The Waste Land

by Simon Acland

  “Hugh, my son,” the Abbot said, as I fidgeted under that keen bushy-browed gaze, “I can tell that you are unsettled and uneasy with yourself. You perform your duties well. You present an exterior of humility and obedience, as is meet and fitting. But you are not as frank or open in the confessional with me as you were once. You no longer ask me any questions. Remember that your interior feelings, your innermost self, can be read by God as if written in a book. You are disappointing Him by not revealing them openly to your Father Confessor.”

  I bowed my head, shamed again by this gentle wisdom. The worries that I had tried to hide away came tumbling out as if an overfilled store had burst open.

  “My Father Abbot, I am plagued by doubts about my vocation. I am unworthy, unsuited to complete my novitiate. How can I take my vows to serve God in this monastery? I pray. I read the Bible. I meditate. I try so hard to conquer my inner demons but my inability to put them from me must show how deep the Devil is within. I am seized with a violent restlessness, with a desperate incertitude which shakes the very foundation of my faith. I remember so well the words you spoke the first day I had the honour to meet you. I remember what you said about the need before I took my vows to establish that my vocation was real. You said that a false calling leads to corruption and sin.”

  My voice began to shake with sorrow and frustration and tailed off into silence.

  “Hugh, I remember that day well too, and the words that I spoke. I also remember your mother’s desire for you to enter our humble community and to spend your life in prayer.”

  He sighed.

  “I must tell you something. I am sorry, for it is sad. From our sister convent at Marcigny I have just received news that your mother is dead. She suffered a long and painful illness. But she overcame her suffering. She prayed until the end with fortitude and grace. She touched that whole community with her true love of God. May He rest her soul in peace. There is only one place that a woman of her goodness can now be. Surely you cannot desire to let her down and fail to fulfil her dearest wish?”

  I turned away to hide unstoppable tears. I knew that the Abbot would watch with compassion the pain of a son at the loss of his mother. But I did not want him to guess that I was in fact quivering with guilt as well as grief as I realised how long it had been since I had given my mother serious thought, except occasionally to resent her role in imprisoning me at Cluny.

  Gently the Abbot’s voice continued, “I want to keep you close by me. Over this coming time, with preparations practical and spiritual to be made for our former prior’s papal visit, and for the great council that will follow, I will again need to make use of your services as secretary. I hope you have not forgotten all the skills you learnt in the library.”

  Here his voice lightened and I looked up to see the ghost of a smile whispering across his face.

  “Yes. I shall want you to accompany me to Clermont. I am determined that you should rediscover your vocation. I want you to fulfil your mother’s ambition and learn to become a steady member of our community. Perhaps when you have seen the perils and privations of the world outside you will find it easier to accept the permanent shelter of these walls.”

  I was only partly restored by my abbot’s wise words. I still felt trapped by what was expected of me, and blocked away from what I wanted to do. My restless desire to escape was aggravated as much as soothed by the shame my mother’s memory had awoken. But at least I had new duties to enliven my routine.

  As the papal visit approached, the whole rhythm of the abbey became more urgent. Our monastic lives momentarily beat with a stronger pulse. The summer rains gave way to a glorious autumn and the beech trees exchanged their green for a stately golden brown as if in Pope Urban’s honour.

  At last the great day arrived. We all lined up outside Cluny’s double gates beside the west end of the vast church which had been the focus of so much effort for so many years. I felt pride – and tried less to suppress it than once I might have – but also trepidation – to be standing two paces behind the Abbot in my position as his secretary. Then my excitement rose with the dust in the distance. It must be thrown up by the papal retinue, I thought. A few minutes more and I could make out a company of archers uniformed in red and gold, their crossbows slanted over their shoulders. They were followed by a splendid litter slung between two richly caparisoned white mules. On all four sides its scarlet canopy was embroidered with crossed keys in gold and silver. A flock of dignitaries rode alongside the litter, foremost amongst them two cardinals, recognisable by their crimson hats and robes.

