are we wasting time here when there are so many fascinating things to be seen and done on the shore?
More, she was alone. On a crowded ship, brimful of people, she stood alone, waiting. Perhaps she had difficulty making friends? Maybe she needed none? She had the expression of someone searching constantly, yet never finding it. She looked, indeed, just a little cautious, but determined that no one should suspect her weakness.
Nothing else could be gleaned from the photograph, ripped out of its context in such a brutal way, the book that contained it upturned and shaken, so that it fluttered down onto the old worn carpet where it rested until swept up with all the other debris. In this way, the vital connection was lost, for before Barneuve’s relation so rudely disturbed it, the photograph had rested in a small book on Provençal church decoration, tucked up on the page that contained a reproduction of what Julien had come to believe was a portrait of Olivier de Noyen’s true, unknown love.
Anyone who chanced to see both together—had they taken the trouble to look, if they knew both faces so well they were engraved in the mind as they were in Julien Barneuve’s—would have had to agree that the resemblance was extraordinary.
A life of plenty, power, and obscurity. How many names of papal bureaucrats are known to us today? How many engage the attentions of a Julien Barneuve? The Romans (before they became Christian, and probably thereafter as well) held Renown to be a god, and sought out her harsh attentions, even though her blessing might be bought at the price of death and disgrace. Some part of Olivier was attracted to that same altar in a way a man like Julien could never understand. And if (as the Romans also held, although they contradicted themselves often on this point) immortality is conferred by the continuous memory others hold of us when we are dead, then Olivier was the only one to win everlasting life.
Not that he ever thought all this through, weighed the pros and cons of the various options open to him, then made up his mind. Had he proceeded in this way—had he been more reasonable—a priest he would have become, for he did not know he sought fame nor did he ever understand why he sought it.
Rather, his life developed on the surface in the way necessary to indulge his passion for the old learning. Once his father had left him and his tears had dried up, the first thing he did was to go to his master’s scriptorium, take pen and ink and sand, and copy out the now destroyed manuscript. Word for word, with no errors. He had read it so often—and indeed had the gift of phenomenal memory, so that a text, once read, stayed with him forever—that it was not even a difficult task. And then he had a small inspiration. The hatred of his father, which he did not allow himself to feel—such things were unnatural and could not be admitted—he transformed instead into admiration and regard for Ceccani. And to express this admiration, he decided to make his patron a gift.
It was, in its way, his first publication, the nearest that could be reached in the days before the printing press. In his best, still-adolescent hand, he copied out the secret treasure that he had held to himself for so long and, to present it in an appropriate fashion, added a separate sheet of paper on which he wrote an epistle dedicatory praising the cultivation of the recipient, describing the gift as best he could, and expressing how the joy of bringing both together was reward enough for someone who admired Ceccani as much as he reverenced Cicero.
And he wrote it in verse, although he had not intended to when he began. But the first two lines came out as natural hexameters, and once Olivier noticed this, he grasped that he could lay on another level of compliment, by repeating a classical form for a man learned enough to appreciate the style.
By later standards—his own, and that of the intellectual world he helped bring back to life—it was a pitiable performance, gauche and inelegant, and this was no doubt the reason he refused to let it be reproduced later. But there was also a freshness to his efforts, a touch of spring in his words. The imagery, the grammatical constructions, were no doubt unsophisticated, but they also lacked the arch mannerism, the self-referential cleverness of a later and earlier period. What he wrote instead was a poem of simplicity and directness, a fresh morning after a long cold winter, with a faint aroma of rosemary and lavender in the air suggesting the warmth to come.
It was also a remarkable performance by a boy of sixteen, and Ceccani’s greatest talent as prelate and politician was to spot ability and harness it to his own purposes. Olivier was too shy to present his gift in public, at dinner in the hall or on some other occasion when others might see and perhaps also witness his master’s scorn should his effort not be well received. Indeed, he carried the roll of paper in his tunic—neatly tied with a piece of red ribbon he had stolen from the seamstress, and sealed with wax bearing an imprint from a seal he had fashioned himself from a small piece of wood—for several days, always hesitating whenever an opportune moment presented itself.
Nor could he draw strength and encouragement from any of his fellows, for although Ceccani had some twelve boys in his household, the rivalry between them was too great. All knew that patronage and advancement would come to only a few lucky ones, and the eldest, furthest up the pecking order, were more concerned to portray their juniors in a bad light to prevent them becoming rivals. Olivier knew instinctively that no one must know of his gift before it was delivered; it would be either stolen or ruined if anyone so much as suspected its existence. Few secret letters of state, fewer treaties of alliance between popes or emperors or kings were of such importance in Christendom as his few sheets of paper in the world of the boys’ dormitory, for they had the power to turn all upside down, to break alliances, shift the balance of power, exile some, and shower others with gold.
