128. The return letter of Peter of Poitiers to the Lord Abbot and his colleagues

To the most serene father and lord, Peter, devout though useless, nonetheless servant and son sends greetings.

Since, as I see it, not only are your woods abundantly redolent of hermits, as I had said, but also of philosophers and poets, and since (though I have not made a mark in studies of this sort) I longed to pursue this [learning] for quite some time, even if I am still incapable due to my weakened body, I am now truly drawn by my soul and by him (with whom I wish to bring forth whatever discourse [confabulationis] I might), to inhabit those very woods with you.For this reason, I had also thought to send along a certain poem, which was formerly familiar to me chiefly about forests and mountains. But since that divine philosopher said, An ill timed story is like music during mourning,[1]and we almost daily are drawn to the funerals of those most beloved, I ceased to sing – I who scarcely dares to speak amongst such inscrutable judgments of God. Chiefly for this reason I grew silent for a time and I did not reply with anything for awhile to the sweet and joyful letters (as much yours as of those of your other venerable companions) which do not cease to gladden the soul. For how could I reply to your letter alone due to the excellence of its elegance, while I leave unmentioned the letters of the others – also so eloquent and abundant in beauty? I received truly a sweet and piously joyful letter, in which you claim an insult against you concerning the woods and the eremitic name, to entice me to have sinned – I, who you praise for my words.But may I say something about the hymn of the greatest father hermit [Benedict], who had not hitherto had a hymn and was not deemed fitting to have one compiling his services, until it was composed for him by the preeminent master of his order while in the Cluniac desert? It seems plain to me, even if perhaps you do not think about it in a like manner, that those hymns should have been sent to those brothers who watch over his corpse. For I believe that the miracles described so eloquently, might easily be found their own place to be sung, lest, by constantly singing that Saint Maur alone was running on water, they be tortured by the talentless and false song by which they could easily grow disgusted! You are not unaware how sweet it is to me, to speak with you always about such things. Hence it is, whether this time that I am alone or every other time you are away. Even if many might be near me and the whole of the world makes noise around me, without you I feel that in truth I am alone. Likewise, you know that Cluny, your illustrious city, your empire wholly in unanimity, and all others long every day for your pious face and that we all envy [invidere] greatly the mountain and the woods, since, even when we look carefully, we are not able to see [videre] our heart’s desire on account of them blocking our sight. But on the other hand, when we pay careful attention to the reason why you are there, then your absence, even if difficult, we can tolerate with unanimity. May we see you hale and hearty in person and may we have you for eternity, my lord holy father. Also, I wish this for a second time, may the beloved companions and co-philosophers with you be healthy and flourish always, unless, of course, they deem even this form of address worthy of sanction, who rejected so forcefully the name “hermit”, with which I had striven to venerate them, that I did not speak without censure because I did not call them, as is more appropriate, fauns and satyrs. I now have so many sheets of vellum, and so many eloquent [urbanis] words and I am overcome by the eremitical simplicity of these far off men, such that the more they might not have been able to cleanse themselves of the crime of hermits, the more the young and strong strived to excite one poor and cloistered old man with such great praises – since they found [somehow!] so many prepared skins. May all who are with you in the Lord be healthy and, after these playful messages by which we lighten our uneasy life, now earnestly might you speak of us in turn in your holy prayers. Please ignore the poor vellum and my vile writing, since on account of your absence and frequent funerals, and with me also still afflicted somewhat by my feet, I am scarcely willing to do anything. Also, I ask that this my text and the other small one which provided the material of such great solace to us, be kept for me. For I am both compiling and preserving most diligently your letters.

[1]Ecclesiasticus, 22.6 A tale out of time is like music in mourning: but the stripes and instruction of wisdom are never out of time.