  As the procession came to a halt, the Abbot raised his hand and dropped it again. At his signal we fell to our knees with military precision. What a shame, I thought, that the Holy Father could not see our display from behind his silken curtain. Then the canopy was drawn back and Pope Urban II climbed slowly down. He looked a little shaky from the litter’s rollicking ride but nevertheless indicated impatiently to his attendants that he did not need the assistance of their outstretched arms. Then the Abbot stepped forward in greeting. The Pope grandly extended his hand, heavy with the gold ring of the fisherman on its first finger. The Abbot knelt to give his kiss of respect, and I realised that it was the first time that I had seen him meet a superior. For once showing his seventy years, he struggled to rise back to his feet. In a gesture which might have projected compassion had it been made with less grandeur, Pope Urban took the Abbot’s arm to help him up, before embracing him and exchanging kisses.

  “The knees, you know, Holy Father,” Abbot Hugh smiled wryly, “they have been bent and unbent a few times too many in the service of Our Lord.”

  Urban smiled back, looking flattered by the respect discernible beneath this effusion of affection. My heart swelled in that fine moment at the sight of the two strongest pillars of our Mother Church regarding each other outside the largest and finest house of God in Christendom. Both were tall men; I judged that in his youth the Abbot had perhaps been the taller, but the twenty extra years that he carried had reduced his advantage, and now they stood eye to eye. I studied with interest the papal face, and saw plump round cheeks under its neatly trimmed beard. I imagined the Pope experiencing the same discomfort that I felt under the Abbot’s clear grey gaze. Anyway, he looked away, pursing into a smile his full purple lips which perhaps attested to the luxuries of Rome.

  “I see some little changes since I last was here. Your masons have been busy, I judge. I cannot wait to see inside this great edifice that you have erected to the everlasting glory of God.”

  Pope and Abbot moved towards the thick oak doors in the austere monumental façade.

  “Cluny remains as old-fashioned as ever, I see. None of these new arches en ogive for you.”

  It was the Abbot’s turn for a smile, but one which displayed humility and self-deprecation.

  “When I have seen them on my travels, I have always felt that there was something aggressive about those sharp ends pointing up at Our Lord in Heaven. I preferred to show Him a smooth round shape, more fitting and more respectful. I wished to glorify God, not indulge the pride of our masons by encouraging them to show off unnecessary new tricks.”

  “But you have been modern enough to put glass in your windows, I see. You don’t find that too new-fangled?”

  I wondered why the Pontiff was looking for things to criticise in our fine new church, but the Abbot’s gentle smile did not waver.

  “Yes, Holy Father, but I feel that does serve the useful purpose of keeping God’s weather out of His house whilst letting in His light. And the colours the glaziers have been able to achieve, whilst not quite as bright as I would like, do add to the splendour and so to His glory.”

  The service to dedicate and consecrate the high altar of the abbey church took place the following day, led by Pope Urban in his three-tiered crown. It was solemn but joyful, dignified yet elated, and towards the front of the congregation I felt more contentment than for a long while. Or perhaps that feeling was
prompted by the rapid approach of my trip to Clermont. Against the colours of the painted walls and ceiling, the glowing windows and the magnificent vestments of the papal celebrant and his party, was set the contrast of our black habits, the lungs beneath swelling to fill the choir and nave with glorious plainchant. Many of my brothers’ faces were wet with real tears, washed with the emotion released by the end of their long labours. For them this service was the finale to a long crescendo, a fortissimo in their monastic lives which would never be repeated. I feared that unless I could find a way out, it might be the climax of my own life too. I shuddered at the thought of such a wasted existence.

  As Abbot Hugh’s secretary, I was fortunate enough to be among those silently and discreetly present at many of the discussions that took place between the two men over the course of the Pope’s stay in his old abbey. One I must record here.