Did Olivier realize this? Was his the innocent gift of a young boy consumed by the love of learning and intoxicated by the half-sensed awareness of his abilities? Or was this his first offering to the god Renown, a move in the great game of power and advancement? Perhaps both; perhaps he knew that both are necessary, that his desires could only be satisfied if he won the support of men like Ceccani, and that his gift was a route to that support.
Either way, he carried his roll of paper with him for many days before courage and circumstance combined. He saw Ceccani walking along a hallway of his newly completed palace, so great that only the pope’s excelled it in size and magnificence. Merely possessing it gave Ceccani power, no one could enter it, even glimpse its high walls or fortified tower from the street, without being overcome by awe. He had only a secretary with him, and Olivier, knowing that no better chance would ever come his way, stepped forward, then bowed and did not take a step backward to allow the cardinal to pass.
Ceccani paused, a look of surprise on his face, one of those ambivalent expressions that could turn into anger or amusement in an instant.
Olivier bowed again and reached into his tunic, utterly oblivious of the look of momentary alarm that passed over the stocky man’s heavy and powerful face. For it was not unheard of for men like him to be struck down by an assassin, nor for youths as young as Olivier to carry daggers in their clothes. This was the papal court.
“My lord, ah . . .” Olivier began, then paused, overcome with doubts and worries and the overwhelming self-consciousness of youth. Ceccani’s expression began to turn wrathful; he considered such grotesque inelegance of expression to be insulting to his person and position. Olivier saw this all too well, and knew that he had but a fraction of a moment before his fate, his entire life, perhaps, was decided.
“My l
ord, I have been most graciously permitted to live in your household, and in your presence, for many months, and yet I have never given proper expression to my gratitude. I have prepared this gift. It is a poor thing, inadequate, and I hope only that you do not find it an insult. But if you will read words of the author, rather than those of the giver, I believe you cannot be too displeased with my presumption.”
And he handed over the roll of paper—to Ceccani, not to the secretary, which was itself presumptuous—bowed sagely, then came close to ruining everything by turning tail and fleeing down the corridor.
The last sounds he heard before he turned the corner was a gale of laughter from the two men, as their sudden tension and alarm dissolved. His ears burned for days. And that night, after the other boys heard of his démarche, he received the most savage beating of his life. They knew that, if his petition was well received, they would never get another chance.
The only doubt was the response: kind words that would be translated by all to mean “I appreciate your request, but do not feel it is worthwhile to do anything for you; your family is not important, and you have little prospect of repaying me by bringing credit on my patronage.” Or alternatively: “Your request is granted. I take you under my protection; in return you will bring credit on me, for I intend that what you do and how you behave will be a small—very small—aid in my perpetual ascent in men’s esteem. And perhaps in God’s as well.”
No such words would ever be exchanged, of course; there was no need. The joy in Olivier’s heart when he received back a letter from Ceccani himself, in his own hand, asking him his opinion about the form of gerundive used in the seventh sentence knew no bounds. His petition was accepted, his way was assured; within a matter of hours everyone in the household knew it.
By the time Olivier’s father saw him again—and it was nearly a year before he passed through Avignon once more—it was instantly clear there would be no more burnings of books, and no more instructions about becoming a lawyer. The boy had passed forever beyond the older man’s control. It says much either for Olivier’s character or for the formal reverence in which fathers were held, that this new situation was never alluded to directly, and there was no glorification in the triumph. It also says much about the father that, while he grieved that the desires he had nursed in his heart for near seventeen years were now extinguished, he allowed himself to be consoled by the prospect of the favors that might descend upon him from a son in papal service. Children exist to safeguard their parents in old age; it is their entire purpose. Instead of a bleak, mean old age (should God allow him to live so long) living solely on the small rents of his little estate, de Noyen’s father could now bask in the prospect of security, perhaps even a pension, which would descend to him from the court and through his son. This expectation (which in a later, crueler age would excite only resentment in the younger generation) was fully shared by Olivier, and while he rarely thought about it, when he did consider the prospect of being a good and dutiful child, the idea brought him great pleasure.
A few words, yet so many meanings. The choice of book—Vergil’s Eclogues—recognized the young woman’s intelligence and education, suggested that the giver appreciated her interests and shared them. The edition, an Aldine, indicated a commonality of taste and discernment, for how many people truly understand the difference between one edition and another, see beyond the cover, which in this case needed a good deal of care and attention?
The inscription, a fragment of the second line of de Noyen’s poem that begins “my soul, completed, rises to God . . .” was a curious choice. It was hardly appropriate; a bit jarring, a little excessive in a gift otherwise so restrained and refined. Yet of all the phrases in all the poems, this one came to Julien’s mind and remained there when he pondered the inscription. It was, he later discovered, Olivier’s first real love poem, when he passed beyond singing of an ideal and fell into the grip of a real passion.
“Why do you give this to me?” she had asked calmly. He replied that it was because she was the only good and noble person in the world.