  “Hugh, my old friend,” – I jumped to hear the Holy Father speak my name, relaxing again as I realised that it was not me whom he addressed – “you have always been a true guide and a mentor to me. Ever since my days in your house as prior. My role now is a lonely one. I welcome this opportunity to seek your views. At my Council of Piacenza, just this last March, I received ambassadors from the Greek Emperor Alexios. They brought me gifts – the usual fine Byzantine silks and gold, and some carefully chosen holy books which now grace my library in Rome. They also brought a fragment of the True Cross in a magnificent reliquary. I have had it placed behind the altar in Saint Peter’s. The Eastern Empire is hard pressed, beset by enemies; the splendour of these gifts reflects the level of Emperor Alexios’s concern. The Turk holds Nicaea, the very city where our ‘Credo in unum Deo’ was defined. That is only a few leagues from the gates of Constantinople itself. Emperor Alexios already has many Frankish soldiers in his service and has been impressed by their loyalty and bravery. Now he wants more to drive back the infidel and to secure his eastern borders. He wants the help of the Papacy…”

  “…to become his recruiting sergeant…” murmured the Abbot beneath his breath.

  “For my part,” the Pope grandly continued, “one of my greatest sorrows and regrets is to see the sacred places of the Holy Land in the hands of the unbeliever. Our resolute pilgrims now risk being set upon, abused and as like as not killed before they can complete the most sacred journey to the Holy Sepulchre. To be sure, many years have passed since the city of Jerusalem was in our Christian hands. But at least until the Seljuk Turks threw the Fatimids back to Egypt our pilgrims had free and open access to the holy places.

  “I also look with deep sadness on the state of affairs here, in my homeland. Here the only law that rules is force. Christian knight fights Christian knight. The common folk live in penury and constant fear of violent death. Perhaps, when so much of our Christian society is in breach of five of the Ten Holy Commandments at once, it is no surprise that God has allowed our enemies to deny the Holy Land to us.

  “And even Christian princes fight and squabble with each other. I and my worthy predecessors – God rest their holy souls – have had our differences with the German Emperor, whose ancestors from Charlemagne onwards were once some of the strongest protectors of our Church.

  “You know that well, for you have helped me much to calm those disputes with Henry your godson. You have helped him to see how wrong he is to try to curtail my power.”

  Here the Abbot bowed his head. Urban saw this as an acknowledgement of such gracious papal words. I knew the Abbot well enough to interpret his gesture differently. I could see that he sought to hide his growing discomfort and his disagreement with the Pope’s egocentric assessment of the rights and wrongs in his dispute with the Emperor.

  “But my lands are still at threat from those turbulent Normans, Bohemond and the rest of the litter of that fox Robert Guiscard. Here I have common cause with Alexios, for they also eye his Dalmatian possessions.

  “That is a common cause, but the sees of Rome and Constantinople are less at one than I would like. Rome is not fully acknowledged as ‘caput et mater’ – head and mother of the Church – by the eastern bishops. The damaging differences of doctrine and practice persist.”

  Pope Urban had become steadily more urgent and animated as his discourse had progressed, exciting himself with his own fine words. Now, unable to contain himself any longer, he stood up and started pacing the room. My abbot stood too but the Pope waved him back to his chair.

  “I have given these challenges much thought. I have prayed for guidance and God has now shown me the way forward. At Clermont I will announce a great holy war. It will be a war of the Cross, a Crusade. The goal of my Crusade will be the holy city of Jerusalem itself – we will take Jerusalem and once again it will be a Christian city. All the knights and common soldiers who take the Cross will receive from me a dispensation from their sins. Any who die on Crusade will be guaranteed a place in the Kingdom of Heaven. Instead of fighting each other their energies and martial valour will be channelled to the service of Our Lord. Emperor Alexios will receive the succour he seeks. Our full authority will be re-established over the eastern sees of the Church. The position of the Church and the Papacy at the head of the unified army of Christ will be unassailable.”

  I thrilled with excitement at these fine words, ready to take the Cross and set off to Jerusalem myself. I looked at Pope Urban with renewed respect. He stopped pacing and turned triumphantly to face the Abbot, expecting to see a display of enthusiasm for his brilliant policy. But in fact he encountered a very different reaction – a weary, sorrowful resignation – which made the older man look fully his age.

  “Odo, my old friend…” A frisson passed round the room. Never before had I heard the Abbot forget himself with such a breach of protocol.

  He corrected himself, bowing deeply, “My most Holy Father, please forgive my indiscretion…”

  Pope Urban signalled that he had taken no offence and the Abbot continued, his voice lower, quieter, more spiritual than the Pontiff’s temporal eloquence.