“Then let me remain so,” she said, handing it back.
And the second occasion, he offered his entire soul, and declared his love for her. Again, a crude gesture promptly rebutted, for it meant he had failed to learn anything from her at all. So she turned it into a lesson, starting again the long and arduous process of teaching him something so utterly hidden from his sight.
“Come with me,” she had said. And she had led him from the room where they had their conversations—Manlius had nervously paid a call to her alone, outside the hours she normally held for public speech—and took him outside to the midden.
“Look inside,” she said. “Smell. What do you see? What do you smell?”
Manlius did not know what to say. The cubicle smelled, and looked like all such.
“Only I use that,” she continued as she shut the door. “Do you love it as well?”
“Of course not.”
“Yet it is me, part of me. The natural product of my body. And yet you turn from it, wrinkling your nose in disgust. You say you love me, but do not love what is part of me. Or are you lying, and is your love just an adolescent fancy?”
“I love the idea of you.” This from their lessons.
“My beauty is a reflection of the divine beauty?” she said ironically. Manlius hung his head in shame; being mocked was not something he could ever accept.
“No. The love I feel is the reflection. As you say, madam, you are not beautiful, although I find you so. If I were as useless as you imply, I would surely have fallen in love with the pretty young serving girl who draws the water at the end of the street every morning I come here. I would have drowned in her black eyes and her beautiful hair. But I do not. I lie awake thinking of someone much older, who turns no heads when she is not known but fascinates all who have heard her speak. You say that, at its best, the physical craving is a reflection of the desire of the soul to reunite with the ultimate beauty, with God. And can only be justified as such.”
“But I said it was only a reflection. Not a reality. As real as a glass reflected in a pond.”
“But a reflection of water in a mirror can make you thirsty.”
“That is true. And is what you should work towards. You should not bend your mouth to the imaginary glass and try to drink.”
“I know all this. I have learned well. And yet I cannot stop.”
“That is the corruption of the body, its triumph over the soul. The soul is imprisoned, and what you feel is the same as the prisoner in a dark cell who sees nothing but shadows and thinks these are reality. You must study to escape the cell, let your soul contemplate what causes the shadows. That is the purpose of philosophy, and why it is suited to only those few who wish to escape. In the moment of love, when we escape ourselves and become united with the lover, then we have a hint of the joys to come when the soul rejoins the divine; but we think it is a reality of itself. And we lose sight of our aim. That is why it is dangerous.”
Manlius looked at her. “You never feel such things?”
She looked serious. “Often,” she replied. And for the first time her gaze dropped, and would not meet his.
NO DOUBT a psychoanalyst, excited with his new knowledge in Julien’s epoch and convinced that his skills could be applied universally and eternally, would have made much of this. Had he been able to read the letters that the two exchanged over the next fifteen years, some three hundred in all, he would have dissected their souls and their lives, turned over Sophia’s thoughts about her father, analyzed her views on eternity and death, and rested content with a conclusion of extreme neurosis. Celibacy, suppressed desire, the search for the mystical could now only be seen in such terms.
Sophia was spared such analysis because, as with so much else, the letters did not survive; Olivier de Noyen almost discovered them, as the last remaining copy sat for hundreds of years in a church in Aix-en-Provence, which he visited in 134
4. But he had, by then, found one version of a poem by Horace and concluded, wrongly, that there was nothing else in the little bookroom except for theological texts of no significance for him. Besides, he was hungry and tired, and wanted to go home; a cold was coming over him and he felt the need to get to bed as quickly as possible. Or perhaps it was because the wind was blowing strongly that day and sapped his patience and dulled his spirit.
No one else passed by to rectify his mistake; in 1407 a baker in the house next to the church overfilled his oven and allowed burning embers to fall onto the floor. Half an hour later his house was ablaze; an hour later the entire street was in flames.
It was a great loss, for they were the finest things Manlius ever produced. Sophia had no use for artifice in speech and was impatient with it in literature. Clever allusions, apposite quotations, delicate metrical structures excited in her only contempt. Manlius consequently dropped all those devices that he considered obligatory for good writing in all other spheres and wrote directly and simply. What they produced together might well have been considered the finest collection of love letters ever written, had the baker been more careful. A mingling of the emotions and the intellect, the desire suppressed but forever bubbling near the surface, barely under control. A complete communication of two people founded on the respect and affection of one, and reverence of the other. What the analyst would have cooed over was the eroticism of the images presented as abstract philosophy, although he would probably have missed the playful, affectionate lilt of the language. He would have assumed both writers were unaware of the feelings that saturated the prose, although each was, in fact, all too aware of them. He would probably not have considered the possibility that this great passion was the more fulfilling for each because of its abstract nature, that for Manlius sex was something all men had with their servants when necessary, that for Sophia it was a reminder of a position in the world that bred resentment rather than release.