  “I have seen at close hand – on my journeys to Leon and Castille – the harm and damage wrought by so-called holy war. Of course Cluny has benefited greatly from the martial successes of old King Ferdinand and his noble son Alfonso – our great church would not have been built without the census they pay from the wealth they have wrested back from the Moslems – but at the cost of much suffering. Our religion is not about this world but about the next. Our Lord Jesus Christ taught us to turn the other cheek. He chided your first antecedent Peter who so rashly struck out and severed the ear of the high priest’s servant. He chose to defeat His enemies by rising from the dead, not by preventing His own death in this world. The sixth commandment is unequivocal – it says ‘thou shalt not kill’ – it does not say ‘thou shalt not kill save in a just cause’. With the greatest respect, I must question the righteousness of achieving even worthy goals in this world with promises of salvation in the next. The prayers of my monks are the purer the further they are removed from the actions of the world; the worthier, the closer they are to holy manifestations.”

  Pope Urban had meanwhile returned to his seat, and he now covered his irritation by reaching out towards a bowl placed on the table between himself and the Abbot which was filled with some of the recent harvest from the Cluny vines. Seeing a shadow flit over his host’s face, he pulled his hand away and commented dryly, “Yes, I still struggle with my passion for grapes.”

  “So is it with me and fish. We all have our weaknesses.”

  Urban acknowledged this flash of old friendship, but did not look warmed by it, and returned to the serious conversation.

  “My Lord Abbot, your response does not surprise me. You have always been otherworldly. I remember when I had to chide you for accepting Hugh of Burgundy as a member of your community here, leaving a hundred thousand Christians without a protector. It is well that you are Abbot of Cluny and that I am Pope in Rome – we are best suited that way. I have to take temporal as well as spir
itual considerations into account. Thank you for your advice – I will pray further and meditate. I ask you and your monks to beseech God that I reach the right decision – but my heart tells me that I should stick to my course.”

  Abbot Hugh silently bowed his head in a dutiful gesture but sadness and disappointment sketched the line of his shoulders.

  The papal party left the abbey the following day, and gradually the level of excitement amongst my fellow monks subsided as their ant-life returned to its dull routine. My excitement however moved towards fever pitch as the time for my journey approached. Our preparations were simple. Apart from me, the Abbot took two servants. We were all mounted on mules, and our meagre provisions were packed on a fifth. Our black habits and lack of baggage plainly announced that there would be no rich pickings for any brigands from this group of travellers, and even in those troubled times we could be reasonably sure that we would pass unmolested.

  To reach Clermont from Cluny, you travel west to pick up the headwaters of the great River Loire. These we followed briefly before cutting southwards towards the brooding craters of the Auvergne, which I thought of later as ominous symbols of the eruption that the Council of Clermont was to provoke. Now, though, I was elated to be riding, uncloistered at last, for the first time in six years out of sight of the walls of Cluny. My muscles long unaccustomed to gripping a saddle, I would struggle stiffly down from my mule at the end of our day’s ride, causing my abbot to comment with gentle mirth that his old legs seemed more supple than mine.

  At Clermont was situated one of the many Benedictine priories affiliated to Cluny. There we lodged, a short walk from the cathedral. Its prior made a great fuss of the Abbot, in spite of his efforts to have himself treated like any normal traveller, and I enjoyed basking in his reflected glory.

  The first six days of the council’s dry church business were of no interest to me, and I can scarcely remember what was discussed. My whole attention was absorbed by the exciting hubbub created in the town by the presence of over three hundred bishops and senior churchmen, and by the busy townsmen catering to their needs. Or if I have to be honest it was the unfamiliar presence of the townswomen that most engaged me. Walking from the priory to the cathedral I could sometimes feel their eyes upon me and if – God forgive me – they were young and pretty, I felt confused and uncomfortable. Under the Abbot’s close observation, I knew that either to look or to look away would reveal my turmoil. So I tried to affect an unconcerned nonchalance. I am sure the Abbot saw through it and quietly despaired for his young secretary.